Chapter 1: Echoes of Ancient Earth
Summary:
In the wake of the devastating Egghead Incident, Punk-02 Lilith—the sole surviving physical embodiment of Dr. Vegapunk's satellites—finds herself aboard a Giant vessel with the Straw Hat Pirates. As she processes the complex reality of her situation and the fate of her fellow satellites, Lilith discovers something within Punk Records that challenges everything known about the world's geography: evidence of an ancient continent that hasn't existed for over a millennium. Working alongside the archaeologist Nico Robin, Lilith begins to unravel a mystery that could reshape their understanding of the Void Century and the true history of their world.
Chapter Text
The rhythmic creak of wooden planks and the distant crash of waves penetrated Lilith's consciousness before she fully awakened. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as though each one had been fitted with lead weights. The familiar hum of Egghead's technological systems was conspicuously absent—replaced by unfamiliar sounds and scents that her foggy mind struggled to process.
Salt. Wood. The distant shouts of voices she recognized but couldn't quite place.
Lilith forced her eyes open, wincing at the harsh sunlight that streamed through a nearby porthole. Her vision slowly adjusted, revealing the curved wooden ceiling of what appeared to be a ship's cabin. Not just any ship—the proportions were all wrong. Everything was massive.
A Giants' vessel.
Memory flooded back with cruel clarity. Egghead. The assault. The Buster Call. Saturn's terrifying presence. Her other selves—Shaka, Edison, York, Atlas, Pythagoras—and the original Stella...
Lilith tried to sit up too quickly, and the world spun around her. A large hand gently steadied her shoulder.
"Easy there," came a soft voice that sounded comically delicate coming from such a massive being. Hajrudin, one of the New Giant Warrior Pirates, crouched awkwardly in the oversized but still-too-small-for-him cabin. "You've been unconscious for nearly two days."
"Two days?" Her voice cracked, sounding foreign to her own ears. Something felt fundamentally different, as though a part of her consciousness had been severed. The ever-present connection to her other satellite selves was gone, replaced by an eerie silence within her mind.
The door to the cabin swung open, and several figures rushed in. She recognized them immediately—the Straw Hat Pirates. Chopper bounded forward, his medical bag bouncing against his small frame, while Nami, Usopp, and Sanji crowded behind him.
"You're awake!" Chopper exclaimed, immediately shifting into doctor mode as he began checking her vitals. "How do you feel? Any dizziness? Nausea?"
Lilith swallowed hard. "I'm... functional. Where are we?"
The Straw Hats exchanged uncomfortable glances. It was Nami who finally spoke, her voice heavy with an emotion Lilith immediately recognized as guilt.
"We're aboard the Giants' ship, about two days' sail from Egghead." Nami hesitated, her eyes filling with tears. "Lilith, I'm so sorry. We couldn't... we failed to..."
Usopp placed a hand on Nami's shoulder, his normally exuberant demeanor subdued. "We couldn't save the other Vegapunks. We tried, I swear we did, but everything happened so fast, and the Elders were just too powerful."
Lilith stared at them blankly for a moment, before a strange sense of calm settled over her. "I know."
"You... know?" Sanji asked, cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips.
"I felt it happen." Lilith touched her chest, where an unfamiliar hollow sensation had taken residence. "I felt the disconnection. The severing. I am... alone now."
Despite her calm words, tears began to stream down her face, surprising even herself. Emotions were always Stella's domain—the original Vegapunk had segmented his personality aspects for efficiency. Evil wasn't supposed to weep. Yet here she was, experiencing grief with an intensity that felt overwhelmingly physical.
Then another sensation interrupted her sorrow—a strange rumbling from her midsection accompanied by an uncomfortable emptiness.
"What is this?" she asked, genuinely alarmed.
Sanji's expression shifted immediately, a small smile breaking through his concern. "You're hungry. When was the last time you ate?"
"Ate?" Lilith blinked in confusion. "I... don't remember ever feeling hunger before. York managed our nutritional needs systematically."
"York was the 'hunger' aspect, right?" Usopp asked.
Lilith nodded. "Among other desires. Without the neural link between satellites, I'm experiencing... everything... individually now."
"I'll prepare something immediately," Sanji declared, already heading for the door. "Something gentle but nutritionally complete."
"Thank you," Lilith said, the words feeling unfamiliar on her tongue. Expressions of gratitude had seldom been her responsibility.
As Sanji departed, Chopper continued his examination, while Nami helped Lilith sit up more comfortably.
"The others want to see you," Nami explained. "Especially Luffy. He's been... well, he's taking it hard. He believes he failed."
"Failed?" Lilith frowned. "That's incorrect. Where is he?"
"Eating," Usopp said with a slight eye roll. "That's his way of dealing with... well, everything."
"Take me to him," Lilith demanded, attempting to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her body felt strange—heavier, somehow, as though the distribution of her consciousness had physically altered her perception of mass and balance.
"You should rest more," Chopper protested, but Lilith shook her head firmly.
"I need to speak with him. There are things he needs to understand."
The Straw Hats exchanged glances again, some unspoken communication passing between them before they nodded in agreement. With Usopp's help, Lilith stood shakily and took her first steps as a truly individual entity, no longer one piece of a greater consciousness.
The Giants' dining hall was proportioned for beings five times human size, making even the expansive feast laid out on the table seem modest by comparison. At one end sat Monkey D. Luffy, surrounded by empty plates and still mechanically shoving food into his mouth, tears streaming down his face.
"Stupid Saturn," he mumbled between bites. "Stupid Vegapunk. Stupid me."
Lilith observed him from the doorway for a moment, struck by the raw display of emotion. She had analyzed Luffy extensively from Egghead's databases, but witnessing his unfiltered reaction provided data no file could contain.
"That assessment is incorrect," she announced loudly, her voice echoing in the cavernous hall.
Luffy's head snapped up, a piece of meat dangling from his mouth. His eyes widened at the sight of her, and he swallowed his food in one massive gulp.
"Punk-02!" he exclaimed, his rubber limbs extending as he catapulted himself across the room to stand before her. "You're okay!"
"Functional," she confirmed. "But you appear to be operating under a misconception that requires correction."
Luffy stared at her blankly, blinking as food-induced tears continued to leak from the corners of his eyes.
"You believe you failed to save Vegapunk," Lilith stated matter-of-factly. "This is inaccurate."
"But the other yous..." Luffy began, his face crumpling. "They're all dead. And the old man too."
"No," Lilith shook her head firmly. "Not dead. At least, not in the sense you understand."
The remaining Straw Hats who had gathered in the hall fell silent, all attention focused on Lilith. Even the Giants paused in their activities, looming like mountains around the periphery of the room.
"What do you mean?" Robin asked, stepping forward with keen interest. "We witnessed Saturn's attack on Stella."
Lilith took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts as Shaka would have. Without his logical influence directly linked to her consciousness, she had to concentrate harder to maintain structured thinking.
"Dr. Vegapunk—the original Stella—created us satellites as extensions of himself, each embodying a different aspect of his personality. But we were more than mere extensions; we were backups."
She tapped her temple. "Each satellite contains the complete consciousness framework of Vegapunk himself, modified to emphasize certain traits. The physical bodies you saw destroyed were merely vessels."
"So the other Vegapunks are still alive... inside you?" Chopper asked, eyes wide.
"Not exactly," Lilith clarified. "But their consciousness patterns were continuously backed up to Punk Records. Their physical forms are gone, but the data that made them who they were survives. In time, with the right resources, new vessels could be created."
A collective gasp rippled through the room, followed by a heavy silence as everyone processed this information. Then, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, Luffy's face transformed. His tears dried instantly, replaced by his characteristic wide grin.
"So they're okay!" he shouted, throwing his arms in the air. "We didn't fail!"
"The situation is more complex than 'okay,'" Lilith countered, "but yes, you did not fail in your objective to preserve Vegapunk's knowledge and legacy. Punk Records survived, and I survived. The essential data is safe."
Luffy didn't seem to register her qualifiers. He was already bouncing around the room, mood completely transformed. "Did you hear that? We did it! Vegapunk's smart brain stuff is safe!"
The Giants roared their approval, clearly relieved to see their small friend restored to his usual exuberant self. Drinks were immediately produced, and within minutes, the somber atmosphere had given way to a full-blown celebration.
Lilith watched this transformation with fascination. Human emotional volatility had always been a subject of Vegapunk's study, but experiencing it firsthand—without York's influence to contextualize it—was entirely different.
"They switch moods rather quickly," she observed to no one in particular.
"That's just Luffy," Jinbe said, appearing beside her with a tankard sized for his large frame. "Once he decides something isn't his fault after all, there's no holding back his relief."
"Is that... normal?" Lilith asked.
Jinbe chuckled. "For him? Absolutely. For humans in general? Perhaps less so. But then again, none of us aboard this ship could be classified as 'normal' by any standard measure."
As the celebration escalated around her, Lilith found herself being pulled into the festivities. A plate of Sanji's carefully prepared food was placed before her, and she experienced her first conscious meal as an independent entity. The flavors were overwhelming—sweet, savory, spicy, bitter—all registering with an intensity that York's systematic management had previously filtered.
Hours passed in a blur of new sensations. The Giants taught her drinking songs she had no cultural context for but found herself memorizing perfectly. Franky demonstrated his weaponized body modifications with enthusiastic "SUPER!" declarations. Brook played his violin while balancing on the massive rim of a Giant's mug. And through it all, Luffy bounced from group to group, his earlier despair completely forgotten.
It was Robin who eventually rescued Lilith from the chaos, recognizing the overwhelmed look in her eyes.
"Perhaps you'd like some quiet time to process everything?" the archaeologist suggested gently. "The library on this ship is surprisingly well-stocked."
Lilith nodded gratefully. "Yes. I require... reflection time."
The Giants' library was proportioned like everything else on the ship—massive—but filled with volumes of varying sizes, many apparently collected from human settlements. Robin led Lilith to a corner where human-sized furniture had been placed, clearly an accommodation for the Giants' smaller guests.
"I've been reviewing some of the materials we managed to save from Egghead," Robin explained, gesturing to several data devices stacked neatly on a table. "Your backups of Punk Records are intact, though some sections appear to be encrypted or fragmented."
Lilith felt a surge of relief at the sight of the familiar devices. "The encryption is a security protocol. I can access most of it."
She picked up one of the devices, its surface recognizing her biometric signature and illuminating in response. Data streams immediately began flowing across the screen, and Lilith felt a momentary sense of connection to her lost satellite siblings as she interfaced with their collective work.
"It's all here," she murmured, eyes rapidly scanning the information. "Everything we discovered, everything we theorized. The Void Century research, the ancient weapons analysis, the geological surveys..."
Robin sat beside her, her normally composed features animated with scholarly excitement. "I've spent my entire life searching for fragments of the truth about the Void Century. To have access to Dr. Vegapunk's research on the subject is... overwhelming."
"The World Government wasn't wrong to fear this knowledge," Lilith said matter-of-factly. "It contradicts nearly everything they've established as historical fact."
For hours, they sat together in companionable silence, occasionally exchanging observations as they worked through different sections of the data. Robin's expertise in archeology complemented Lilith's technological knowledge perfectly, each filling in contextual gaps for the other.
It was during this review that Lilith encountered a file she didn't immediately recognize—a geological survey with annotations in Shaka's distinctive coding style.
"This is strange," she murmured, focusing intently on the data. "This section appears to be Shaka's analysis of ancient geographical references found in ruins across the Grand Line, but I don't recall this particular project."
Robin leaned over to examine the screen. "What does it show?"
"It's a compilation of geographical descriptions from various ancient texts, paired with geological core samples from multiple islands." Lilith expanded a particular section of the data. "Shaka was attempting to correlate descriptions of 'vast continuous lands' with physical evidence."
"Continuous lands?" Robin's interest sharpened visibly. "You mean like continents?"
"Precisely," Lilith confirmed. "The modern world consists entirely of islands—some large, some small—but all distinct landmasses separated by ocean. Yet these ancient texts repeatedly reference 'walking for many moons without crossing water' and 'mountains that stretched beyond the horizon in unbroken chains.'"
Robin pulled one of her own notebooks from her bag and flipped through it rapidly. "I've encountered similar references in poneglyphs, but always assumed they were metaphorical or exaggerated. The Ancient Kingdom was powerful, but even they couldn't create land where there was none."
"Perhaps they didn't create it," Lilith suggested, her mind racing ahead as she analyzed the data. "Perhaps they lived on it before it was destroyed."
She brought up another file—a bathymetric survey of the ocean floor between several major islands. "Look at these underwater formations. The seafloor between these islands shares geological characteristics—similar rock strata, consistent mineral deposits. It's as though they were once connected and then... separated."
Robin stared at the data, her archaeological training allowing her to grasp the implications immediately. "A super-continent that was somehow broken apart?"
"The evidence suggests it's possible." Lilith pulled up more files, finding additional fragments of relevant research scattered throughout Punk Records. "Here—Vegapunk was collecting legends from various cultures about 'the sundering of the world' and 'the day the earth shattered.' He dismissed them as creation myths, but..."
"But what if they weren't myths at all?" Robin finished, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if they were actual historical accounts of a cataclysmic event?"
Lilith nodded slowly. "An event that occurred during the Void Century—a period from which almost no historical records survive."
"Because those records were destroyed," Robin added grimly. "Systematically erased by the World Government."
They looked at each other, the implications hanging heavy in the air between them. If the world had once been a single continent, or several large continents, rather than scattered islands—and if that geographical reality had been deliberately altered during the Void Century—the historical narrative propagated by the World Government was an even greater fabrication than either had imagined.
"We need more evidence," Lilith said finally, her analytical mind asserting itself. "These correlations are suggestive but not conclusive."
Robin nodded in agreement. "If we could compile physical samples from more islands and analyze them..."
"And cross-reference with any surviving ancient texts that describe the pre-fragmented world..."
"We might be able to reconstruct what the original continent looked like," Robin concluded, her eyes alight with scholarly excitement.
Lilith felt something stir within her—a sense of purpose that went beyond mere curiosity or scientific inquiry. This discovery connected directly to Vegapunk's final mission, to the truth he had died trying to reveal to the world.
"The Five Elders," she said quietly. "They must know about this. It would explain their desperate measures to destroy Egghead and eliminate Vegapunk."
"And why they've hunted down anyone who studies the Void Century for centuries," Robin added. "This isn't just about ancient weapons or the identity of the Ancient Kingdom's rulers. It's about the fundamental nature of our world itself."
Lilith stared at the data stream, her mind racing through calculations and probabilities. "If we could prove this—if we could show the world that the very geography they take for granted is the result of deliberate action by the World Government or its predecessors—it would undermine their authority at the most basic level."
"It would change everything," Robin agreed. "The question is: how do we gather this evidence without alerting the very powers trying to suppress it?"
Before Lilith could respond, the door to the library swung open, and Zoro's head appeared in the opening. "There you are. The log pose is acting strange, and Nami wants everyone on deck. Says there's something weird about the magnetic field ahead."
Robin and Lilith exchanged a significant look before gathering their materials. As they followed Zoro through the Giants' massive corridors, Lilith's mind was already formulating hypotheses. Unusual magnetic fields could be natural phenomena—or they could be evidence of ancient technological interference with the planet's crust.
Either way, they were sailing into uncharted waters, both literally and figuratively. The truth about the lost continent—if it existed—lay somewhere ahead, and Lilith was determined to uncover it, not just for science, not just for history, but for the memory of Vegapunk himself.
Chapter 2: Echoes of Elbaf
Summary:
Following their escape from Egghead, Lilith struggles with her new singular existence while trying to uncover more about the lost continent and the Void Century. When the Giants' ship finally reaches the legendary island of Elbaf, Lilith finds herself immersed in the ancient culture of the Giants and their deep connection to the world's forgotten history. As she reunites with the scattered Straw Hats and meets the legendary Jaguar D. Saul, Lilith makes a momentous decision about her future and reveals a stunning secret she salvaged from Egghead—one that could change everything.
Chapter Text
The gentle motion of the ship had become something of a comfort to Lilith over the past several days. She had never spent significant time aboard vessels before—York had handled most external expeditions when necessary—but now she found the rhythmic creaking and the distant splash of waves against the hull almost meditative. It provided a consistent backdrop against which she could organize her thoughts, a process that had become significantly more challenging since losing her connection to her other satellite selves.
Seated cross-legged on the deck of the Giants' ship, she balanced a data tablet on her lap, the soft blue glow of its screen illuminating her features in the pre-dawn light. She had taken to rising early, before the others, using the quiet hours to continue her research without interruption. Sleep was another new experience for her—unsettling at first, the vulnerability of unconsciousness had disturbed her deeply, but exhaustion had eventually won out.
"Any progress?" The voice startled her slightly. Robin had a way of moving with extraordinary silence for a human.
Lilith shook her head, not looking up from the screen. "Nothing substantive beyond what we already identified. The data fragments are there, but they're incomplete. Shaka's work was interrupted—likely by the Seraphim attack—and many of the cross-references lead to files that were either corrupted during our escape or weren't included in the backup we managed to salvage."
Robin settled beside her, offering a steaming mug. "Tea. It helps with focus."
Accepting the drink with a nod of thanks, Lilith took a cautious sip. The bitter liquid was another new sensation she was still adjusting to. Without York's sensory processing and Pythagoras's taste evaluation, every flavor hit her unfiltered.
"It's frustrating," Lilith admitted after a moment, the word itself feeling strange on her tongue. Frustration had always been Atlas's domain. "I know the significance of what we discovered. A lost continent, deliberately shattered during the Void Century? It could explain everything—the Ancient Kingdom's fall, the rise of the World Government, even the strange magnetic properties of the Grand Line. But without more evidence..."
"Research is often like this," Robin said softly. "Fragments that hint at something monumental, but never quite enough to form a complete picture. I've spent my entire life gathering pieces of a puzzle without knowing what the finished image should look like."
Lilith considered this. "Inefficient."
Robin laughed—a gentle sound that somehow didn't feel mocking. "Very. But that's the nature of seeking forbidden knowledge. Those who hid it were thorough."
"The Five Elders," Lilith murmured, a chill running through her as she recalled Saturn's implacable presence. "They were willing to destroy all of Egghead, all of Dr. Vegapunk's work, just to prevent this knowledge from spreading."
"Which means we're on the right track," Robin pointed out. "The more desperately they try to hide something, the more significant it must be."
The sun was beginning to crest the horizon now, painting the eastern sky in brilliant streaks of gold and crimson. Several Giants had emerged onto the deck, going about their morning routines with surprising grace for beings of such enormous size.
"Land ahead!" came a booming call from the crow's nest, the Giant's voice carrying easily across the entire vessel. "Elbaf on the horizon!"
Lilith and Robin exchanged a glance before rising to their feet. They moved to the ship's bow, where other crew members had already begun to gather.
There, emerging from the morning mist like something from myth, was Elbaf—the island of warriors, legendary home of the Giants. Even from this distance, Lilith could make out towering trees that dwarfed those of any other island, mountains that seemed to pierce the very sky, and what appeared to be structures of impossible scale scattered across the landscape.
"It's magnificent," Robin breathed, her usual scholarly composure momentarily abandoned in the face of such majesty.
"It's not what I expected," Lilith admitted. As part of the Vegapunk satellite system, she had reviewed all available data on known islands, but information on Elbaf was notoriously scarce. The island had successfully resisted World Government influence for centuries, maintaining its independence through sheer martial strength and strategic isolation.
What struck Lilith most was not just the scale—though that was indeed impressive—but the curious fusion of natural and constructed elements. The island appeared to have been shaped over generations, with Giants working in harmony with rather than against the natural environment. It was the antithesis of Egghead's gleaming technological sterility.
"I've always wanted to see this place," Robin said quietly. "The historical records it must contain... Elbaf's oral traditions are said to date back before the Void Century."
Lilith felt a spark of excitement at this. "You believe they might have accounts of the original continent?"
"It's possible. The Giants are long-lived, and they value their history. If anyone might have preserved knowledge of the world before it was shattered, it would be them."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of more Straw Hats, drawn by the announcement of land. Nami appeared beside them, telescope in hand, while Chopper bounced excitedly at her side.
"It's even bigger than I imagined," Nami remarked, extending her telescope to its full length. "The log pose has been acting strangely since yesterday. Something about this island's magnetic field is unusual."
Lilith's attention sharpened. "Unusual how?"
"It's almost as if there are multiple fields overlapping. I've never seen anything like it before."
"Could be related to mineral deposits," Franky suggested, joining their growing group. "Islands with high concentrations of certain metals can mess with navigational tools."
"Or it could be evidence of ancient technological interference," Lilith countered, her mind racing with possibilities. "If this island was once part of a larger landmass that was somehow artificially separated, residual effects might persist in its magnetic signature."
The others looked at her with varying degrees of confusion and interest, but before Lilith could elaborate, a commotion from elsewhere on the deck drew their attention.
"Still no sign of them?" Hajrudin's booming voice carried clearly across the ship.
"Nothing," responded another Giant—Lilith recognized him as Raideen. "No signal flares, no response to our calls."
Lilith watched as Jinbe approached the Giants, his expression concerned. "This is unusual for Luffy. Even when he runs off, he typically makes his presence known—loudly and destructively."
With a start, Lilith realized she hadn't seen Luffy or several others among the Straw Hats since the previous evening. She had been so absorbed in her research that she hadn't noticed their absence.
"Who's missing?" she asked, turning to Nami.
"Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Brook, Usopp, and Bonney," Nami replied, her voice tight with worry despite her attempt at nonchalance. "They went to explore the lower decks last night and never came back."
"Six people don't just vanish on a ship," Lilith stated, her analytical mind immediately assessing possibilities. "Even one of this size."
"You'd be surprised what Luffy is capable of," Nami sighed. "But you're right, this is unusual even for them."
"We should conduct a systematic search," Lilith suggested, already formulating an efficient sweep pattern in her mind. "Divide the ship into sectors and—"
"Already tried that," Franky interrupted. "Twice. Not a trace."
"Could they have left the ship somehow?" Robin mused. "We weren't near any islands until now."
"In the middle of the night? In these waters?" Jinbe shook his head. "Even Luffy isn't that reckless."
Lilith considered the problem from multiple angles, wishing fleetingly for Shaka's logical processing capacity. "What about hidden compartments or areas of the ship not included in your search pattern?"
Hajrudin overheard this and let out a rumbling laugh. "Little scientist, this ship has been my home for decades. There's not a plank or nail I don't know."
"Then we must be overlooking something," Lilith insisted. "People don't simply disappear without—"
She was interrupted by a tremendous crash from below decks, followed by what sounded distinctly like Luffy's laughter echoing up through the ship's structure.
"SUUUUPER!" came Franky's unmistakable exclamation from somewhere in the vicinity of the missing group.
The gathered crew exchanged looks of mingled relief and exasperation.
"Found them," Nami said dryly.
Before anyone could move to investigate, a hatch in the deck flew open, and Brook's skeletal form emerged, violin in hand.
"Yohohoho! Good morning, everyone! What a glorious discovery we've made!"
He was followed in quick succession by the others—Usopp clambering out with wide eyes, Sanji carrying what appeared to be several bottles of aged spirits, Zoro looking suspiciously like he'd just woken up, and finally Luffy, dragging an exhausted-looking Bonney behind him.
"You guys!" Luffy shouted, beaming with excitement. "You won't believe what we found! A secret giant brewery! It's been aging sake for like a thousand years!"
"Three hundred," Sanji corrected, inspecting one of the bottles with reverence. "This is cultural treasure, not just alcohol."
"Where have you all been?" Nami demanded, hands on her hips. "We've been searching everywhere!"
"Got lost," Zoro said simply, as if that explained everything.
"How do you get lost on a ship?" Nami exclaimed.
"To be fair," Usopp interjected, "we were following Zoro in the dark, so..."
Lilith observed this interaction with fascination. The casual chaos of the Straw Hats' dynamics was still something she was adjusting to. At Egghead, everything had been ordered, processes optimized for maximum efficiency. Here, nothing seemed to follow any logical pattern, yet somehow the crew functioned—thrived, even—in their disorder.
"Land!" Luffy suddenly shouted, noticing the approaching island for the first time. "Is that Elbaf? Finally!"
His excitement was contagious, and soon even Nami's annoyance had given way to anticipation as they drew nearer to the legendary island.
Lilith found herself swept up in the preparations for arrival, assisting where she could while continuing to process everything around her. She still felt the absence of her satellite selves acutely—simple tasks took longer without Pythagoras's mathematical processing or Atlas's physical capacity assessment—but she was adapting, finding workarounds for her new limitations.
As the morning progressed and the ship drew closer to Elbaf's shores, Lilith noticed Robin sitting apart from the others, a newspaper spread before her. Curious, she made her way over to the archaeologist.
"News from the outside world?" she inquired, settling beside Robin.
Robin nodded, her expression grave. "The fallout from Egghead. The World Government is controlling the narrative, as expected."
Lilith leaned closer to see the headlines. The front page was dominated by bold text proclaiming "VEGAPUNK DEAD: TRAITOROUS SCIENTIST DESTROYED IN FAILED EXPERIMENT."
"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the paper.
Robin handed it over wordlessly, watching Lilith's reaction carefully.
Lilith scanned the article with increasing dismay. According to the official story, Dr. Vegapunk had been conducting unauthorized experiments with ancient weapons, resulting in a catastrophic failure that destroyed the Egghead research facility. The Marines, led by the heroic Admiral "Bastille" Saturn, had intervened to prevent further damage but had been unable to save the scientist or his "abominable creations." The Straw Hat Pirates were described as accomplices who had fled the scene.
"This is..." Lilith began, struggling to find an appropriate word.
"Standard procedure," Robin supplied grimly. "I've seen this pattern before. They eliminate someone who threatens them, then rewrite history to justify their actions."
"But it's all fabricated," Lilith protested. "There's not a single factual statement in this entire article."
"Truth is the first casualty in the World Government's war against knowledge," Robin replied. "They've had centuries to perfect their methods."
Lilith continued reading, her dismay deepening as she found a smaller article about the "tragic loss" of the satellites, described as "dangerous experiments gone wrong" rather than the conscious entities they had been. Her own name was listed among the destroyed, which was strategically convenient for the World Government but emotionally jarring to read.
"They think I'm dead," she murmured.
"That works to our advantage," Robin pointed out. "They won't be looking for you specifically."
Lilith nodded slowly. "Logical. Still... unsettling."
She handed the newspaper back to Robin, her mind processing this new information. The World Government's control over public narrative was even more comprehensive than Vegapunk had theorized. If they could so completely invert the truth of recent events witnessed by hundreds, what could they have done to history from centuries ago?
"This reinforces the importance of our research," Lilith said after a moment. "If they can distort the facts of the Egghead incident this effectively, their manipulation of ancient history must be absolute."
"Which is why finding independent sources of information is crucial," Robin agreed. "And why Elbaf might be our best hope. The Giants have remained outside World Government control—their historical records won't have been subject to the same censorship."
Their conversation was interrupted by a deep, rumbling voice. Lilith looked up to find one of the elder Giants—Yorle, she recalled—towering over them.
"Speaking of our histories," the ancient Giant said, his voice like distant thunder, "perhaps you would like to hear a tale while we approach our shores? It is tradition to share stories of Elbaf with first-time visitors."
Robin's eyes lit up with scholarly excitement. "We would be honored."
Yorle lowered himself to the deck, still towering over them even seated. Other crew members, Giants and humans alike, began to gather around, sensing the beginning of a story.
"This is the tale of the Accursed Prince," Yorle began, his voice dropping to what passed for a whisper among Giants, though it still rumbled through Lilith's chest. "Prince Loki, whose pride brought shame upon Elbaf and whose sorrow echoes still through our forests."
Lilith found herself leaning forward, analytical mind momentarily set aside as she was drawn into the narrative. The Giant was a skilled storyteller, his words painting vivid images of ancient Elbaf in its glory days.
The tale he spun was of a Giant prince, uncommonly small for his kind but possessed of cunning and ambition far exceeding his stature. Seeking to elevate his standing, Prince Loki had attempted to forge an alliance through marriage with the powerful warrior Lola, daughter of Charlotte Linlin—who would later become the Emperor Big Mom.
"But pride led to deception," Yorle continued gravely. "When Lola fled rather than marry him, Loki's rage knew no bounds. He sought darker powers, delving into ancient rituals forbidden by our laws."
Lilith's attention sharpened at this. "What kind of rituals?" she asked, unable to help herself.
Yorle fixed her with an ancient, knowing gaze. "Rituals that spoke to the earth itself, young one. Ways of commanding stone and sea that have not been practiced since the time before the great waters came."
"The great waters?" Robin inquired, her voice carefully neutral despite the intensity in her eyes.
"Aye," Yorle nodded solemnly. "In our oldest tales, passed down from the first Giants, there is mention of a time when the world was more land than sea, when our people could walk for many seasons without crossing water."
Lilith and Robin exchanged a significant glance. This aligned perfectly with their theory of an ancient continent.
"What happened to change this?" Lilith pressed.
"The tales say the earth angered the sea, and so the sea rose up to punish it, breaking the land into many smaller pieces." Yorle shrugged his massive shoulders. "It is just an old story, but Prince Loki believed it truth. He sought to learn the earth-speaking ways, thinking to use them for vengeance."
"Did he succeed?" Robin asked.
"No," Yorle said firmly. "But his attempts awakened something old and dangerous. The island trembled for days, and great fissures opened in the sacred mountain. Our elders intervened, binding Loki with ancient oaths and sealing away the forbidden knowledge he had uncovered."
"And Loki himself?" Lilith inquired. "What became of him?"
A shadow passed over Yorle's weathered face. "He lives still, in exile within the deepest forests of Elbaf, where the oldest trees grow. It is said he continues his studies in secret, though under the watchful eyes of the Forest Guardians."
The story concluded as the ship rounded the final approach to Elbaf's main harbor, but Lilith's mind was racing with new possibilities. If this Prince Loki had indeed discovered ancient methods of manipulating the earth itself—methods potentially dating back to the Void Century—he might possess crucial information about the shattering of the original continent.
As the Giants' vessel entered the natural harbor, Lilith got her first close look at Elbaf's unique architecture. Unlike the human settlements she was familiar with, the Giants' structures were built in harmony with the landscape—entire buildings carved from living trees without killing them, homes nestled within hillsides rather than perched atop them, and elaborately carved stone archways that appeared to have grown organically from the surrounding rock.
The harbor itself was a marvel of engineering that respected natural contours. Instead of reshaping the bay to suit their needs, the Giants had adapted their docking mechanisms to the existing coastline, creating a system of floating platforms and adjustable moorings that could accommodate vessels of various sizes.
Most impressive was the enormous rainbow that arched over the harbor entrance—except as they drew closer, Lilith realized it wasn't a weather phenomenon at all, but an elaborate construct of colored glass and polished metals, positioned to catch and reflect the sunlight.
"The Rainbow Gate," Hajrudin announced proudly. "Created by our ancestors to honor the covenant between land and sky. It serves as both beacon and barrier—in times of peace, it guides ships home; in times of war, it can be reconfigured to focus the sun's rays as a weapon against approaching enemies."
Lilith stared in fascination. "The engineering principles alone... the mathematical precision required to create such an effect at this scale..."
"Not everything is about science, little Punk," Yorle chuckled beside her. "There is old magic in Elbaf too, older than your modern contraptions."
"Magic is just science we don't understand yet," Lilith countered automatically, a phrase Vegapunk had often repeated.
This earned her another rumbling laugh from the ancient Giant. "Perhaps. Or perhaps science is just magic we've forgotten how to feel."
As they disembarked onto Elbaf's massive pier, Lilith was struck by the sensory overload of the port town. The scents of unfamiliar foods and burning woods, the sounds of Giant craftspeople at work, the vibrant colors of their clothing and decorations—all hit her unfiltered consciousness with an intensity that momentarily disoriented her.
"Overwhelming, isn't it?" Robin observed sympathetically, noticing Lilith's slight hesitation. "When experiences aren't being categorized and compartmentalized by your other selves."
Lilith nodded, taking a deep breath to center herself. "I'm still adjusting to singular perception. Everything feels... louder."
Their group assembled on the pier—the Straw Hats reunited at last, the Giant Warrior Pirates returning home in triumph, and Lilith herself, the lone survivor of Vegapunk's consciousness, standing somewhat apart as she processed her new surroundings.
"Where to first?" Nami asked, looking to their Giant hosts for guidance.
"First, a proper welcome," Hajrudin declared. "And then to the capital. The elders will want to hear of our journey—and of Egghead's fall."
"Is it far?" Chopper asked, already looking tired at the prospect of keeping pace with Giant strides.
"Three levels of Elbaf lie between us and the central city," explained a Giant named Goldberg. "The Shore Realm where we stand now, then the Forest Realm beyond, and finally the Mountain Realm where our greatest warriors and wisest elders dwell."
"We'll provide suitable transport," Hajrudin assured them, gesturing to several large wood and leather constructions that Lilith initially mistook for decorative structures but now recognized as carriages scaled for human passengers but pulled by Giants.
As their caravan prepared to depart, Lilith found herself approached by two of the most legendary Giant warriors—Dorry and Brogy, the former inhabitants of Little Garden whose epic duel had spanned over a century.
"Vegapunk's daughter," Dorry addressed her, bending slightly to reduce the extreme difference in their heights. "Yorle tells us you seek knowledge of the old world."
Lilith considered correcting his misunderstanding of her relationship to Vegapunk but decided the simplified explanation would suffice. "Yes. Specifically, evidence of the world before it was shattered into islands."
Brogy and Dorry exchanged a significant look.
"The Breaking," Brogy rumbled. "Few outside our kind remember it even happened."
Lilith's pulse quickened. "Then it did happen? The world was once a unified landmass?"
"Not one, but three great lands," Dorry clarified. "In the time before the Void Century, when the Ancient Kingdom still stood."
"We can speak more of this," Brogy added, glancing around somewhat cautiously despite their seeming safety on Elbaf soil. "But not here. The Mountain Elders keep the oldest records. If they deem you worthy, you may be granted access."
With that cryptic statement, the two legendary warriors moved away to help organize the departing caravan, leaving Lilith with more questions than answers but a surge of excitement nonetheless. The Giants had just confirmed her and Robin's theory—and suggested there was documented evidence still in existence.
As they journeyed inland from the coast, Lilith marveled at Elbaf's landscapes. The Shore Realm gave way to the Forest Realm, where trees of impossible size created a canopy so high above that clouds sometimes formed beneath it. Their path wound through these ancient woods, occasionally passing Giant settlements that appeared to have existed in harmony with the forest for centuries.
"The relationship between construction and nature here is fascinating," Lilith observed to Robin as their carriage trundled along. "No sharp delineation between the built and natural environments. Everything flows together."
Robin nodded in agreement. "Very different from the World Government's approach to development, which typically involves clearing land entirely before building upon it."
"Or Egghead's sealed systems," Lilith added. "Dr. Vegapunk believed in controlling all variables—nature was something to be managed or improved upon, not collaborated with."
"And what do you believe?" Robin asked, her perceptive gaze studying Lilith carefully.
The question caught Lilith off guard. As Punk-02, the "evil" satellite, she had never been asked about her personal beliefs. Her function had been to provide the negative perspective, the devil's advocate position to counter Shaka's logical optimism or Pythagoras's abstract theorizing.
"I..." she began, then paused, truly considering. "I believe in understanding systems before attempting to change them. The Giants appear to have achieved technological advancement while maintaining ecological balance. That suggests a sophisticated understanding of natural systems that modern science often overlooks."
Robin smiled slightly. "You're evolving your own perspective, distinct from your programming as the 'evil' satellite."
"Is that possible?" Lilith asked, genuinely uncertain. "Without the balancing influence of the other satellites, I should be inclined toward increasingly negative or destructive viewpoints."
"Perhaps what made you 'evil' wasn't inherent to your consciousness, but your relative position within the satellite system," Robin suggested. "The designated contrarian, whose purpose was opposition rather than destruction for its own sake."
Lilith considered this idea as their journey continued upward, the Forest Realm eventually giving way to the Mountain Realm, where the trees thinned and spectacular vistas opened below them. Here, the Giants' architecture became more imposing—great halls carved directly into mountainsides, bridges spanning dizzying chasms, and watchtowers positioned at strategic points along the rugged terrain.
Their caravan finally arrived at a settlement larger than any they had passed previously—not quite a city by human standards, but impressively developed nonetheless. At its center stood an enormous structure that appeared to be half-natural formation and half-constructed hall, its entrance an arch of impossibly old tree trunks that had grown together over centuries.
"Reidveig," Hajrudin announced proudly. "The capital of Elbaf and home of the Mountain Elders."
As they were escorted into the great hall, Lilith noticed something unexpected—a small group of figures waiting near the entrance, their size immediately identifying them as humans rather than Giants. And among them...
"Luffy!" Nami exclaimed in surprise. "But how...?"
Indeed, somehow Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Brook, Usopp, and Bonney had arrived before them, despite having been in the same caravan. Luffy waved enthusiastically at their approach.
"Guys! You're finally here! We found a shortcut!"
"A shortcut?" Jinbe questioned. "Through mountain terrain you've never navigated before?"
Zoro shrugged. "Just followed my instincts."
"His terrible sense of direction somehow wrapped around to being good," Usopp explained with resigned acceptance. "We got lost, fell down a ravine, found an underground river, rode it through a cave system, and somehow popped up right in the middle of town."
"Classic Zoro," Sanji added, lighting a cigarette. "Fails his way to success."
Before the reunited crew could fully catch up, they were summoned into the great hall for a formal welcome. The interior was even more impressive than the exterior—a vast space with a ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow, illuminated by massive hearth fires and ingenious light wells that channeled sunshine from the mountain peak.
Arranged in a semicircle at the far end of the hall were five ancient Giants, each bearing elaborate staffs and wearing ceremonial garb that marked them as the Mountain Elders Hajrudin had mentioned. Their welcome was formal but warm, with traditional offerings of food and drink scaled appropriately for their human guests.
As the ceremonial aspects concluded and more casual conversation began, Lilith noticed Robin engaged in intense discussion with one of the Giants near the periphery of the gathering. Curious, she made her way over to them.
As she approached, she realized the Giant speaking with Robin wasn't actually a Giant at all—at least not a full-blooded one. Though tall by human standards, he was far smaller than any true Giant, and his proportions were more humanlike.
"Jaguar D. Saul," Robin was saying, her voice thick with emotion that Lilith had never heard from the normally composed archaeologist. "I thought you were dead. All these years..."
"Dereshishishi!" The distinctive laugh confirmed his identity—the former Vice Admiral who had saved Robin as a child, supposedly killed by Aokiji during the Ohara incident. "It takes more than a little ice to finish me off. Though it was a close thing."
Lilith observed their reunion with interest. Robin had rarely spoken of her past, but Vegapunk's databases had contained files on the Ohara incident, including mentions of Saul's defection from the Marines to protect the young archaeologist.
"And who's this?" Saul asked, noticing Lilith's approach.
Robin turned, composing herself quickly though her eyes remained bright with emotion. "This is Lilith. She's... well, she's Vegapunk. In a manner of speaking."
"Vegapunk?" Saul repeated, looking confused. "The World Government scientist? But he's—"
"It's complicated," Lilith interjected. "I am Punk-02, one of six satellite bodies created to compartmentalize aspects of Dr. Vegapunk's consciousness. I am the only one who survived the destruction of Egghead."
Saul blinked, processing this. "So you're... Vegapunk, but also not Vegapunk?"
"That's a surprisingly accurate summary," Lilith confirmed. "I can provide a more detailed explanation later if you're interested in the neurotechnological principles involved."
"I'll, uh, pass on that," Saul chuckled. "But it's good to meet you, nonetheless."
Their conversation was interrupted by Jinbe, who approached carrying a small metal container that Lilith recognized immediately.
"You asked me to bring this," the fishman said, offering the container to Lilith. "Salvaged from your laboratory during our escape."
"Thank you," Lilith said, accepting the container carefully. "This is more valuable than you know."
Robin looked at the unassuming box with interest. "What is it?"
Lilith hesitated, glancing around at the crowded hall. "Something best discussed more privately. A contingency plan that Dr. Vegapunk implemented years ago."
Her cryptic response clearly piqued Robin's curiosity, but the archaeologist nodded in understanding. "Later, then."
As the welcome celebration continued into the evening, Lilith found opportunities to observe the interactions between the Straw Hats and their Giant hosts. Cultural exchange happened organically—Sanji collaborating with Giant chefs to adapt recipes to different scales, Franky discussing engineering principles with Giant craftsmen, and Brook performing music that had both species captivated despite their vastly different cultural backgrounds.
It was Bonney who eventually sought Lilith out, finding her seated somewhat apart from the main festivities, still holding the mysterious container Jinbe had delivered.
"So," the pink-haired pirate began without preamble, dropping down beside Lilith. "You're settling in with the Giants?"
Lilith nodded. "They've been surprisingly accommodating."
"They're saying you might stay here," Bonney continued, watching Lilith's reaction carefully. "Not continue with us when we leave."
"That's correct," Lilith confirmed. "Elbaf offers unique resources and independence from World Government oversight. It's the logical location to establish a new research base."
Bonney's expression tightened. "And what about my father? You promised to help him—to reverse what was done to him."
Lilith turned her full attention to the young woman. Bonney's father, Bartholomew Kuma, had been transformed into a mindless cyborg weapon by the World Government—a project in which Dr. Vegapunk had been complicit, though not enthusiastically so.
"That promise stands," Lilith assured her. "In fact, staying here makes it more feasible. I'll have access to tools and materials without World Government interference."
"So you can actually do it? Turn him back into a human?" Hope and skepticism warred in Bonney's voice.
"The process will be complex," Lilith admitted. "But yes, I believe it's possible. Dr. Vegapunk left safeguards in all his creations—hidden backdoors and reversal protocols. The challenge will be accessing them without triggering security countermeasures."
Bonney studied her for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I'm staying too, then. Until he's fixed."
"That's your choice," Lilith acknowledged. "Your assistance could actually be beneficial, given your personal connection to the subject."
Their conversation was interrupted by Robin's approach, accompanied by the half-Giant Saul.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," Robin said, "but Saul has offered to show us something that might interest you, Lilith."
Lilith rose to her feet, still clutching the metal container. "Something related to our research?"
"Possibly," Robin confirmed. "Ancient records that have been preserved here on Elbaf, outside the World Government's reach."
This prospect immediately captured Lilith's full attention. "When can we see them?"
"Now, if you're willing to step away from the festivities," Saul offered.
Lilith nodded without hesitation. "Bonney, would you care to join us?"
The young pirate hesitated, then shook her head. "I'll catch up with you later. Looks like Luffy's about to do something stupid with those Giant mugs of ale, and I don't want to miss it."
As Bonney returned to the main celebration, Lilith followed Robin and Saul through a series of passages that led deeper into the mountain. The corridor eventually opened into a circular chamber lined with shelves containing objects of various sizes—books too large for human hands, scrolls made from materials Lilith didn't immediately recognize, and artifacts of clearly ancient origin.
"The Hall of Remembrance," Saul explained. "Where the Giants preserve knowledge they deem too important to lose."
Robin approached one of the shelves with obvious reverence, her archaeologist's training evident in how carefully she handled a massive tome bound in what appeared to be tanned hide.
"These texts date back centuries," she murmured in awe. "Some of these script patterns... I've only seen them in fragments before."
Lilith moved to a different section, where what appeared to be maps were stored in large cylindrical containers. Extracting one carefully, she unrolled it on a stone table in the center of the room.
What she saw took her breath away. The map depicted landmasses unlike any in the current world—three enormous continents separated by narrow seas, with smaller islands scattered between them. Annotations in an ancient script covered the margins, while symbols marked key locations across the depicted world.
"This is it," she breathed, tracing the outline of the largest continent with a fingertip. "The world before it was shattered."
Robin joined her, eyes wide with scholarly excitement. "The configuration matches references in the Ohara texts—three major landmasses, not one as we had theorized."
"This changes everything," Lilith murmured, her analytical mind already recalculating countless variables. "If the world was divided into three distinct continents rather than a single pangaea, the method of separation must have been far more sophisticated than simple tectonic manipulation."
Saul bent down to examine the map with them. "The Elders call this the 'World Before Breaking.' According to our oldest traditions, these continents had different names and were home to distinct civilizations."
"Can you read these annotations?" Robin asked, indicating the script along the margins.
Saul squinted at the ancient writing. "Only partially. This is Old Giant, a ceremonial language used primarily for historical records. I know some, but..." He pointed to a symbol near the largest landmass. "This one is called 'Laurus,' the continent of sunlight. The middle one was 'Caerula,' the blue continent. And the smallest was 'Umbra,' the shadow lands."
Lilith's gaze moved across the detailed illustrations. "And these symbols marking specific locations?"
"Cities, temples, seats of power," Saul explained. "This one here—" he indicated an elaborate mark at what appeared to be the center of Laurus, "—was supposedly the capital of the Ancient Kingdom."
Robin and Lilith exchanged significant glances.
"I'll leave you to your research," Saul said after a moment. "The Elders have granted you temporary access to this chamber. Just remember—some knowledge here is considered sacred. Treat it with appropriate respect."
After Saul and Robin departed—Robin to gather her notebooks and translation references, Saul to return to the festivities—Lilith found herself alone in the ancient chamber. The weight of history around her was almost palpable, thousands of years of preserved knowledge that had escaped the World Government's systematic erasure.
She moved methodically through the shelves, cataloguing what she observed. Most records appeared to focus on Giant history specifically, but occasionally she encountered texts that seemed to reference the broader world. Without Robin's expertise in ancient languages, however, much of it remained indecipherable to her.
As the hours passed and the sounds of celebration faded into the mountain night, Lilith ventured deeper into the chamber. A narrow passage she had initially overlooked led to a smaller, secondary room—one that appeared significantly older than the main hall.
Here, the air was so still it felt undisturbed for centuries. Unlike the carefully organized main chamber, this space contained only a single stone shelf holding what appeared to be ten enormous, ancient tomes. The binding material was unlike anything Lilith had seen before—neither leather nor cloth, but something that seemed almost crystalline despite its obvious flexibility.
She approached cautiously, aware that these artifacts might be extremely fragile. As she reached for the smallest volume, a flake of the cover material detached at her mere proximity, dissolving into dust before it reached the floor.
"Extraordinary," she whispered to herself, immediately adjusting her approach. Instead of lifting the book, she positioned herself to examine it where it lay, using a gentle breath to turn the first page rather than risking touching it directly.
The paper—if it could be called that—was impossibly thin yet had survived what must have been millennia. The script was minute, allowing an astonishing amount of information to be contained within each massive page. Though she couldn't read the language, Lilith could discern that this was a different writing system than anything she had seen in the main chamber.
As she carefully turned to the second page, a familiar name caught her eye—written in what appeared to be a later annotation, perhaps added centuries after the book's creation.
"Joy Boy," she murmured, recognizing the name from her database. According to what little information Vegapunk had gathered, Joy Boy was a figure from the Void Century, connected somehow to both the Ancient Kingdom and the creation of the One Piece itself.
But this annotation clearly placed Joy Boy in a context predating the Void Century by at least 200 years.
"That can't be right," Lilith whispered, her mind racing through possibilities. "Unless..."
Unless there had been multiple individuals who held the title "Joy Boy" throughout history. Or unless the conventional timeline of world events was fundamentally flawed—another layer of deception perpetrated by the World Government.
She continued examining the text, searching for context clues despite her inability to read the language directly. The name "Fodlan" appeared repeatedly, often accompanied by illustrations of landscapes that didn't match any known region of the current world.
"A continent that no longer exists," she theorized. "Perhaps part of Laurus before the Breaking."
Excited by this discovery yet frustrated by her linguistic limitations, Lilith carefully noted everything she could discern from the ancient texts. The connections between Joy Boy, Fodlan, and the pre-Void world would require Robin's expertise to fully unravel, but even these fragments represented more concrete information than anyone had uncovered in centuries.
There was only one way to find out, and that was to try and read.
Chapter 3: The Sunlit Wanderer
Summary:
In which the legend of Joy Boy is recounted, a mysterious figure who fell from the stars to bring liberation to the land of Fódlan and beyond. While some call him the harbinger of freedom, others fear his golden gaze that sees through the deceptions of the powerful.
Notes:
Forgive me for getting me shit confused
Chapter Text
Long before the halls of Garreg Mach Monastery echoed with the footsteps of eager students or the sound of steel clashing against steel in the training grounds, a star fell from the heavens. It streaked across the night sky, casting a golden trail that illuminated the darkness like midday, before crashing into the heart of Fódlan. The impact shook the land from the frozen northlands of Faerghus to the sun-drenched plains of Adrestia. Even in distant lands—Brigid with its dense jungles, Duscur with its stone cities, and faraway Almyra beyond the Throat—people felt the tremor of something momentous.
As dawn broke over the crater, the people of a nearby village gathered at its edge, their breath visible in the crisp morning air. Steam rose from the scorched earth, mingling with the mist that clung to the ground. The villagers waited, fear and curiosity battling within them. What manner of calamity or blessing had the gods sent?
The sun crested the eastern mountains, and its first rays touched the center of the crater. The light seemed to pool there, coalescing into a form both familiar and strange—a young man rising from the earth itself, his arms spread wide as if to embrace the world. His hair was white as freshly fallen snow, his garments of the same pristine hue, unmarked by the dirt and ash surrounding him. When he opened his eyes, they shone with the color of sunlight filtered through honey—a warm, golden glow that seemed to pierce through to the soul of every onlooker.
And he was smiling. A smile so radiant, so genuine, that the villagers felt their fears melt away like morning frost. Some fell to their knees in reverence, others wept, and still others laughed with sudden, inexplicable joy. For in his presence, burdens seemed lighter, sorrows less acute, and hopes brighter than before.
"Joy Boy," whispered an old woman, her weathered face wet with tears. "He brings joy to the world."
The name spread through the crowd like wildfire, and by nightfall, it had reached the ears of nobles and commoners alike across the land of Fódlan. Joy Boy, the one who rose with the sun. Joy Boy, who smiled upon the world with golden eyes. Joy Boy, whose very presence banished shadows.
Yet in other lands, he was known by different names. In Brigid, they called him "Nika," which in their tongue signified both "smile" and "liberator." The people of Duscur named him after their ancient word for the sun, believing him to be the embodiment of the life-giving star. In distant Morfis, scrolls were unfurled that spoke of prophecies fulfilled, of a white-clad savior who would judge the worthy and the wicked alike.
Archbishop Rhea, leading the Church of Seiros at that time, sent knights to investigate the phenomenon. They returned with contradictory reports—some claimed to have seen a young man performing miracles of healing, others insisted they had witnessed him vanish into thin air when approached. A few knights, those who had participated in the suppression of rebellious territories, returned shaken and silent, refusing to speak of what they had encountered.
Baron Kleiman of northern Faerghus considered himself a practical man. The stories of a star-fallen youth wandering the land were nothing but peasant superstitions, he believed—useful perhaps for keeping the common folk in line with tales of divine judgment, but nothing a man of his stature need concern himself with. He had more pressing matters to attend to, namely the collection of taxes from villages struggling after a harsh winter.
"Double the rate," he instructed his steward one gray morning, barely looking up from his ledgers. "The Crown demands more, and I will not be the one to disappoint His Majesty."
"But sir," the steward protested weakly, "the people have barely enough to—"
"The people," Baron Kleiman cut in, his voice as cold as the wind howling outside his manor, "will do as they're told or face the consequences. That is the way of the world, Steward. The strong command, and the weak obey."
That evening, as Kleiman dined alone in his great hall, the candles flickered though no draft disturbed them. The baron paused, a goblet of wine halfway to his lips, and felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the winter night.
A figure stood at the far end of the hall, though the doors remained closed. Clad entirely in white, with hair like fresh snow and eyes that gleamed gold even in the dim candlelight, the intruder regarded Kleiman with an expression that was at once sorrowful and resolute.
"Who are you?" demanded the baron, rising to his feet. "How dare you enter my home unbidden!"
The figure did not speak. He simply smiled—not the warm, joyous smile that villagers spoke of in hushed, reverent tones, but a small, knowing curve of the lips that seemed to say: I see you, Baron Kleiman. I see what you truly are.
The baron called for his guards, but no one came. He reached for the ceremonial sword mounted on the wall behind him, only to find the figure suddenly before him, moving with impossible speed. The sword clattered to the floor, and Baron Kleiman found himself looking directly into those golden eyes.
The stranger lifted a hand—not to strike, but to place it gently over the baron's heart. And in that moment, Kleiman felt every injustice he had ever committed, every harsh word, every cruel order, every selfish decision. They washed over him like a flood, drowning him in the suffering he had caused.
When the guards finally responded to their lord's cries and burst into the hall, they found Baron Kleiman alone, weeping on his knees before his untouched feast. Of the white-clad intruder, there was no sign.
The next day, to the astonishment of his household and the entire territory, Baron Kleiman announced the cancellation of all tax increases. Moreover, he opened his granaries to the hungry and personally traveled to each village to assess their needs. When asked what had prompted this transformation, the baron would only say, "I have seen the sun's judgment, and I choose to walk in its light while I still can."
In the Empire's territory, a merchant caravan wound its way through mountain passes still treacherous with spring melt. The merchants had paid handsomely for protection—a dozen mercenaries led by a scarred veteran named Hector who had fought in more conflicts than he cared to remember.
What the merchants didn't know was that Hector had struck a deal with mountain bandits. For a share of the spoils, he would lead the caravan into an ambush, claiming afterward that they had been overwhelmed by superior numbers. It was a plan he had executed successfully several times before.
As they approached the designated spot—a narrow pass between towering cliffs—Hector felt a strange unease. The air seemed too still, the birdsong too sparse. He signaled to his men to be ready, attributing his discomfort to pre-battle nerves.
The ambush was sprung, but not as planned. Instead of bandits descending on the caravan, a lone figure stood in the middle of the path ahead. Dressed in flowing white garments that rippled in a breeze that touched nothing else, the figure raised his head to reveal eyes that shone like molten gold.
"What is this?" growled Hector, drawing his sword. "Move aside, stranger!"
The white-haired youth didn't speak. Instead, he brought his fist to his chest and pounded it once, twice, three times. The sound echoed off the canyon walls, but strangely, it didn't sound like flesh against cloth—it resonated like a drum, deep and primal, a rhythm that spoke to something ancient in the souls of all who heard it.
Doom. Doom. Doom.
The mercenaries hesitated, weapons half-raised. The merchants cowered in their wagons. And Hector felt a cold sweat break out across his brow as those golden eyes seemed to look straight through him, seeing the betrayal he had planned, the lives he had ended for coin.
"Take him!" Hector ordered, his voice cracking despite himself.
Three of his men moved forward reluctantly. The white-clad figure didn't retreat or draw a weapon. He simply smiled and began to move. What followed could scarcely be called a fight—it was more like a dance, one the mercenaries were unprepared for. The stranger slipped between their blades as if they moved through water, his own movements swift and precise. He didn't kill; he disarmed, disabling with touches that seemed gentle yet left grown warriors gasping on the ground.
When only Hector remained standing, the bandits emerged from their hiding places—not to attack, but to flee. They had seen enough to know this was no ordinary traveler.
Hector made a desperate lunge, his sword aimed at the stranger's heart. The youth caught the blade between his palms, stopping it cold. With a twist that defied understanding, the steel shattered like glass.
By the time the Imperial patrol found the caravan, Hector and his men were sitting in a circle, speaking to the merchants in hushed, repentant tones. Of the white-haired youth, there was no sign, though several mercenaries claimed he had not walked away but simply faded into the sunlight as noon approached.
When questioned by the patrol captain, one of the oldest merchants simply smiled and said, "Nika visited us today. The liberator. The one who breaks chains."
In the Alliance territories, where merchants and nobles engaged in an eternal dance of politics and trade, stories of Joy Boy took on a different character. Here, it was said he appeared in marketplaces to overturn the tables of merchants who cheated their customers, or in the halls of power to reveal conspiracies with nothing more than a pointed finger and those piercing golden eyes.
Duke Riegan's, then a young man making his mark in the Alliance's complex political landscape, claimed to have encountered the white-clad youth during a contentious roundtable conference.
"The arguments had become heated," he would recount years later, his eyes distant with memory. "Accusations of bad faith flew across the table like arrows. And then—I still don't know how—he was simply there, standing in a shaft of sunlight from the high windows. He didn't speak, didn't interfere. He just watched, smiling that strange, knowing smile.
"One by one, we fell silent. There was something about his presence... it made lies taste like ash in your mouth. By the time the meeting concluded, we had reached a compromise that benefited all our territories, not just the most powerful houses. And when we looked up to acknowledge our mysterious visitor, he was gone—though the room seemed brighter somehow, as if some of that sunlight had seeped into the very stones."
On the borders of Fódlan, where the land gave way to other nations and cultures, Joy Boy—or Nika, as he was more commonly known beyond the boundaries—was revered and feared in equal measure. In Almyra, it was said he rode with nomadic tribes across the vast steppes, always appearing where tyranny took root, where the strong preyed upon the weak. In Brigid, fishermen left offerings at coastal shrines, believing Nika protected those who respected the bounty of the sea and punished those who took more than their share.
Even in isolated Albinea, legends spoke of a white-haired youth who walked unharmed through blizzards to bring food and hope to settlements cut off by the harshest winters on record.
The Church of Seiros maintained an official stance of cautious skepticism regarding these tales. Without direct evidence of divine origin, they could not endorse the worship of this "Joy Boy." Yet privately, many priests and bishops wondered. The descriptions were too consistent, the stories too widespread to dismiss entirely. Some even whispered that Joy Boy might be connected to the goddess herself—perhaps a messenger or champion sent to walk among mortals.
Archbishop Rhea alone seemed neither surprised nor particularly concerned by the reports that reached her. She listened to each account with a serene smile, occasionally nodding as if hearing confirmation of something long expected.
"If such a being exists," she told her most trusted advisors, "then he serves the cause of justice in his own way. The Church need not interfere unless his actions threaten the peace of Fódlan."
But in truth, Rhea watched and waited, searching for signs that this star-fallen youth might be connected to her own ancient past, to secrets buried so deep that even most of the Church hierarchy remained ignorant of them.
Perhaps the most curious aspect of the Joy Boy legends was that, despite spanning decades, descriptions of the white-haired youth never changed. He did not age, did not alter his appearance or demeanor. Whether the story came from thirty years past or last week, he was always described the same way: young, white-haired, golden-eyed, dressed in flowing white garments, with a smile that could comfort the innocent or terrify the guilty.
He appeared without warning and vanished just as mysteriously, often simply stepping into particularly bright sunlight and fading from view. No pattern could be discerned to his appearances, save that they frequently coincided with moments of injustice or oppression. A noble abusing their power, bandits threatening innocents, corrupt officials enforcing unjust laws—these seemed to draw Joy Boy like a moth to flame.
Yet he was no mere vigilante. Those who encountered him spoke not of punishment but of revelation—of being shown the truth of their actions and given a choice to change their ways. Many did, turning from paths of cruelty or selfishness to become champions of justice in their own right. Those who refused often found themselves stripped of power, their schemes exposed, their followers abandoning them as if awakening from a spell.
Some scholars of magic theorized that Joy Boy might be a particularly powerful spirit or even a physical manifestation of an abstract concept—Freedom or Justice given form and purpose. Others, more practically minded, suggested he might be a series of individuals adopting the same appearance and methods to create a lasting legend. Yet this explanation failed to account for the impossible feats attributed to him—appearing simultaneously in locations hundreds of miles apart, vanishing in plain sight, knowing secrets no mortal could have discovered.
Whatever the truth, the legend of Joy Boy—the star who fell to earth, the youth who rose with the sun, the silent wanderer with golden eyes who championed freedom and justice—became woven into the fabric of Fódlan's culture. Parents told their children to be honest and kind, for Joy Boy might be watching. Knights and soldiers were reminded that true strength lay in protecting the innocent, not dominating them. Even nobles tempered their ambitions with the knowledge that, should they stray too far into tyranny, they might one morning find a white-clad youth standing in their hall, his golden eyes seeing through every pretense and deception.
And so the years passed, and the legend grew, until Joy Boy was as much a part of Fódlan as the mountains and rivers that shaped its lands. Not everyone believed, of course—there were always skeptics who dismissed the stories as peasant superstitions or political tools. But even they might catch themselves hesitating before an unjust action, glancing over their shoulder as if half-expecting to meet a pair of golden eyes regarding them with that knowing smile.
For in Fódlan and beyond, one truth had become universally acknowledged: wherever freedom was threatened, wherever the powerful abused their strength to chain the weak, Joy Boy—Nika, the Liberator, the Sun God—might appear. And before his golden gaze, no chains could hold, no lies could stand, and no tyrant could hide from the truth of their own nature.
It was a comforting thought for the oppressed, a warning to oppressors, and a reminder to all that some forces in the world transcended the boundaries of nations, the passage of time, and even the limitations of mortality itself.
In the mercenary camp, as night fell and stars appeared one by one in the darkening sky, a gruff man with weathered features sat beside a small cot where a child with unusually solemn eyes lay tucked beneath a woolen blanket.
"And they say," Jeralt continued, his normally stern voice softening as it always did when telling this particular tale, "that Joy Boy doesn't just appear in Fódlan. He's everywhere at once, watching over the whole world like the sun itself."
Byleth, typically so stoic and unreadable even as a child, showed the faintest spark of interest—a widening of the eyes, a subtle leaning forward that anyone who didn't know the child well might have missed entirely. But Jeralt noticed, just as he noticed everything about his unusual offspring.
"That's why some lands call him Nika—the Sun God. Because when he rises from wherever he's been resting, it's like the sunrise chasing away darkness." Jeralt made an expansive gesture with his calloused hands. "They say his eyes are golden, and his hair and clothes as white as clouds on a summer day. And when he smiles..."
Here Jeralt paused, studying his child's face. Byleth rarely smiled—rarely showed any emotion at all—a fact that worried the veteran mercenary more than he cared to admit. But whenever he told stories of Joy Boy, he caught glimpses of something stirring behind those impassive features.
"When he smiles," Jeralt continued, "it's like feeling the sun on your face after a long winter. People say just being near him makes burdens lighter, makes hope burn brighter."
Byleth's eyes had taken on a subtle gleam, not quite excitement by normal standards, but for this particular child, it was the equivalent of another youngster bouncing with enthusiasm.
"Does he fight bad people?" Byleth asked, the words quiet but clear in the stillness of the tent.
Jeralt chuckled, shaking his head. "Not the way we do, kid. No swords, no axes, no bows. Joy Boy doesn't need weapons. They say he moves like water, like light itself. He doesn't defeat enemies—he shows them the truth, gives them a chance to change. And if they won't..." Jeralt shrugged. "Well, the stories get a bit vague there. But those who choose to keep hurting others, to take freedom away from their fellow man? They don't stay in power long after Joy Boy's visited."
Byleth nodded seriously, as if filing away this information for future reference.
"Do you think he's real?" the child asked after a moment of contemplation.
Jeralt considered the question carefully, as he always did when Byleth showed this rare curiosity. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "I've never seen him myself. But I've met people who swear they have—good people, honest people who had no reason to lie. And sometimes..." He looked past the tent walls, his gaze distant. "Sometimes when I see justice prevail against impossible odds, or witness someone with power choosing to use it for good rather than gain, I wonder if he had a hand in it."
Byleth absorbed this in silence, then asked one final question: "Will I ever meet him?"
Jeralt smiled, ruffling his child's hair in a rare gesture of affection. "Who knows? They say he appears to those who need him most—or to those who threaten what he protects. Try to be in the first group, not the second, eh?"
He stood, adjusting the blanket around Byleth's small form. "Now get some sleep. We've got a long march tomorrow, and I need you alert. Captain's orders."
Byleth nodded solemnly, but as Jeralt turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of something unusual—his typically expressionless child's lips had curved into the faintest hint of a smile. It vanished quickly, like sun slipping behind a cloud, but it had been there.
Outside the tent, Jeralt paused, looking up at the star-filled sky. He wasn't a religious man—his experiences with the Church had left him wary of placing too much faith in higher powers. But the stories of Joy Boy weren't Church doctrine; they were something older, something that resonated across cultures and borders.
"Watch over the kid, if you're out there," he murmured to the night air. "Heaven knows Byleth could use a bit of joy."
With a sigh, he moved off to check the perimeter before turning in himself, unaware of the silent figure perched atop the highest tent pole, white garments and hair seeming to glow with an inner light that somehow remained invisible to the guards patrolling below.
The young man's golden eyes followed Jeralt's retreating form, then turned to gaze at the tent where Byleth now slept. His expression was thoughtful, his customary smile tinged with something like recognition—or perhaps anticipation. He placed a hand over his chest and tapped it gently, three times.
Doom. Doom. Doom.
The sound carried on no wind, reached no ears, yet seemed to resonate with the very stars overhead. Then, as the moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the campsite in silver light, the white-clad figure stood, arms spread wide as if embracing the world below—and stepped into a beam of moonlight, dissolving like mist at dawn.
In their tent, Byleth slept peacefully for once, dreaming not of battles or training or the endless march from one job to the next, but of golden eyes and a smile that promised freedom, justice, and just maybe, a future filled with purpose beyond the blade.
Chapter 4: The Sun and the Star
Summary:
In which Archbishop Rhea confronts the growing influence of Joy Boy, whose presence threatens the very foundations of the Church of Seiros. As whispers of liberation spread across Fódlan and beyond, the balance of power begins to shift, and the immortal Archbishop must face a truth she has long denied—that perhaps she is not the only divine power watching over the land.
Chapter Text
The morning sun streamed through the stained glass windows of the audience chamber, casting jeweled patterns across the polished stone floor. Archbishop Rhea stood motionless before the ornate windows, her pale green eyes fixed on the horizon beyond Garreg Mach Monastery. For years, she had maintained the image of serene authority, an unshakable pillar of faith and stability for all of Fódlan. Yet beneath that carefully cultivated exterior, a storm raged.
Ten years. It had been merely ten years since the falling star and the emergence of the white-haired youth with golden eyes. A decade should mean nothing to one who had lived for centuries, a mere blink in the endless march of time. And yet, in that brief span, the foundations she had spent a millennium building had begun to crack.
A soft knock at the door pulled Rhea from her thoughts. She composed herself, drawing the mantle of her office around her like armor.
"Enter," she called, her voice melodious and controlled as always.
Seteth entered, his perpetual frown deeper than usual. Under his arm, he carried a leather folio stuffed with reports. As her most trusted advisor and one of the few who knew her true nature, he was the only person with whom she could speak freely about the matter weighing on her mind.
"More reports of the wanderer?" Rhea asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Yes, Lady Rhea." Seteth's voice was low and urgent. "Three new incidents in the past fortnight alone. One in Adrestian territory, near Hevring, where a local baron's private militia was disbanded—the soldiers claimed they awoke one morning and simply knew they had been fighting for an unjust cause. The baron himself has apparently locked himself in his chambers, refusing to see anyone."
He extracted a parchment from the folio. "In Faerghus, a village that had been denied access to their traditional hunting grounds by a newly installed count suddenly found the barriers removed and the count himself personally apologizing to each family. Witnesses report seeing a 'smiling youth with eyes like the sun' the night before."
Rhea's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the sleeve of her robe. "And the third?"
"Derdriu." Seteth's frown deepened. "A peculiar case. A merchant prince was exposed for trafficking children from Brigid and Dagda as household servants—or worse. His entire operation collapsed overnight when every ship captain in his employ simultaneously released their human cargo and confessed their crimes to the authorities. Several claimed they were compelled to act after dreaming of 'golden eyes that saw through their souls.'"
"Dreams now," Rhea murmured. "His influence grows."
"Indeed." Seteth placed the folio on a nearby table. "And there is more concerning news. The incident in Derdriu has sparked something of a spiritual awakening among the common folk of the Alliance. They've begun to refer to Joy Boy as 'The Sun God' openly, rather than in whispers. Makeshift shrines have appeared in marketplaces, with offerings of fresh bread and sunflowers."
Rhea turned back to the window, her reflection ghostly in the colored glass. For centuries, she had shepherded humanity, guiding them toward worship of the goddess—her mother—while she worked tirelessly to bring Sothis back to the world. The Church of Seiros was both her life's work and her penance for past sins.
And now this interloper, this "Joy Boy" threatened everything with his golden eyes and liberating message.
"The noble houses—what do they say?" she asked, though she suspected she knew this answer as well.
"They are divided." Seteth moved to stand beside her, his reflection joining hers in the glass. "Some, particularly in the Empire, demand that the Church take official action to denounce him as a heretic or worse. Count Varley has been especially vocal, insisting that Joy Boy's influence promotes social disorder and threatens the divine right of the nobility."
"And the others?"
"Others are more... pragmatic." Seteth's tone suggested what he thought of such pragmatism. "They've observed that those who peacefully accommodate the changes Joy Boy seems to inspire are left alone, while those who resist often find themselves... transformed, one way or another. Many houses are quietly reforming their practices, easing burdens on their subjects, releasing prisoners, abolishing outdated laws."
"Self-preservation disguised as benevolence," Rhea observed.
"Perhaps," Seteth conceded. "But the result benefits the common people regardless of motivation."
Rhea closed her eyes briefly. She had first dismissed the stories as peasant superstitions, then as exaggerated tales of a charismatic wanderer. Even when reports reached her of his seemingly miraculous appearances and disappearances, she had maintained that he was likely just a skilled mage using teleportation magic to cultivate a mystical reputation.
But then came the reports from her most trusted knights—those who had encountered the white-haired youth themselves and returned changed. And worst of all, the descriptions that turned her blood to ice: a being who fell from the stars, who shone with inner light, who could not be harmed by mortal weapons.
Too familiar. Too much like her own kind. Too much like her mother.
A white-clad intruder in the world of humans, gifted with powers beyond mortal understanding.
"Lady Rhea," Seteth's voice softened, sensing her distress. "We must decide on an official position. The bishops look to you for guidance, and your continued silence on the matter is being... misinterpreted."
"Misinterpreted?" Rhea turned to face him directly.
"Some whisper that you approve of him," Seteth said bluntly. "Others suggest you fear him. Neither perception serves the Church well in these uncertain times."
Fear. The word struck Rhea like a physical blow. Did she fear this Joy Boy? She, who had survived the Red Canyon Massacre, who had waged war on Nemesis and his followers, who had built the Church of Seiros from nothing and maintained it through centuries of human strife and change?
Yes, a small voice inside her admitted. Yes, she feared him. Not for what he was doing, but for what he represented: proof that divine power could manifest in Fódlan independent of her control, independent of her mother's legacy. It threatened the narrative she had carefully cultivated over centuries—that Seiros and the Four Saints were the only true divine beings to walk among humanity, that the goddess Sothis was the sole source of divine revelation.
If this Joy Boy truly was something like her kind, where had he come from? And if he wasn't one of her kind, what was he? Both possibilities terrified her.
"Summon the Cardinals," she decided suddenly. "And send word to my knights to return from their mission immediately. We will formulate our response carefully."
Seteth nodded, relief visible in his posture. "A wise decision. They are currently investigating reports of Joy Boy in Kupala, where—"
"He's in Kupala?" Rhea interrupted, her composure slipping momentarily. Kupala, nestled in Fódlan's Throat, had once been home to ancient worship practices that predated even the Church of Seiros. If Joy Boy was stirring old ways there...
"Was," Seteth corrected. "The locals claim he passed through three days ago, liberating a group of Almyran prisoners who were being held for ransom by local bandits. By the time The knights arrived, there was no trace of him, only freed prisoners who refused to speak of how they had escaped, and bandits who had apparently walked into Kupala itself to confess their crimes and surrender their weapons."
"Three days ago," Rhea murmured. "And yet yesterday, he was supposedly in Derdriu, over two hundred leagues distant. And the day before, in Faerghus." She shook her head. "It cannot be the same individual. Perhaps we face not one man but many taking on the same appearance, the same name."
"I have considered that possibility," Seteth acknowledged. "But the descriptions are too consistent—not merely in appearance but in mannerisms, in the peculiar silent communication, in the effects of his presence. And then there are the more... inexplicable aspects."
"The golden eyes," Rhea said softly.
"Yes. And the disappearances into sunlight, the drum-like heartbeat witnesses report, the way he seems impervious to harm. Karen’s last report mentioned an encounter between Joy Boy and a particularly ruthless bandit leader in the mountains of Hrym territory. The bandit emptied his quiver at point-blank range—not a single arrow found its mark, though no one could say precisely why or how they missed."
Rhea turned back to the window, gazing out at the mountains surrounding Garreg Mach. For centuries, this monastery had stood as the heart of Fódlan's spiritual life, its towers visible for miles, a beacon of faith and constancy in a changing world. Now it felt suddenly vulnerable, perched high on its mountain as though trying to stay above the rising tide of change sweeping across the land below.
"History tells us that new faiths often arise in times of hardship or change," Seteth said thoughtfully. "The people seek hope, seek meaning in their suffering. This Joy Boy offers them a direct path to liberation without the intermediary of the Church. It is... understandably appealing to those who feel abandoned by traditional power structures."
"You speak as though you admire him," Rhea observed, a hint of accusation in her tone.
Seteth straightened, affronted. "I merely seek to understand the phenomenon so we may better address it. All change is not inherently threatening, Rhea. Perhaps there is a way to incorporate some aspects of this movement into the Church itself, to guide it rather than oppose it directly."
"Compromise?" Rhea turned, her eyes flashing. "Shall we compromise with heresy, Seteth? Shall we bend the teachings of the goddess to accommodate this... this interloper?"
"That is not what I suggested," Seteth replied evenly. "But rigid opposition may drive believers further away rather than drawing them back to the fold. We must be strategic."
A heavy silence fell between them, thick with centuries of shared history and unspoken concerns. Rhea knew Seteth worried for his daughter Flayn's safety as much as for the Church itself. If this Joy Boy truly was something akin to their kind, who could say what his intentions might be toward the few remaining Children of the Goddess?
The silence was broken by another knock at the door, this one urgent and rapid.
"Enter," Rhea called, composing herself once more.
A young knight burst in, his face flushed with exertion. "Your Grace, Cardinal Aelfric requests your immediate presence in the cathedral. There's been an... incident."
Rhea and Seteth exchanged glances. "What manner of incident?" Seteth demanded.
The knight visibly hesitated. "It's... it would be better if you saw for yourselves, Your Grace. The Cardinal wished me to stress the urgency."
"Very well." Rhea swept toward the door, Seteth falling in step beside her. As they traversed the long corridors and walkways connecting the audience chamber to the cathedral, Rhea felt a growing sense of foreboding. She had lived long enough to recognize the weight of pivotal moments, the feeling of history shifting beneath her feet like unstable ground.
They entered the cathedral through a side door, avoiding the main thoroughfare where students and pilgrims gathered. The cavernous space was eerily silent for midday, the usual murmur of prayers and hymns conspicuously absent. As they approached the central altar, Rhea saw why.
The massive stained glass window behind the altar—a masterpiece depicting Saint Seiros receiving divine revelation from the goddess—had been altered. Not broken or damaged, but changed, as though the glass itself had been reshaped overnight. Where once the goddess had been shown bestowing a sword upon Seiros, now she appeared to be presenting an open hand, palm up, offering not a weapon but a choice. And beside her, rendered in golden glass that caught the sunlight streaming through the window, stood a white-clad figure with eyes that seemed to follow Rhea as she moved closer.
Cardinal Aelfric stood before the altered window, his normally composed features slack with shock. When he heard their approach, he turned, relief washing over his face.
"Archbishop, thank the goddess you've come. It was discovered at dawn prayers. No one saw or heard anything during the night. The guards swear no one entered the cathedral, yet..." He gestured helplessly at the window.
"Has anyone else seen this?" Seteth asked sharply.
"Only the dawn prayer group—mostly clergy and a few devout knights. I ordered the cathedral closed immediately and sent them away with strict instructions to remain silent, though the goddess only knows if they will heed me. Word travels quickly in the monastery."
Rhea approached the altar, her eyes fixed on the altered window. The craftsmanship was flawless, as though the window had always been this way. No broken glass, no visible seams or repairs. Just a complete transformation of the cathedral's centerpiece, accomplished silently in the dead of night.
And a message, unmistakable in its import: The goddess offers freedom, not conquest. The sword replaced by an open hand. And Joy Boy, standing as an equal beside the divine.
"Blasphemy," she whispered, but the word sounded hollow even to her own ears.
"There's more," Cardinal Aelfric said hesitantly. "In the offering box... we found this." He held out a square of white cloth.
Rhea took it with trembling fingers. It was a simple handkerchief of the finest silk, impossibly soft and pure white. In one corner, embroidered in golden thread, was a sun symbol—not unlike the Crest of Flames, but simpler, more primal. And beneath it, words in an ancient script that few living souls could read:
The heart that beats for freedom cannot be silenced.
Rhea recognized the script instantly—it was the language of her people, of the Children of the Goddess. The language of Nabatea. A language lost to history, known only to herself, Seteth, and a handful of others who had survived the massacre at Zanado.
Cold dread washed over her. This was no human mage playing at divinity. This was something else—something that knew secrets buried for a millennium.
"Secure the monastery," she commanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "No one enters or leaves until I give the order. Seteth, gather the Cardinals and the highest-ranking knights in the advisory chamber. Aelfric, have this window concealed—drape it with cloth, say it is being cleaned or repaired. And bring me every report, every witness account, every scrap of information we have on this Joy Boy. Every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem."
"Lady Rhea," Seteth began, concern evident in his voice, "perhaps we should—"
"Now, Seteth," she cut him off, her tone brooking no argument. "We have been passive long enough. If this wanderer seeks to challenge the Church directly, he will learn what it means to oppose the will of Seiros."
As her advisors hurried to carry out her commands, Rhea remained alone before the altered window, the silken handkerchief clutched in her hand. The golden eyes of Joy Boy's image seemed to watch her with knowing amusement, as though privy to a jest she could not comprehend.
Ten years ago, she had dismissed him as a curiosity, a momentary distraction from her true purpose. Five years ago, when his influence began to spread beyond isolated incidents, she had considered him a nuisance to be monitored. Now, with his message literally embedded in the heart of her domain, she could no longer deny the truth.
This was not merely a challenge to the Church's authority. This was a direct message to her—to Seiros herself. I know who you are. I know what you've done. And I am here to offer another way.
For the first time in centuries, Archbishop Rhea—last daughter of the goddess, architect of Fódlan's history, keeper of secrets deep as the ocean—felt truly afraid. Not for her own safety, but for the great work to which she had devoted her immortal life. If Joy Boy continued to erode faith in the Church, if he continued to turn hearts toward his message of liberation rather than devotion, would she ever see her mother again?
The thought was unbearable.
"I will not allow it," she whispered to the empty cathedral, her voice echoing among the ancient stones. "This land, these people—they are under my protection. Under her protection. We have guided humanity for a millennium while you were nowhere to be found."
The golden eyes in the stained glass seemed to twinkle as a cloud passed overhead, momentarily dimming the cathedral before sunlight flooded through once more. For an instant, Rhea could have sworn the glass figure smiled more broadly.
The drumbeat of her own heart sounded strangely in her ears—doom, doom, doom—like the heartbeat witnesses described in Joy Boy's presence. Rhea pressed the white handkerchief to her lips, suddenly aware that for all her power, all her centuries of careful planning and manipulation, she might be facing something beyond her understanding.
But she had faced the unknown before. She had rebuilt from the ashes of genocide, had constructed a religion, had guided and shaped human history from the shadows. She would not falter now.
"Let us see, wanderer," she murmured, her eyes never leaving the golden gaze in the window, "whose light burns brighter in the end—your newborn sun, or my ancient star."
Outside the cathedral, the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky, bathing Garreg Mach Monastery in light so brilliant it seemed almost alive. And somewhere—perhaps in the shadows of a distant alleyway in Enbarr, or beside a campfire in the Sreng wilderness, or aboard a ship sailing from Brigid, or perhaps everywhere at once—a white-haired youth with golden eyes lifted his face to the same sun and smiled, his heart beating a rhythm old as time itself: the drums of liberation, echoing across a land ripe for change.
Chapter 5: Drums of Dawn
Summary:
As Duscur finds its place in a changing world, Amalie of the Molinaro family welcomes her firstborn son into a time of spiritual awakening. While tending to her newborn Dedue and supporting her blacksmith husband, she witnesses how the celestial liberator known as Joy Boy has transformed not just her homeland but lands beyond. When an unexpected visitor appears in her son's nursery, Amalie faces a moment that will forever alter her understanding of the divine.
Chapter Text
The coals in the forge had long since dimmed to a soft orange glow, but the warmth of the workshop still permeated every corner of their modest home. Amalie Molinaro tucked the woolen blanket more securely around her sleeping infant, marveling at how small Dedue's fingers were as they curled instinctively around the edge of the fabric. Just twelve days old, and already his hands seemed destined for his father's craft—strong even in their tenderness, determined even in their innocence.
Outside, the drums began.
They always started softly at first, a distant heartbeat that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. Doom, doom, doom . Not menacing, but steady, like the pulse of the earth itself. The sound had once been rare in Duscur, heard perhaps once or twice a year when she was a child. Now, it came more frequently—a reminder of change, of presence, of watchful golden eyes that most would never see directly but all could feel.
The drums of liberation, they called it. The sound that heralded Joy Boy.
"Are you listening, little one?" Amalie whispered to her sleeping son. "They say children can hear him more clearly than we can. Perhaps even now, in your dreams, you understand what he's saying."
Dedue's eyelids fluttered in sleep, his full lips pursing slightly before relaxing again. Was he dreaming of the celestial visitor already? Was his untainted soul more receptive to the messages that adults struggled to comprehend?
Amalie moved to the window, drawing aside the intricately woven curtain to gaze out at the twilight sky. The stars were just beginning to emerge, silver pinpricks against deepening indigo. Somewhere in the village center, the drummers would be gathering, adding their own rhythms to the otherworldly beat that seemed to come from the air itself. It was not worship, precisely—Duscur had never been a land of blind devotion or singular faith. It was acknowledgment, recognition of a presence that had become as much a part of their world as the mountains that ringed their territory or the sea that lapped at their western shores.
Twelve years. Twelve years since the falling star had streaked across the night sky, bringing with it the white-haired youth with eyes like molten gold. Twelve years since Amalie had stood, a girl of thirteen, watching from her father's courtyard as the heavens themselves seemed to open up and deliver something—someone—not of this world.
And how much had changed since then.
The metallic clang of the workshop door closing broke through her reverie. Heavy footsteps, deliberate and measured, crossed the packed earth of their small courtyard. Karsten had finished his day's work, then. Her husband had been working tirelessly since Dedue's birth, accepting every commission that came his way, determined to provide abundantly for his growing family.
"Is he still sleeping?" Karsten's deep voice rumbled softly from the doorway. Despite his massive frame and strength that could bend metal to his will, her husband moved with surprising gentleness, ever mindful of disturbing their son's rest.
"Like a stone," Amalie replied with a smile, turning from the window. "And you? Has the sword for the embassy been completed?"
Karsten nodded, wiping his hands on a cloth that had once been white but was now permanently stained with the evidence of his craft. "Finished and polished. The Fódlan diplomat will collect it tomorrow." His expression shifted subtly, a slight tightening around the eyes. "They've sent a new one. Young nobleman from House Kleiman. Seems less... rigid than the last."
"That's something, at least," Amalie said, her voice carefully neutral.
Relations with Fódlan had always been complex—tense at worst, cautiously respectful at best. The Kingdom of Faerghus, their closest neighbor, viewed Duscur with a mixture of wariness and grudging respect. Trade continued, diplomats were exchanged, but there was always an undercurrent of suspicion, particularly since Joy Boy's arrival and the subsequent spiritual awakening that had swept through their land.
The Church of Seiros had never officially condemned the reverence for Joy Boy that had taken root in Duscur and beyond, but their displeasure was evident in a thousand small ways: increased missionary activity, economic pressures through trade agreements that favored those who demonstrated proper devotion to the goddess, subtle diplomatic snubs. The Archbishop herself never spoke directly against the "foreign influence," as church officials delicately termed it, but her silence was itself a statement.
"Did the new diplomat mention the festival?" Amalie asked, moving to the small hearth to stir the pot of stew she had prepared earlier. "Will they attend, do you think?"
Karsten shrugged his massive shoulders, moving to the basin to wash away the day's grime. "He asked about it. Seemed curious, not condemning. Said he'd heard the drums from his quarters last month and wondered what they signified."
"And what did you tell him?" Amalie asked, ladling stew into clay bowls, careful to keep her voice casual though her heart quickened slightly. Discussions of Joy Boy with outsiders were always delicate—too much enthusiasm could be interpreted as rejection of the Church, too little as dismissive of something sacred to Duscur.
"I told him what any craftsman would tell a customer," Karsten replied, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "That if he wished to understand Duscur, he would need to see it with his own eyes, not just hear tales from others' lips."
Amalie laughed softly. "Diplomatic of you."
"I have my moments." He accepted the bowl she offered, his large hands dwarfing the vessel. "There was something else, though. He mentioned increased Church activity in Kupala recently. Something about an incident involving freed Almyran prisoners and bandits who turned themselves in."
Amalie's hand paused halfway to her mouth, the wooden spoon hovering in the air. "Joy Boy," she whispered.
Karsten nodded once, his expression grave. "That was my thought as well. The diplomat didn't say it directly, but reading between the lines... the Church is mobilizing. More knights seen on the roads, more 'routine inspections' of border villages."
"They fear him still," Amalie said, setting down her spoon. "After twelve years, they still haven't understood."
"They fear what they cannot control." Karsten's voice was matter-of-fact, without judgment. "And they fear what their people might become if they embrace his message."
Free, Amalie thought but did not say. They fear their people might become free.
The conversation lulled as they ate, the comfortable silence of long companionship settling between them. Through the window, the drumming grew louder, more complex, as more villagers joined in. It would not be a major gathering tonight—those were reserved for significant occasions—but rather one of the spontaneous celebrations that had become common over the years. Joy in smaller moments, appreciation of simple freedoms, acknowledgment of a presence that watched over them all.
When they had finished their meal, Karsten took their bowls to the washing basin while Amalie checked on Dedue. The baby still slept peacefully, his round face serene. Such innocence, she thought, brushing a finger lightly over his downy hair. Born into a world of ancient powers and shifting allegiances, of divine beings who walked the earth and watched from sacred windows. What would he make of it all as he grew?
"I'm going to finish the detailing on the sword hilt," Karsten said, pausing at the doorway to the bedroom. "Will you join the drumming tonight?"
Amalie shook her head. "Not tonight. I want to be here when he wakes for his feeding." In truth, she felt oddly reluctant to leave the house tonight, a strange prickling sensation at the back of her neck that she couldn't explain. Not fear, exactly, but awareness—as though the air itself had changed density, become charged with potential.
Karsten nodded, understanding without need for explanation. "I'll be in the workshop if you need me."
After he had gone, Amalie lit the oil lamps against the deepening twilight, their soft golden glow creating pools of warmth in the simple room. She took up her mending basket, settling into the chair beside Dedue's cradle to work on a torn shirt of Karsten's. The rhythmic movement of her needle through the fabric echoed the drums outside, a gentle counterpoint to their insistent beat.
Her thoughts drifted as she worked, back to her childhood and the day everything had changed—not just for her, but for all of Duscur and, though they might not acknowledge it, all of Fódlan as well.
Amalie had been thirteen, helping her mother prepare bread for the hearth oven when the sky had suddenly brightened as though noon had returned in the middle of evening. She had run out into the street along with everyone else, shielding her eyes against a light that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once.
"Look!" someone had shouted, pointing upward. "A falling star!"
But it was like no falling star Amalie had ever seen or heard described in the old tales. Rather than a brief streak of light, this was a sustained brilliance, growing larger and brighter as it descended directly toward the central plaza of their village. There had been no sound—no whistling through the air, no crash of impact—only the light, and then, abruptly, silence and darkness as the star vanished.
Where it had been, standing in the village square as though he had always been there, was a young man. No—not a young man, though he had the form of one. Something else, something that merely wore the shape of humanity like a familiar but not quite perfectly fitted garment.
White hair that seemed to capture and reflect the starlight. Golden eyes that contained universes. And a smile—a smile that transformed his already beautiful face into something transcendent, something that made Amalie's young heart expand with an emotion she had no name for. Not quite joy, not quite awe, but something that contained elements of both and yet was greater than their sum.
He had not spoken. Not then, not ever in any of the sightings reported over the years that followed. But he had looked at each person gathered in the square, his gaze touching them individually, personally, a moment of connection that felt eternal while it lasted. When his eyes had met Amalie's, she had felt seen—truly seen—for the first time in her young life. Not just her physical form or her place in society, but the essence of who she was, who she might become, the potential that lay dormant within her waiting to be awakened.
And then he had lifted his face to the night sky, his smile broadening, and dissolved into motes of light that scattered like dandelion seeds on the wind, disappearing into the darkness.
That night, the drums had started. Not physical drums played by human hands, but a sound that seemed to emanate from the earth itself, a heartbeat that resonated in the bones and blood of everyone who had witnessed the star-visitor's arrival. Doom, doom, doom . A call to something primal within them, a reminder of something ancient that they had forgotten but now stirred in recognition.
By morning, the first changes had begun. The lord of their region, known for his harsh treatment of families who failed to meet their tribute quotas, had appeared at the village center, pale and shaking. Before the assembled villagers, he had knelt in the dust and begged forgiveness for his cruelty, promising restitution to every family he had wronged. When asked what had prompted this transformation, he could only shake his head, bewildered.
"I dreamed of golden eyes," he said, his voice trembling. "Eyes that saw everything I had done, everything I had been. And yet they did not condemn me. They... they offered me a choice."
Similar stories spread across Duscur in the weeks that followed. Petty tyrants reformed or removed from power. Ancient grudges between families resolved overnight. Children who had suffered in silence finding their voices and their courage. And everywhere, reports of the white-haired youth with golden eyes, appearing briefly to individuals or groups before vanishing again, leaving only that resonant drumbeat and a sense of possibility in his wake.
Some called him Nika, drawing from an ancient Duscur word for "liberator." Others simply referred to him as the Smiling One, or the Star-Child. It was outsiders who first called him Joy Boy, noting the infectious happiness that seemed to radiate from him and affect all who came into his presence.
Whatever name was used, his influence spread—not through conquest or coercion, but through individual transformations that rippled outward, person by person, community by community. Not worship in the traditional sense, but recognition of something divine that worked not through intermediaries or institutions but directly, heart to heart.
The Church of Seiros had watched with growing alarm as this new spiritual awareness spread beyond Duscur's borders. There were reports of Joy Boy sightings in Sreng, where the warrior tribes came to view him as an untamable god worthy of respect if not obedience. In Almyra, tales circulated of a "Spirit of Rebellion" who appeared to those fighting against oppression, strengthening their resolve without lifting a weapon himself. From Brigid came stories of a protector of freedom who had been incorporated into their animistic beliefs, seen as an ally in their struggle against Adrestian subjugation.
By the time Amalie was fifteen, the Archbishop had finally issued an official statement, carefully worded to neither condemn nor condone, merely cautioning the faithful against "foreign influences that might distract from true devotion to the goddess." But the warning came too late. The tide had already begun to turn, subtly but inexorably, away from blind acceptance of authority and toward something more personal, more direct.
Joyism, some called it, though it was less a formal religion than a perspective, a lens through which to view one's relationship with the divine and with other humans. No temples were built, no priests ordained. There were merely the drums, the spontaneous gatherings, and the growing sense that change was not only possible but inevitable.
The tug of thread through fabric brought Amalie back to the present. She had finished mending the tear without consciously attending to her work, her fingers moving with the muscle memory of long practice. Outside, the drumming continued, slightly louder now as more villagers joined in the impromptu celebration.
She set aside her mending and rose to check on Dedue. The baby still slept peacefully, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of infant dreams. So new to the world, yet already surrounded by the complexity of political tensions and spiritual awakenings that he could not possibly comprehend. What kind of world would he inherit? What role would he play in the continuing evolution of their society?
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Amalie froze, every muscle tensing. Karsten was in the workshop; she would have heard the heavy door open if he had returned to the house. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slowly turned, her hand instinctively moving to shield her sleeping child.
Standing in the doorway was a figure that seemed simultaneously solid and insubstantial, as though only partially present in the physical world. White hair that captured the lamplight and transformed it into something ethereal. A simple white tunic and trousers that nonetheless seemed to radiate an inner luminosity. And eyes—eyes like molten gold, ancient and young at once, filled with a wisdom that transcended human understanding and a joy so pure it almost hurt to witness.
Joy Boy. Nika. The Star-Child.
He stood perfectly still, regarding her with those impossible eyes, his smile gentle yet somehow containing multitudes. Though he made no threatening move, Amalie felt her breath catch in her throat, her limbs suddenly heavy with the weight of his presence. This was no ordinary encounter, no passing sighting from a distance as she had experienced in her youth. He was here, in her home, mere steps away from her sleeping child.
"What..." Her voice emerged as barely a whisper. "What do you want?"
He did not answer—he never did, if the stories were to be believed—but his smile deepened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. Slowly, deliberately, he raised one finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, then pointed toward the cradle where Dedue slept.
Understanding dawned. He had not come for her. He had come for her son.
Fear and protective instinct surged through Amalie, momentarily overriding her awe. She shifted to stand more squarely between the cradle and the visitor, her eyes never leaving his golden gaze. "He's just a baby," she said, her voice stronger now. "Whatever you're seeking, he cannot provide it."
Joy Boy's expression softened further, his head tilting slightly to one side in what almost seemed like amusement. He raised both hands, palms outward, in a universal gesture of peace. Then, with movements so fluid they seemed almost to blur, he stepped around her—not aggressively, but with the assurance of someone who knew he would not be stopped.
Before Amalie could react, he was standing beside the cradle, looking down at her sleeping son with an expression of such tenderness that her fear began to dissolve despite herself. There was no malice in that face, no hidden agenda she could discern. Only genuine interest, affection even, as he gazed at the infant.
To her astonishment, Dedue's eyes fluttered open. Rather than crying at the sight of a stranger, the baby's face lit up with a toothless smile of pure delight. He waved his tiny fists in the air, gurgling happily as though greeting an old friend.
Joy Boy's silent laughter was like sunlight breaking through clouds, a physical sensation of warmth that filled the room. He leaned closer, his golden eyes dancing with mischief, and blew gently on Dedue's face, causing the baby to giggle with unrestrained joy.
For several minutes, Amalie stood frozen, watching as the divine visitor played with her son, making exaggerated faces that sent Dedue into paroxysms of infant laughter. There was something so ordinary and yet so extraordinary about the scene—a being of immense power and mystery, engaging in the simple human act of entertaining a baby.
When Joy Boy finally straightened and turned back toward her, Amalie was no longer afraid. Confused, yes. Overwhelmed by the implications of his presence, certainly. But the fear had been replaced by a strange sense of privilege, of having witnessed something precious and rare.
Joy Boy regarded her thoughtfully, his head tilting slightly as though considering something. Then, with deliberate steps, he approached her. Amalie held her ground, though her heart raced anew as he drew closer. Up close, she could see that his form wasn't entirely solid—there was a slight translucence to him, as though he existed partially in another dimension, only temporarily anchored to the physical world.
Without warning, he lifted his hand and gently, almost paternally, patted her head. The gesture was so unexpected, so incongruously mundane coming from a divine being, that Amalie nearly laughed aloud. His touch was warm, substantial despite his otherworldly appearance, and it conveyed a reassurance that no words could have managed.
All will be well , that touch seemed to say. Your child is precious to me, as are you .
Then he stepped back, his golden eyes holding hers for one more moment of connection. The smile never left his face as his form began to dissolve, breaking apart into motes of light that scattered through the room before fading entirely.
In his wake, the drumming outside seemed louder, more insistent. Doom, doom, doom . The heartbeat of liberation, of possibility, of change.
Amalie stood motionless for several minutes after he had gone, her mind struggling to process what had just occurred. Only Dedue's happy babbling from the cradle finally broke her trance. She moved to pick up her son, cradling him against her chest as she sank into the chair beside the window.
"Did you see him, little one?" she whispered against his downy head. "Do you understand what just happened?"
Dedue merely gurgled in response, his tiny hand reaching up to pat her cheek with damp fingers. His eyes—dark now, though Karsten insisted they would lighten to gray as he grew older—gazed up at her with perfect trust, untroubled by the metaphysical implications of what had transpired.
The door to the workshop opened and closed, and moments later Karsten appeared in the doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the lamplight from the main room.
"I heard him laughing," he said, a note of wonder in his deep voice. "I've never heard him laugh like that before."
Amalie looked up at her husband, unsure how to explain what had just occurred. Would he believe her? Would anyone? "Karsten, I—"
"He was here, wasn't he?" Karsten interrupted, his voice hushed but certain. "I felt it. The air itself changed. And the drums..."
Amalie nodded slowly, relief washing through her at his understanding. "Yes. He came to see Dedue." She paused, still processing the encounter herself. "He played with him, Karsten. Made faces at him, blew on his face to make him giggle. It was so... ordinary, and yet..."
"Divine," Karsten finished for her, moving to kneel beside the chair, one large hand coming to rest gently on his son's back. "Our boy has been blessed."
"But why?" Amalie whispered, the question that had been circling in her mind finally finding voice. "Why Dedue? Why now?"
Karsten had no answer, merely shaking his head slowly. "Perhaps we're asking the wrong question," he suggested after a moment. "Perhaps it's not about why, but what comes next."
Amalie considered this, gazing down at her son who had begun to drift back to sleep against her chest, his eyelids growing heavy despite his valiant efforts to keep them open. What did come next, for a child who had received the personal attention of a being that some called god-like? What path was Dedue destined to walk?
Outside, the drumming began to fade, the impromptu celebration winding down as villagers returned to their homes. Soon only the natural sounds of night remained—the distant call of an owl, the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the soft crackling of the hearth fire.
Yet beneath it all, barely perceptible but undeniably present, Amalie could still hear it—the faint rhythm of drums, the heartbeat of liberation that had become the backdrop to their lives since the falling star had changed everything twelve years ago.
Doom, doom, doom .
The sound of change, of possibility, of a future unlimited by the constraints of the past. A future into which her son had just been welcomed by the Smiling One himself.
Amalie pressed her lips to the top of Dedue's head, breathing in his sweet infant scent. "Whatever comes next," she whispered, making a silent promise to her son and to herself, "know that you are loved—by us, and apparently, by forces beyond our understanding. You are part of something greater, little one. Something we may not fully comprehend, but something that holds the promise of a better world."
Dedue sighed in his sleep, nestling closer to her warmth. Outside, the last echo of drums faded into the night, leaving behind a sense of peace that settled over the house like a blessing.
Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—diplomatic tensions to navigate, Church officials to placate, the daily work of living in a world caught between old powers and new awakening. But for tonight, in this moment, there was only this: a mother holding her child, touched by the divine but anchored in the deeply human experience of love.
And somehow, Amalie knew with unshakable certainty, that was exactly as Joy Boy intended it to be.
Chapter 6: A Father's Awakening
Summary:
In which Jeralt Eisner, former captain of the Knights of Seiros, finds himself guarding a gathering of Joyists while carrying his expressionless two-year-old child. As he observes the diverse followers of Joy Boy celebrating together without hierarchy or discrimination, he witnesses something he thought impossible—genuine emotion from his stoic child Byleth. This unexpected moment forces Jeralt to confront his own beliefs about the world he fled and the new movements rising to challenge it.
Chapter Text
The weight of the toddler strapped to his back had become as familiar to Jeralt as the sword at his hip. Two years of carrying Byleth everywhere had strengthened muscles he hadn't known existed, creating new calluses alongside those earned from decades of wielding a lance. Not that the child was particularly heavy—in fact, Byleth was smaller than most children their age, with a stillness that unnerved nearly everyone they encountered.
Everyone except Jeralt.
He shifted the makeshift sling, adjusting Byleth's position as he surveyed the growing crowd from his vantage point at the edge of the meadow. The air hummed with anticipation, threaded through with snatches of song and laughter. Children darted between clusters of adults, their faces painted with suns and stars. Merchants had set up impromptu stalls selling bread, cheese, and sweet pastries shaped like the sun. The atmosphere was more festival than security risk, but Jeralt hadn't survived this long by lowering his guard.
"Still don't understand why you insisted on bringing the little one," grumbled Hiram, a burly former Kingdom knight who had joined Jeralt's mercenary band six months prior. "Job like this, things could get dicey."
Jeralt gave his subordinate a level stare. "The kid goes where I go."
"Yeah, but—"
"The kid goes where I go," Jeralt repeated, his tone ending the conversation.
Hiram shrugged and moved on to check the perimeter, muttering something about "stubborn old bear" that Jeralt pretended not to hear. He'd grown accustomed to the disapproval, the bemused head-shakes, the not-so-subtle suggestions that a battlefield was no place for a child, that he should find a nice village woman to look after Byleth while he worked.
They didn't understand. Couldn't understand. How could he explain that leaving Byleth behind wasn't an option? That the child's heartbeat never quickened, even when faced with danger? That Byleth's eyes—so much like their mother's—seemed to take in everything with an analytical detachment that chilled Jeralt's blood even as it filled him with fierce protectiveness?
"When Jeralt Eisner takes a contract, the kid comes too. That's non-negotiable," he'd told his client, a wealthy merchant from Derdriu who'd hired them to protect this gathering. The man had seemed unbothered, even amused.
"Bring ten children if you wish, Captain," the merchant had said with a wink. "This is a celebration of freedom, after all. All are welcome at Joy Boy's table."
Joy Boy. The name had meant little to Jeralt two years ago when he'd fled the monastery with his newborn child, blood still sticky on his hands from the difficult birth that had claimed his wife. He'd been consumed by grief and fear, focused only on putting as much distance as possible between himself, his child, and the Archbishop whose reaction to Byleth's birth had triggered every survival instinct he possessed.
But in the time since, traveling the breadth of Fódlan as a mercenary, he'd heard the name with increasing frequency. Whispers in village taverns about a white-haired youth with golden eyes who appeared to those in need. Songs hummed by fishermen at dawn about a star-child who freed slaves and inspired tyrants to renounce their cruelty. Merchants who refused payment for goods, saying only that "Joy Boy's smile" was payment enough.
Jeralt had dismissed it all as superstition, the kind of myth that took root in hard times when people needed something to believe in. But the phenomenon had grown impossible to ignore. In villages across Leicester, Faerghus, and even parts of Adrestia, sunlight symbols began appearing—carved into doorposts, embroidered onto clothing, painted on market stalls. People began greeting each other with open palms turned upward, mimicking the gesture depicted in the altered stained glass window at Garreg Mach that Jeralt had heard rumors about.
And now here he was, guarding a gathering of these "Joyists," as some called them, though many preferred "Sunlight Children." The irony wasn't lost on him. Two years ago, he'd been Captain of the Knights of Seiros, sworn to uphold the Church's doctrine. Now he was providing security for followers of a movement the Church viewed with barely concealed alarm.
"Just another job," he muttered to himself, reaching up to pat Byleth's leg where it dangled against his shoulder. "Right, kid?"
Byleth didn't respond. They never did. The child rarely cried, never laughed, and showed no reaction to pain beyond a slight widening of their deep blue eyes. The first time Byleth had fallen and scraped a knee, Jeralt had nearly panicked at the lack of tears, the way the child had simply examined the injury with detached curiosity before looking up at him with an expression that seemed to ask, "Is this supposed to hurt?"
Rhea had done something to his child. To his wife. He was certain of it, though he couldn't prove it and didn't understand the how or why. But he knew with bone-deep conviction that whatever the Archbishop had done during Sitri's pregnancy, it had resulted in this strange, silent child whose heart beat so slowly that the first midwife he'd consulted had declared Byleth stillborn before Jeralt frantically corrected her.
"Movement at the north entrance," came Lorna's voice through the communication spell. The mage was another recent addition to his company, a former Imperial battlemage with a troubled past she refused to discuss and skills Jeralt couldn't afford to turn away. "Large group, at least thirty people."
"Hostile?" Jeralt asked, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt.
"Negative," Lorna replied. "Just more revelers. Carrying sun banners."
Jeralt relaxed slightly. "Keep eyes on them. Standard protocol."
"Understood. Oh, and Captain?" There was an unusual hesitation in Lorna's typically crisp voice. "You might want to see this group for yourself. There's... well, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
Curiosity piqued, Jeralt made his way through the crowd toward the northern entrance to the meadow, careful to avoid jostling Byleth too much. The gathering had grown substantially since their arrival at dawn. What had begun as a few hundred people was now approaching a thousand or more, spilling from the meadow into the surrounding forest clearings.
Unlike Church gatherings, with their rigid hierarchies and formal protocols, this event had no clear structure. People clustered in natural groupings—here a circle of musicians playing unfamiliar melodies on traditional instruments, there a group of children being taught to weave flower crowns by elderly women. Food was shared freely, with no distinction between those who brought provisions and those who came empty-handed.
Most striking was the diversity. In his decades serving the Church, Jeralt had observed the careful separation maintained between nobles and commoners, between those with Crests and those without, between the faithful and the merely tolerated. Here, those boundaries seemed to dissolve. He passed a group where a Duscur blacksmith conversed animatedly with a Leicester merchant about metallurgy techniques. Nearby, children of obvious noble birth played some sort of tagging game with village children, their expensive clothes discarded in favor of the freedom to run and tumble without restriction.
And everywhere, the subtle markers of Joy Boy's followers. Sun-shaped pins affixed to collars or sleeves. Small drawings of rising suns inked onto wrists or behind ears. Scraps of white cloth tied around arms or braided into hair. None of it ostentatious or uniform, but clearly meaningful to those who bore these symbols.
When Jeralt reached the northern entrance, he understood Lorna's surprise immediately. The newcomers were Kingdom soldiers—or at least, they wore the distinctive blue and silver armor of Faerghus knights. But instead of marching in formation, they moved casually, talking and laughing among themselves. Their weapons remained sheathed, their helmets tucked under arms rather than worn with formal propriety.
And at their center walked a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shock of blonde hair and a noble bearing that was unmistakable to anyone who had spent time in the Kingdom court.
"That's Prince Rufus," Jeralt murmured, mostly to himself, though he knew Byleth was listening in their silent way. "The First Prince of Faerghus."
The prince was dressed simply by royal standards, though his clothing was still finer than most present. He wore no crown, no royal insignia. The only thing marking him as different from any wealthy merchant was a small sun-shaped pin on his collar—identical to those worn by many in the crowd.
Despite his attempt at anonymity, people recognized him. How could they not? His face was stamped everywhere in the Kingdom, his distinctive profile familiar from official portraits displayed in every government building in Faerghus territory. Yet the reaction was nothing like the formal deference Jeralt had witnessed during his missions to the royal court. People greeted the prince with the same open-palmed gesture they used with each other, and to Jeralt's astonishment, Rufus returned it with a warm smile.
"Captain," Lorna materialized at his side, her eyes fixed on the royal visitor. "Orders?"
Jeralt shook his head slowly. "No change. Unless they start trouble, they're just more attendees. We're here to prevent disruptions, not police who participates."
"Even if it's the Dukeof Itha ?" Lorna asked, her eyebrow raised. "His presence here will have political implications."
"Not our concern," Jeralt said firmly. "We're mercenaries, not politicians."
But as he watched Prince Rufus accept a cup of cider from a commoner woman with a genuine smile—so different from the stiff formality Jeralt remembered from his own encounters with the prince—he couldn't help but wonder what had drawn the prince to the Kingdom high wall to this gathering. Rufus had a reputation for aloofness, for rigid adherence to tradition and protocol. Yet here he was, sun pin gleaming on his collar, laughing freely among peasants and merchants.
"Something's changing," Jeralt murmured.
Byleth shifted slightly in the carrier, small hands gripping the fabric near Jeralt's shoulders. He reached back automatically to steady the child, his mind still processing the implications of the prince's presence. If Rufus had embraced this movement, what did that mean for the future of Faerghus and its traditionally close relationship with the Church of Seiros?
"Captain," came another voice through the communication spell. "Incoming from the east. Looks like representatives from Duscur."
Jeralt turned to see a group of perhaps twenty people approaching, their distinctive clothing and dark skin marking them as being from the peninsula to the northwest of Faerghus. They moved with dignity, carrying no weapons but walking with the confidence of those who know their own worth. At their center was a massive man whose arms bore the distinctive scarring of a master blacksmith. Beside him walked a woman carrying an infant, and several older children clustered around them.
"Merchants?" Lorna asked.
"No," Jeralt replied, recognizing the ceremonial garb of the group's leaders. "That's a delegation from one of Duscur's families. The Molinaros, if I'm not mistaken."
The arrival of the Duscur group created a ripple of excitement through the crowd. People parted to allow them passage, greeting them with the open-palm gesture that seemed universal among Joy Boy's followers. The Duscur delegates responded in kind, their expressions solemn but not unwelcoming.
"Tensions between Duscur and Faerghus have been increasing for years," Lorna observed. "Yet they're both here, celebrating the same... whatever this is."
"Liberation," Jeralt said, recalling the merchant's words. "They call it liberation."
As the day progressed, more groups arrived—merchants from Almyra with their distinctive gold-embroidered clothing, a small delegation from Brigid with feathers woven into their braided hair, even a few Sreng representatives wrapped in furs despite the mild spring weather. None seemed surprised to see the others, greeting each other with the familiarity of those united by a common purpose.
Jeralt maintained his vigilance, dispatching his mercenaries to strategic positions around the perimeter, but the anticipated tensions between these historically adversarial groups never materialized. Instead, the gathering took on an almost surreal quality as traditional enemies traded stories and shared food, their children playing together while politics were set aside.
By midday, the meadow had transformed into a vibrant tapestry of cultures, with the sun-symbol the only common thread binding them together. Musicians from different regions found common rhythms, creating hybrid melodies that somehow worked despite their disparate origins. The air filled with the scent of foods from across the continent, shared freely among strangers who hours before had been foreigners to each other.
And beneath it all, Jeralt began to notice something else. A subtle rhythm, like a heartbeat, that seemed to emanate not from any particular musician but from the earth itself. Doom, doom, doom. So faint he might have imagined it, yet persistent enough that he found himself unconsciously matching his breathing to its steady pulse.
"Do you hear that?" he asked Lorna when she passed by on her patrol.
She paused, head tilted slightly. "The drums? Yes, they started about an hour ago. I assumed it was part of the celebration."
"No one's playing drums," Jeralt said quietly. "At least, no one I can see."
Lorna frowned, listening more intently. "You're right. It's like it's coming from..." She trailed off, apparently unable to pinpoint the source.
"Everywhere," Jeralt finished for her. "And nowhere."
The mage's expression shifted to one of discomfort. "I've heard stories about this. The drums of liberation, they call it. Supposedly it's the heartbeat of Joy Boy himself, resonating through his followers."
"That's superstition," Jeralt said firmly, though something deep within him stirred with recognition. The rhythm reminded him of something... someone. A heartbeat so slow it had terrified him when he first heard it.
As if sensing his thoughts, Byleth shifted against his back. The child had been unusually active today, though that merely meant occasional movement rather than their typical statue-like stillness. Jeralt reached back to adjust the sling, his fingers brushing against Byleth's chest as he did so.
For a moment, he froze. Beneath his fingers, Byleth's heart beat in perfect synchrony with the mysterious rhythm. Doom, doom, doom. Child and unseen drums, beating as one.
"Impossible," he whispered.
"Sir?" Lorna looked at him questioningly.
Jeralt shook his head, unwilling to voice the connection he'd just discovered. "Nothing. Continue your patrol. I'll check the western perimeter."
As Lorna moved away, Jeralt made his way toward a less crowded area, needing space to process what he'd felt. He'd long since grown accustomed to Byleth's unnaturally slow heartbeat, a constant reminder of whatever Rhea had done to his child. But this—this synchronicity with the mysterious rhythm pervading the gathering—was beyond his understanding.
"What does it mean, kid?" he murmured, more to himself than to Byleth. "What are you connected to?"
For the first time in their relationship, Byleth responded with actual communication. A small hand patted the back of Jeralt's head, and a barely audible voice said, "Boom."
Jeralt nearly stumbled mid-step. In two years, Byleth had never said a word. The physicians he'd discreetly consulted had warned him the child might never speak, given their other peculiarities. Yet here, surrounded by followers of a star-born youth who liberated hearts and minds, his silent child had chosen to speak.
"What was that, kid?" he asked, his voice rough with unexpected emotion. "You trying to tell me something?"
"Boom," Byleth repeated, slightly louder. "Boom, boom."
The rhythm. They were mimicking the rhythm. Jeralt swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. This was more communication than he'd gotten from Byleth in two years of parenthood. Whatever was happening here, whatever this gathering represented, it had somehow reached through the mysterious barrier that kept his child separate from the world.
He made his way to the shade of a large oak at the edge of the meadow and carefully removed the carrier, setting Byleth down on the grass before him. The toddler sat with unnatural stillness, blue eyes fixed on Jeralt's face with their usual unreadable expression. But there was something different now—a subtle alertness, an awareness that hadn't been there before.
"You feeling this too, huh?" Jeralt asked, kneeling to be at eye level with his child. "This rhythm, these people... it's doing something to you."
Byleth didn't respond verbally again, but their small hand reached out to press against Jeralt's chest, right over his heart. The gesture was so unexpected, so deliberate, that Jeralt found himself holding his breath. In that moment of connection, the mysterious rhythm seemed to intensify, the doom, doom, doom pulsing through his own body as if he and Byleth and everyone in the meadow were part of a single, massive circulatory system.
Gradually, Jeralt became aware of a change in the atmosphere. The random conversations throughout the meadow had diminished, replaced by a collective hush. People were standing straighter, faces turned toward the sky with expressions of anticipation. Even Prince Rufus, who had been deep in conversation with the Duscur blacksmith, now stood in reverent silence, his eyes scanning the horizon.
"What's happening?" Jeralt murmured, instinctively reaching for his sword. Was this a planned insurgence? Some sort of mass hypnosis?
Before he could draw his weapon, Byleth's hand moved from his chest to grip his wrist with surprising strength for a two-year-old. The child shook their head once, a definitive no.
And then the light changed.
It wasn't that the sun brightened—if anything, the direct sunlight seemed to dim slightly, as if filtered through invisible clouds. But the quality of the light shifted, becoming more golden, more liquid somehow, as if the air itself had been transformed into a medium that captured and remade the sunlight into something new.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Jeralt followed their gaze upward, half-expecting to see storm clouds or some other natural phenomenon. Instead, he saw nothing unusual in the sky—just the spring sun, perhaps a bit more golden than usual, but otherwise unremarkable.
Yet the hushed reverence continued, spreading through the gathering like a wave. People began to kneel, not in subjugation but in recognition. Open palms were raised toward the sky, faces transformed with expressions of joy so pure that Jeralt felt like an intruder witnessing something deeply personal.
"What are they seeing?" he wondered aloud, his eyes scanning the crowd rather than the sky. As a former Knight of Seiros, he'd witnessed displays of religious fervor before—the rapture of pilgrims receiving the Archbishop's blessing, the trance-like state of monks after days of fasting and prayer. This was different. The people around him seemed more present, more grounded in their joy, not transported beyond reality but more deeply immersed in it.
His eyes returned to Byleth, wondering how his unusual child was processing this mass experience. What he saw made his heart stop.
Byleth was smiling.
Not the reflexive grimace of a baby passing gas or the mechanical mimicry some children with developmental differences produced. This was a genuine smile—small but unmistakable, transforming Byleth's normally impassive features into something so achingly beautiful that Jeralt felt tears spring to his eyes.
"Kid..." he whispered, unable to form more words past the constriction in his throat.
In response, Byleth's smile widened, and the toddler lifted their face toward the golden light bathing the meadow. And then, impossibly, miraculously, Byleth began to laugh.
The sound was unlike anything Jeralt had heard from a human child—not the bubbling giggle of an infant or the raucous laugh of a toddler, but something melodic and pure, as if joy itself had been distilled into sound. It rose above the hushed silence of the crowd, carrying across the meadow like a crystalline bell.
People turned toward the sound, their own expressions of joy deepening at the sight of the laughing child. The rhythm—doom, doom, doom—seemed to intensify, not in volume but in resonance, as if Byleth's laughter had somehow amplified it, given it new dimension and meaning.
Tears streamed freely down Jeralt's face now, his characteristic stoicism forgotten in the face of this miracle. For two years he had loved this silent, expressionless child with a fierce devotion that surprised even him. He had defended Byleth against physicians who suggested abandonment, against villagers who whispered about changelings and dark magic. He had carried this child across Fódlan, stood watch over their crib when nightmares of Rhea's intentions plagued him, pledged his life to protecting this strange, silent being who showed no outward sign of reciprocal attachment.
And now, in this meadow, surrounded by followers of a star-born youth with golden eyes, his child was laughing. His child was happy.
Jeralt reached out with trembling hands, gathering Byleth into his arms and holding them against his chest where his heart thundered with emotion. The child continued to laugh, small hands patting Jeralt's wet cheeks as if trying to understand the tears.
"Thank you," Jeralt whispered, not sure who he was addressing—Byleth, the golden light, Joy Boy, or some power beyond his comprehension. "Thank you."
The intensity of the moment gradually faded, the golden quality of the light returning to normal sunlight, the collective hush giving way to excited murmurs and exclamations. But Byleth's smile remained, smaller now but still present, a miraculous transformation that Jeralt couldn't look away from.
"Captain?" Hiram's voice interrupted his reverie. The mercenary approached cautiously, respect in his eyes as he regarded the openly weeping captain cradling his child. "Everything alright?"
Jeralt nodded, unable to explain what had just occurred. "Keep to the perimeter," he managed to say, his voice rough. "I need a moment."
Hiram hesitated, clearly concerned by the uncharacteristic emotional display, but ultimately nodded and moved away, giving orders to the other mercenaries through the communication spell to maintain their positions.
Alone again with Byleth, Jeralt studied his child's face, memorizing every detail of the smile that had transformed it. The expression was already fading, the familiar blankness gradually reasserting itself, but Jeralt had seen it—had witnessed his child experience joy for the first time.
"Was that him?" Jeralt asked quietly. "This Joy Boy they all talk about? Did you see him, kid?"
Byleth didn't answer, but their small hand reached up to touch Jeralt's cheek again, a gesture so gentle and deliberate that it felt like communication more profound than words.
Around them, the gathering had resumed its festive atmosphere, though with a new undercurrent of excitement. People spoke in hushed, reverent tones about what they had experienced—the golden light, the sense of presence, the feeling of being truly seen and known.
"He was here," Jeralt heard one woman tell another, her voice trembling with emotion. "I saw him, just for a moment. Standing in the light, smiling at us all."
"I didn't see him," her companion replied, "but I felt him. Like he was looking right into my heart, seeing everything broken and healing it with just his smile."
Jeralt held Byleth closer, suddenly protective of this moment, of this experience they had shared. He wasn't ready to integrate it into his understanding of the world yet—not ready to accept that there might be powers beyond the Church, beyond Rhea, beyond the rigid structures he had served for so many years before fleeing with his child.
But he couldn't deny what he had witnessed, what he had felt. The rhythm that had synchronized with Byleth's heartbeat. The golden light that had transformed ordinary sunlight into something transcendent. And most of all, his silent child's laughter, a sound he had begun to believe he would never hear.
As the afternoon wore on, Jeralt performed his duties mechanically, keeping one arm wrapped around Byleth who now rode on his hip rather than in the carrier on his back. The child remained more alert than usual, watching the festivities with increased interest, occasionally patting Jeralt's cheek as if to ensure he was paying attention to particularly interesting sights.
The rhythm—doom, doom, doom—continued throughout the day, an unobtrusive backdrop to the celebrations that only the most sensitive seemed consciously aware of. But Jeralt felt it, and he knew Byleth did too. It united them, synchronized their heartbeats, connected them to something larger than themselves.
By sunset, as the gathering began to disperse, Jeralt found himself lingering, reluctant to leave this place where his child had experienced joy for the first time. The various delegations were departing—Prince Rufus with his Kingdom knights, the Duscur representatives, the merchants and villagers returning to their homes and duties. Yet the sense of connection remained, an invisible thread binding them all together.
"Will you come back next year?" asked the Derdriu merchant who had hired them, appearing at Jeralt's side as he watched the sunset paint the meadow in hues of gold and amber.
Jeralt looked down at Byleth, now drowsy against his shoulder, the child's face peaceful in a way he had never seen before. "Yes," he said quietly. "I think we will."
The merchant smiled, reaching out to gently touch Byleth's hair. "Joy Boy sees the children first," he said cryptically. "Their hearts are still open, still free. Your child has been blessed today."
Before Jeralt could respond, the merchant moved away, joining a group heading toward Derdriu. Jeralt remained where he was, watching the last rays of sunlight fade from the meadow, feeling the rhythm—doom, doom, doom—gradually recede like a tide withdrawing from shore.
"Blessed," he murmured, looking down at his now-sleeping child. "Is that what happened to you today, kid? Were you blessed by this Joy Boy?"
Byleth stirred slightly in sleep, their small hand clutching the fabric of Jeralt's shirt more tightly. For a moment, Jeralt could have sworn he saw a flicker of golden light pass across his child's features, like a ray of sunlight finding its way through forest leaves. But it was gone too quickly to be certain, leaving only the peaceful face of his sleeping child.
As the stars began to appear in the darkening sky, Jeralt finally turned to leave, his mercenaries falling into formation around him. Whatever had happened today, whatever it meant for Byleth or for the future of Fódlan, one thing was certain: Jeralt had witnessed his child's first smile, heard their first laughter. And in a life marked by loss and uncertainty, that simple miracle was enough.
The rhythm of doom, doom, doom followed them as they left the meadow, gradually fading with distance but never quite disappearing—a reminder of connection, of possibility, of a joy that had awakened something in both father and child. Something that, Jeralt suspected, would change them both forever.
Chapter 7: The Spirits of Succession
Summary:
As Prince Kanoa of Brigid awaits the birth of his first child, he finds his homeland caught between powerful forces: the spreading influence of Joy Boy's message of liberation, the watchful eye of the Adrestian Empire, and the ancient spiritual traditions of his people. When his daughter Petra is born during a night of spiritual significance, Kanoa must navigate his responsibilities as father, prince, and protector of Brigid's sovereignty, all while an unexpected visitor brings a blessing—and perhaps a burden—that will shape his daughter's destiny.
Chapter Text
The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and flowering hibiscus through the open windows of the royal residence, gently stirring the woven tapestries that adorned the walls. Prince Kanoa of Brigid stood at the balcony, his hands gripping the carved wooden railing as he gazed out at the turquoise waters that surrounded his homeland. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, casting long golden fingers across the waves and bathing the collection of islands that made up the Brigid archipelago in warm, amber light.
Behind him, within the chambers he shared with his wife Nalani, midwives bustled about, preparing herbs and linens for what they all hoped would be an imminent birth. Twelve days now they had been waiting, twelve days since the moon had reached the position the elder midwife had predicted would herald the arrival of his firstborn. Twelve days of anticipation that had stretched Kanoa's nerves to their breaking point, though he struggled to maintain the composed demeanor expected of Brigid's crown prince.
"The child comes when the spirits will it," his father, King Makani, had told him just that morning, his weathered hand squeezing Kanoa's shoulder with surprising strength. "Your mother kept me waiting for fifteen days past when the midwives expected you. The strongest children test their parents' patience even before they draw their first breath."
Kanoa smiled faintly at the memory, though the gesture didn't reach his eyes. Patience had never been his particular virtue—that was more his younger brother Keahi's domain. Kanoa was a man of action, of decisive movements, of clear paths forward. This waiting, this helplessness in the face of nature's own timeline, was a trial unlike any he had faced in his thirty years.
"My prince," called a soft voice from the doorway to the balcony.
Kanoa turned to find Leilani, the youngest of the midwives, standing with her hands clasped before her. Unlike the elder midwives who wore the traditional garb of their station—woven flax skirts and tops dyed with the rich purple of sea urchin—Leilani still dressed as an apprentice in undyed natural fabrics, her status marked only by the single spiral tattoo that curved along her left cheekbone.
"Princess Nalani asks for you," she said, her eyes downcast in deference.
Kanoa's heart leapt. "Has it begun?"
"Not yet, my prince." Leilani shook her head. "But she is... restless. She believes your presence might bring her comfort."
With a nod, Kanoa followed the young woman back into the chambers, crossing the outer receiving room with its low tables and cushions arranged for visitors, past the smaller study where scrolls and correspondence lay in neat piles awaiting his attention, and into the inner sleeping quarters. Here, the windows had been partially closed, leaving only narrow gaps to allow fresh air while maintaining the warmth that the elder midwife, Kalea, insisted was necessary for a mother preparing to give birth.
Nalani lay on their bed, propped up on cushions of woven sea grass stuffed with the softest feathers from the tropical birds that made their homes in Brigid's forests. Her long black hair had been braided away from her face, revealing the constellation of small tattooed dots that marked her status as the daughter of Brigid's most respected shaman family. Despite the discomfort evident in the tightness around her eyes, she smiled when she saw him, extending one hand in welcome.
"I thought perhaps you had decided to swim to the outer islands to escape all this waiting," she teased as he took her hand and seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed.
"And miss the moment our child decides to grace us with their presence? Not for all the pearls in the southern sea." He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a beached whale," Nalani replied with a soft laugh that turned into a grimace as she shifted position. "And like this little one is practicing war dances against my ribs."
Kanoa placed his free hand gently on the swell of her belly, feeling the movement beneath. Strong and determined—a good sign, according to the midwives. "Perhaps they sense the tensions beyond our shores and prepare accordingly," he said, immediately regretting his words as anxiety flickered across Nalani's face.
"Is there news?" she asked, her voice dropping despite the fact that the midwives had discreetly withdrawn to the far side of the room, giving them the illusion of privacy.
Kanoa hesitated. He had sworn not to burden her with matters of state until after the birth, but Nalani had always been his closest advisor, her perspective shaped by both her family's spiritual insights and her own keen political instincts. And she had ways of knowing when he was withholding information.
"A messenger arrived from Adrestia this morning," he admitted, keeping his voice low. "The Emperor sends his 'warmest congratulations' on our impending blessed event, along with a gift." The emphasis he placed on 'warmest' spoke volumes about his skepticism regarding the Empire's sincerity.
"What manner of gift?" Nalani's dark eyes narrowed.
"A ceremonial sword. Supposedly an ancient Brigid blade that had somehow found its way to an Imperial collection." Kanoa's jaw tightened. "One that was 'liberated' during the last conflict, no doubt, and now returned as though it were an act of generosity rather than the grudging return of stolen heritage."
Nalani squeezed his hand in understanding. The history between Brigid and the Adrestian Empire was complex and often painful. While not officially subjugated to the likes of nearby Dagda, Brigid maintained its independence through a delicate balance of diplomacy, strategic trade agreements, and careful maintenance of its naval power. Yet the threat of Imperial ambition always loomed on the horizon, a storm perpetually threatening to break.
"And what message accompanied this 'gift'?" she asked.
"The usual diplomatic niceties, with one addition." Kanoa's expression darkened. "A rather pointed inquiry about the 'spiritual climate' of Brigid, particularly in relation to what they termed 'foreign influences.'"
"Joy Boy," Nalani whispered, her hand instinctively moving to touch the small pendant she wore—a simple carving of a smiling face with kind eyes, a symbol that had become increasingly common throughout Brigid over the past decade.
Kanoa nodded grimly. "The Church of Seiros grows more concerned by the day as his influence spreads. They press the Emperor, and the Emperor presses us."
"What did your father reply?"
"That Brigid has always welcomed all spiritual expressions that honor the land and respect the freedom of its people." A small smile tugged at Kanoa's lips. "He reminded the Imperial envoy that Brigid's traditions predate the Church by many generations, and that we have always found room in our hearts for divine messengers in whatever form they appear."
Nalani's soft laugh was genuine this time. "Diplomatic as always."
"He did not mention that the drums have been heard more frequently of late, or that there have been three reported sightings of Joy Boy on our islands in the past month alone." Kanoa's voice dropped even lower. "Nor did he share that your father conducted a blessing ceremony for the northwestern fishing village after they claimed Joy Boy appeared during a storm and guided their boats safely to harbor."
The implications hung in the air between them. The Church of Seiros viewed the spreading reverence for Joy Boy as a threat to their theological dominance and political influence. In territories directly under Imperial control, those who openly acknowledged the white-haired visitor were increasingly facing persecution—subtle at first, but growing more overt as the Church's anxiety increased. Brigid's independence protected its people from direct interference, but the pressure was mounting.
"And Dagda?" Nalani asked, referring to their other powerful neighbor.
"Still recovering from the last Imperial incursion. They send word of solidarity and shared concern about Church overreach, but they are in no position to offer meaningful support should matters deteriorate." Kanoa sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, loosening several strands from the half-tail that kept it away from his face. "For now, we maintain our stance: Brigid welcomes the spiritual awakening that Joy Boy represents while remaining respectful of all faiths, including the Church of Seiros."
Nalani nodded, her expression thoughtful. "A delicate balance."
"One I fear will not hold indefinitely." Kanoa gestured toward her pregnant belly. "I worry about the world our child is being born into. The tensions, the potential for conflict..."
"All the more reason they will need a father of strength and wisdom," Nalani said firmly, squeezing his hand. "And a mother who has taught them to listen to both the wisdom of the ancients and the whispers of new truths." She smiled, a sudden radiance that transformed her face despite her exhaustion. "Besides, perhaps this child is exactly what Brigid needs—a new generation to forge a path between tradition and change."
Before Kanoa could respond, Nalani's expression shifted, her eyes widening as she inhaled sharply. Her hand gripped his with sudden intensity.
"Nalani?"
"Call Kalea," she said, her voice tight. "I believe our waiting may finally be at an end."
Twelve hours.
Twelve hours of pacing the outer chamber, of hearing his wife's cries through the walls, of being alternatively encouraged and banished by the midwives as they worked their ancient arts to bring his child safely into the world. Twelve hours of prayers to the spirits of Brigid and, in moments of greatest fear, silent appeals to the golden-eyed visitor who had brought such hope to their islands.
When Kanoa was finally permitted to enter the birthing chamber, the first rays of dawn were just beginning to illuminate the eastern sky. The room smelled of herbs and salt water and the distinctive iron tang of blood. Nalani lay propped against pillows, her face drawn with exhaustion but illuminated by a joy so profound it made his breath catch in his throat. In her arms, wrapped in a blanket of the softest cotton dyed with the royal blue of Brigid's royal house, lay a tiny bundle.
"Come meet your daughter, my love," Nalani said, her voice rough from hours of labor but warm with invitation.
Daughter. The word echoed in Kanoa's mind as he approached on legs that suddenly felt unsteady. A girl. An heir to Brigid's throne, the first female firstborn in three generations.
With reverent hands, he accepted the bundle from Nalani, cradling it with the careful instruction of Kalea, who stood nearby watching with the satisfied expression of a midwife whose charges had come safely through the ordeal of birth. The blanket fell back slightly, revealing a tiny face with skin the warm brown of Brigid's people, a surprisingly thick thatch of dark purple hair, and eyes that, when they fluttered open briefly, showed hints of the same vibrant magenta that ran through generations of his family line.
"She has your eyes," he whispered, awestruck.
"And your determination," Nalani replied with a tired smile. "She refused to make her arrival easy for any of us."
Kanoa laughed softly, unable to tear his gaze from his daughter's face. She was so small, so perfect, with tiny fingers that curled reflexively around his own when he offered it to her. Yet there was strength in her grip, a vitality that seemed to pulse from her like the steady beat of a heart. His child. His firstborn. His legacy.
"What shall we name her?" Nalani asked, watching him with tender amusement as he swayed gently, an instinctive rocking motion to soothe the newborn.
Kanoa considered the question carefully. In Brigid, names were believed to shape destiny, to call forth certain qualities or protections for the child who bore them. Many families consulted shamans or waited for dreams that would reveal the name chosen by the spirits. He and Nalani had discussed several possibilities during her pregnancy, but had agreed to wait until they met their child before making a final decision.
Looking down at the tiny face that already showed signs of the strength and determination that would serve a future ruler well, Kanoa found the answer rising to his lips with certainty.
"Petra," he said softly. "Her name is Petra."
Nalani's eyes widened slightly in recognition. "The rock," she translated. "The foundation."
Kanoa nodded, feeling the rightness of it settle in his chest. "She will be my rock, our rock—steady and strong in whatever storms may come. And she will be Brigid's foundation as it navigates the changing tides of this new age."
He placed a gentle kiss on his daughter's forehead, whispering a traditional Brigid blessing for newborns. "May the spirits guide your steps, may the sea grant you its wisdom, may the earth lend you its strength, may the sky gift you its freedom."
As he spoke the last word—freedom—a curious sensation washed over the room, a shift in the air that felt almost tangible. Kanoa looked up sharply, his warrior's instincts suddenly alert despite the peaceful setting. The midwives continued their work, cleaning and organizing their implements, apparently unaffected. Nalani had closed her eyes, exhaustion finally claiming her as she drifted toward much-needed sleep.
Yet something had changed. Kanoa was certain of it. The quality of light seemed different, more golden despite the early hour. And there was a sound at the very edge of perception—not quite heard with the ears but felt in the bones and blood. A rhythmic pulsing that reminded him of...
Drums.
The realization sent a chill down his spine. The drums that heralded Joy Boy's presence, that had become the heartbeat of the spiritual awakening spreading across lands near and far. Doom, doom, doom. Not threatening, but insistent, a call to awareness, to awakening, to the recognition of something ancient stirring once more in the world.
Cradling Petra protectively closer to his chest, Kanoa turned slowly, scanning the room for any sign of the visitor whose presence the drums announced. The midwives continued their tasks, still seemingly oblivious to anything unusual. Nalani slept peacefully, her breathing deep and regular.
Then he saw him, standing in the corner of the room where the predawn shadows were deepest.
A young man—or the appearance of one—with hair as white as sea foam and eyes that gleamed like molten gold. He wore simple clothing, a white tunic and trousers that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. But it was his smile that captured and held Kanoa's attention—a smile of such genuine joy and benevolence that it seemed to physically warm the room.
Joy Boy. The Star-Child. The Liberator whose appearance had changed the spiritual landscape of nations.
Kanoa stood frozen, afraid to speak or move lest the apparition vanish. His arms tightened instinctively around Petra, not out of fear that Joy Boy would harm her, but from the overwhelming protective instinct of a new father in the presence of something vastly powerful and not entirely understood.
The visitor's smile deepened as if in appreciation of Kanoa's protective stance. With slow, deliberate movements, he stepped forward, emerging fully from the shadows. There was a strange quality to his presence—he seemed simultaneously solid and insubstantial, as though he existed partially in another dimension and was only temporarily anchored to the physical world.
Still, none of the midwives reacted to his presence. Could they not see him? Was this visitation meant for Kanoa alone?
Joy Boy approached with unhurried grace, his golden eyes fixed not on Kanoa but on the bundle in his arms. When he stood just an arm's length away, he paused, his head tilting slightly in what seemed like a request for permission.
Kanoa hesitated only briefly before inclining his head in acknowledgment. Whatever this being's nature—divine messenger, celestial protector, or something beyond human categorization—Kanoa sensed no malice in his presence. Only curiosity, warmth, and something that felt almost like anticipation.
With movements so fluid they seemed to blur at the edges, Joy Boy leaned forward to gaze upon the newborn princess of Brigid. His expression as he beheld Petra was one of such profound tenderness that Kanoa felt his own eyes grow unexpectedly moist. It was the look of someone greeting not a stranger but a beloved friend after a long separation.
To Kanoa's amazement, Petra—who had been sleeping peacefully since being placed in his arms—opened her eyes. Rather than crying at the unfamiliar face above her, she gazed up at Joy Boy with an unwavering focus that seemed impossible for a newborn. Her tiny lips curved in what could only be described as a smile of recognition.
Joy Boy's silent laughter was like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, a physical sensation of warmth and light that filled the room. He extended one finger toward Petra, who reached up with her tiny hand and grasped it with surprising strength. For a moment, they remained connected—the ancient, mysterious being and the newborn princess—linked by that simple touch, while the drums that only Kanoa seemed to hear grew stronger, more insistent.
Then, with gentle care, Joy Boy disentangled his finger from Petra's grip. He straightened and turned his golden gaze to Kanoa, regarding him with an expression that seemed to contain both approval and something more complex—perhaps a kind of anticipatory sorrow, as though he foresaw both joy and trials in the path that lay ahead for father and daughter.
Without warning, Joy Boy reached out and placed his palm against Kanoa's heart. The touch was warm, substantial despite the visitor's otherworldly appearance, and it sent a jolt of energy through Kanoa's body that felt like diving into the sea after too long beneath the sun—shocking yet invigorating, dangerous yet necessary.
A voice, not heard with his ears but resonating directly in his mind, spoke a single phrase: "Protect her freedom."
Before Kanoa could respond, Joy Boy stepped back, his golden eyes holding his for one final moment of connection. The smile never left his face as his form began to dissolve, breaking apart into motes of light that scattered through the room like seafoam on the wind before fading entirely.
The drums faded with him, leaving behind a silence that felt both emptier and somehow more significant than before. Kanoa stood motionless, his heart racing, his mind struggling to process what had just occurred. Had it been real? A vision brought on by exhaustion and the emotional intensity of his daughter's birth? A visitation from the spirits that his people had revered for generations?
"My prince?"
Kalea's voice broke through his reverie. The elderly midwife was looking at him with concern, her head tilted questioningly. "Is everything well with the princess?"
Kanoa looked down at Petra, who had closed her eyes once more and was sleeping peacefully against his chest, her tiny face serene. "Yes," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "She is perfect."
Kalea nodded, apparently satisfied, and returned to her tasks. Kanoa moved to the window, gazing out at the dawn breaking over Brigid's eastern shores. The sun had risen fully now, bathing the archipelago in the golden light of a new day. In the harbor below, fishing boats were setting out for their morning catch, their sails billowing in the favorable wind. From the temple complex near the palace, the smoke of morning offerings rose in thin spirals, carrying prayers and gratitude to the spirits that had watched over Brigid since time immemorial.
It all looked so ordinary, so unchanged—and yet Kanoa knew that everything was different now. Not just because he had become a father, though that transformation was profound enough. But because in the golden eyes of a divine visitor, he had glimpsed something of his daughter's destiny, something that both awed and terrified him.
Protect her freedom. The words echoed in his mind, a command and a blessing and perhaps a warning all at once.
What role would Petra play in the changing spiritual and political landscape? What challenges would she face as heir to Brigid's throne in a world where ancient powers and new awakenings collided? And how could he, a mortal man with only the wisdom of his ancestors and his own limited experience to guide him, adequately prepare her for whatever fate awaited?
Petra stirred in his arms, making the small snuffling sounds of a newborn dreamer. Kanoa looked down at her, at the tiny face that already held hints of the strength and determination she would need, and felt a surge of fierce love and protectiveness that transcended his fears.
"Whatever comes," he whispered, echoing the promise that another parent had made to another child blessed by the same visitor, in a land far from Brigid's shores, "know that you are loved—by us, and apparently, by forces beyond our understanding. You are part of something greater, little one. Something we may not fully comprehend, but something that holds the promise of a better world."
As if in response, Petra's eyes fluttered open once more, gazing up at him with a trust that both humbled and strengthened him. In that moment, Kanoa knew with unshakable certainty that whatever trials lay ahead—political pressures from Adrestia, theological tensions with the Church of Seiros, the uncertain path of a spiritual awakening that promised liberation yet invited conflict—he would face them all with the courage and determination worthy of Petra's father.
For she was his rock now, his foundation, his reason to build a world where freedom was not merely protected but celebrated. A world worthy of the blessing that had been bestowed upon her by a smiling visitor with eyes like the sun.
Outside, the first birds of morning began their songs, their melodies weaving together in complex harmonies that seemed, to Kanoa's sensitized ears, to contain an echo of drums—the heartbeat of liberation that had spread from Duscur to Brigid and beyond, changing everything it touched with the simple, revolutionary promise of freedom.
Doom, doom, doom. The sound of change, of possibility, of a future waiting to be born—just as his daughter had been born in this dawn of a new day for Brigid and for the world.
Chapter 8: The First Prince's Liberation
Summary:
In which Rufus Blaiddyd, First Prince of Faerghus, recounts his journey from skepticism to belief in Joy Boy's message of liberation. As political tensions rise between the Church of Seiros and the growing Joyist movement, Rufus finds himself drawn ever deeper into a new understanding of freedom. A chance encounter with Joy Boy himself during a plague that threatens the kingdom forces Rufus to confront what liberation truly means for himself, his family, and Faerghus itself.
Chapter Text
The falling star had been beautiful, Rufus would admit that much. At sixteen, he'd stood on the balcony of Fhirdiad Castle watching the golden streak split the night sky, illuminating the capital city as though it were daybreak rather than midnight. Beautiful, yes, but ultimately just celestial debris burning through the atmosphere—nothing more.
"Brother! Brother, did you see it?" Lambert had burst onto the balcony, nightclothes billowing behind him, blue eyes wide with childish wonder. At twelve, the younger prince still believed in fairy tales and legends, much to their father's dismay. "They say a star has fallen to Fódlan! Like the Goddess herself!"
Rufus had rolled his eyes, leaning against the stone balustrade with practiced nonchalance. "And who, exactly, is 'they,' Lambert? The kitchen maids? The stable boys?" He'd adopted the tone their father used when addressing commoners who overstepped their bounds—dismissive, lightly mocking.
Lambert's enthusiasm had dimmed but not extinguished. "The knights are talking about it. They say the impact was felt as far as Duscur and Sreng!" He'd moved to stand beside Rufus, short enough still that he had to stretch to see over the stone railing. "Don't you think it could be a sign from the Goddess?"
"I think," Rufus had replied, flicking his younger brother's forehead with casual cruelty, "that you should spend less time listening to the superstitious prattle of soldiers and more time preparing to be a proper prince. The Goddess doesn't send signs anymore, Lambert. She hasn't for a thousand years."
The words had been their father's, regurgitated through Rufus's mouth with the unquestioning confidence of adolescence. King Klaus Blaiddyd was a practical ruler, devoted to the Church of Seiros in the formal, perfunctory way of Faerghan nobility—attending services, observing holy days, paying the appropriate respects to visiting clergy. But he had no patience for what he termed "mystical nonsense" and even less for his younger son's fascination with it.
Lambert's face had fallen, but only momentarily. His optimism was as resilient as it was infuriating. "Maybe it's something new," he'd persisted. "Something the Goddess never did before."
"Go to bed, Lambert," Rufus had sighed, already bored with the conversation. "Before Father hears you spouting this nonsense and has the tutors double your theological studies."
The threat had worked. Lambert had retreated, casting one last longing glance at the now-ordinary night sky before disappearing back into the castle corridors. Rufus had remained on the balcony, telling himself he was enjoying the solitude rather than searching the darkness for any lingering trace of golden light.
In the days that followed, rumors had spread through Fhirdiad like wildfire. A young man rising from the crater. Eyes of molten gold. A smile that melted fear and kindled hope. Healing miracles. Prophecies fulfilled. Rufus had dismissed them all with the practiced disdain expected of the First Prince. When Lambert burst into his chambers, face alight with each new tale, Rufus had teased him mercilessly.
"Joy Boy?" he'd scoffed over breakfast as Lambert recounted the latest story. "What kind of name is that for a divine messenger? Did the Goddess run out of proper saints' names?"
Lambert had flushed, pushing his porridge around his bowl. "That's what the people are calling him. Because he brings joy wherever he goes."
"And have you seen this 'Joy Boy,' little brother? Has he visited Fhirdiad to bestow his miraculous joy upon us?" Rufus had gestured grandly with his spoon, mockingly imitating the priests during holy ceremonies.
"Not yet," Lambert had admitted. "But people say—"
"People say, people say," their father had interrupted, entering the dining hall in time to hear Lambert's enthusiastic recounting. King Klaus was an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered like all Blaiddyd men, his beard streaked with premature silver that matched his cold eyes. "I've heard enough of what 'people say' about this star-fallen youth. The Archbishop has issued no statement recognizing this phenomenon as divine, and until she does, I'll have no more talk of it at my table. Is that understood?"
Lambert had nodded, eyes downcast. "Yes, Father."
"Yes, Father," Rufus had echoed, smirking at Lambert when their father's attention turned elsewhere. The younger prince had stuck out his tongue in a rare display of childish defiance before returning to his breakfast in silence.
That, Rufus had assumed, would be the end of it. A momentary distraction, a week's worth of gossip that would fade as all sensational stories eventually did. The common folk might cling to such tales, might need the comfort of believing that some golden-eyed savior watched over them, but the nobility knew better. They understood the real forces that shaped the world: power, Crests, gold, and steel.
But the stories hadn't faded. They'd grown, spreading beyond Faerghus to the Alliance and Empire territories, even crossing borders to Brigid, Duscur, and Almyra. Each moon brought new accounts: a corrupt baron who suddenly opened his granaries to the hungry, a notorious bandit leader who laid down his weapons and made restitution to his victims, merchants who canceled debts, nobles who freed slaves imported illegally from Dagda.
Most disturbing to Rufus had been the consistency of the descriptions. If it were merely peasant superstition, surely the tales would have diverged, with each region adapting the appearance and actions of this "Joy Boy" to their own cultural expectations. Instead, whether the account came from frozen Faerghus or sun-drenched Brigid, the figure was always the same: white-haired, golden-eyed, dressed in flowing white, with a smile that seemed to see through all deception.
"He's real," Lambert had insisted during one of their increasingly frequent arguments on the subject. He was fourteen by then, still small for his age but beginning to show hints of the man he would become in the set of his jaw, the straightening of his spine when challenged. "Too many people have seen him for it to be a coincidence or a hoax."
"Mass hysteria is well-documented," Rufus had countered, lounging in the window seat of the castle library where they'd taken refuge from the bitter Faerghan winter. At eighteen, he'd begun attending Council meetings with their father, learning firsthand the complexities of governing the Holy Kingdom. "People see what they want to see, believe what they want to believe. It's the same principle that allows street charlatans to convince grieving widows they're speaking with departed husbands."
"These aren't grieving widows or gullible peasants," Lambert had argued, his voice rising with frustration. "Knights of the realm have reported encounters. Lords with impeccable reputations. Even Duke Riegan of the Alliance claims to have seen him!"
"Claims being the operative word." Rufus had turned a page in the political treatise he was pretending to read, though in truth, these debates with Lambert had become the most intellectually stimulating part of his days. "Perhaps the Duke found it politically expedient to align himself with this growing movement. The Alliance has always been pragmatic about such matters."
Lambert had slammed his own book shut, drawing a sharp look from the elderly librarian. "Why are you so determined not to believe?" he'd demanded in a fierce whisper. "What are you afraid of?"
The question had struck closer to home than Rufus cared to admit. He wasn't afraid, he'd told himself. He was rational. Practical. Like their father. Like a future king should be.
"Get your head out of the clouds, Lambert," he'd said instead. "The real world doesn't work like the legends—there are no magical saviors, no divine interventions. There's only power and those wise enough to use it properly."
Lambert had stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes sorrowful in a way that made Rufus distinctly uncomfortable. "I feel sorry for you," he'd said finally. "It must be terrible to live in a world where nothing miraculous is possible."
He'd left then, leaving Rufus alone with his treatise and the strange, hollow feeling in his chest that always followed these conversations. It wasn't fear, he'd insisted to himself. It was simply the rational response to irrational claims. Nothing more.
Yet despite his dismissals, Rufus found himself paying closer attention to the growing movement around this Joy Boy figure. It wasn't belief—it was political prudence, he justified. A prince should be aware of all forces potentially affecting his kingdom.
And there was no denying that this movement was becoming a force. Symbols began appearing throughout Faerghus: stylized suns carved into doorframes, white ribbons tied around wrists or braided into hair, the open-palm greeting that people used to identify fellow believers. These "Joyists," as they came to be called (though many preferred "Sunlight Children"), were not organized in any formal sense. They had no clergy, no hierarchy, no official doctrine beyond a shared belief in Joy Boy's message of liberation and the equality of all people.
It was this last part that most concerned the nobility, including King Klaus. Equality was a dangerous concept in a society built on strict hierarchies, on the divine right of those with Crests to rule over those without. When a group of Joyists began teaching commoner children to read in a village near Fhirdiad—a skill traditionally reserved for nobles and merchants—the local lord had them arrested for sedition.
The next morning, the lord had released them without explanation, opened his private library to the village, and announced the establishment of a school open to all children regardless of birth. When questioned by the Royal Council, he had only said, "I have seen the sun's judgment, and I choose to walk in its light while I still can."
It was the same phrase, Rufus noted with unwilling fascination, that Baron Kleiman had reportedly used years earlier after his own unexplained change of heart. The exact same words, as if reciting from a script neither man had seen but somehow knew by heart.
By the time Lambert took the throne at twenty—unexpectedly early following their father's death from a wintertime fever—Joyism had evolved from scattered stories to a genuine spiritual movement with adherents throughout Fódlan and beyond. No longer confined to the common folk, it had begun to attract nobles, scholars, even members of the Church itself who saw in Joy Boy's teachings an expression of the Goddess's true will rather than a challenge to established doctrine.
Lambert, to no one's surprise, was sympathetic to the movement, though careful not to express outright support that might antagonize the Church. His coronation speech had included veiled references to "a new dawn for Faerghus" and "breaking the chains of old hatreds" that had the Archbishop's representative shifting uncomfortably in her seat while Joyists in the crowd exchanged knowing smiles.
Rufus, now twenty-four and officially Duke of Itha following his father's death, had maintained his skepticism despite the movement's growth. He attended Council meetings, managed his duchy's affairs, and increasingly found himself serving as a voice of caution in his brother's ear as Lambert pursued reforms that strained relations with conservative nobles and the Church alike.
"You're moving too quickly," he'd warned Lambert after a particularly contentious Council session where the young king had proposed reducing taxes on trade with Duscur and Sreng. "These changes may be well-intentioned, but you're alienating allies we cannot afford to lose."
Lambert, regal despite his youth in the formal attire of the Faerghan court, had smiled with the easy confidence that Rufus both envied and resented. "The future doesn't belong to those who cling to the past, brother. Faerghus must evolve or be left behind."
"And does this evolution involve embracing the cult of a mythical figure no reputable witness has ever confirmed seeing?" Rufus had shot back, his frustration breaking through his usual composure.
Lambert's smile had faltered briefly. "This isn't about Joy Boy, Rufus. It's about recognizing that our current systems hurt more than they help. That our people deserve better than freezing through winter because we're too proud to trade fairly with our neighbors."
"Spare me the speech," Rufus had sighed, suddenly tired. "You've always been an idealist. Father warned you it would make you a poor king."
"Father was wrong about many things," Lambert had replied softly. "Perhaps this was one of them."
The conversation had ended there, as a servant announced the arrival of Lambert's new wife—a noblewoman from a minor branch of House Galatea, chosen for her kind nature rather than political advantage, another break with tradition that had the conservative faction grumbling. Rufus had watched his brother's face transform with love as Niamh entered the room, and felt a strange emptiness inside himself that he refused to acknowledge as loneliness.
Love, faith, hope—these were Lambert's provinces, not his. Rufus was the practical one, the rational one. The one who saw the world as it was, not as he wished it to be. It was a role he had embraced since childhood, a fortress built of skepticism and pragmatism that had served him well.
Until the gathering in the meadow.
Rufus still wasn't entirely sure why he had decided to attend. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe, though he would never admit it aloud, a small, persistent kernel of doubt in his own disbelief that had been growing over the years despite his best efforts to suppress it.
The invitation had come discreetly, passed to him by his valet who had connections among the Joyists in Fhirdiad. A celebration of freedom, they called it. A gathering of all who walked in the sun's light, regardless of nation, rank, or birth. To be held in a meadow at the border of Blaiddyd and Galatea territories, far enough from major settlements to avoid unwanted attention but accessible to those traveling from neighboring lands.
"I'll need an inconspicuous escort," he'd told his captain of guards, a gruff veteran named Gregor who had served House Blaiddyd since before Rufus was born. "No formal regalia, no banners. We travel as private citizens, not representatives of the Crown."
Gregor had raised bushy eyebrows but asked no questions beyond practical matters of route and provisions. The old soldier had long since learned that the First Prince valued discretion above all else.
And so Rufus had found himself riding toward the gathering with a small contingent of Kingdom knights dressed as ordinary travelers, their weapons concealed beneath plain cloaks, their trained alertness the only hint of their true profession. He had told Lambert nothing of his plans, unwilling to endure his brother's knowing smile or eager questions.
It was pride, he recognized distantly. Pride that had kept him clinging to skepticism long after doubt had begun to creep in. Pride that made him approach the gathering with affected nonchalance, as if he were merely observing an interesting sociological phenomenon rather than seeking... something he couldn't name.
The meadow had been larger than he expected, ringed by ancient oaks whose new spring leaves created a natural boundary between the sacred and the mundane. Even from a distance, Rufus could see that the gathering was substantial—hundreds of people already present with more arriving by the minute, their colorful clothing creating a living mosaic against the green expanse.
"Stay alert," he'd instructed his men as they approached the northern entrance to the meadow. "We're here to observe, not interfere. Unless there's clear danger to innocent lives, we take no action."
What had struck him first upon entering the gathering was the sound—a harmonious cacophony of conversations, laughter, singing, and music that somehow blended into something greater than its parts. Unlike the strained politeness of court functions or the forced revelry of noble celebrations, there was an authenticity to the joy here that caught him off guard.
The second thing he'd noticed was the diversity. People from all walks of life mingled freely—nobles conversing with farmers, merchants sharing food with laborers, children playing games without regard for social distinctions that would normally keep them separated. Most surprising were the non-Fódlan participants: a group from Duscur with their distinctive scarification and jewelry, Almyran traders in their vibrant silks, even a few individuals with the facial tattoos of Brigid shamans.
"Your Highness," Gregor had murmured by his side, using his formal title despite their disguise, "those are Duscur clan leaders. The tall one is Molinaro of the Smith Clan. His work is prized throughout Faerghus."
"I'm aware," Rufus had replied, watching as the Duscur delegation was welcomed with open palms and genuine smiles. No suspicion, no barely concealed disdain as would be common in most Faerghan gatherings. "Interesting that they would risk traveling so far from their territory for a religious celebration not their own."
"Perhaps it is their own, in a way," Gregor had suggested, surprising Rufus with the insight. The captain nodded toward the sun symbols many in the crowd displayed—pinned to collars, painted on skin, woven into clothing. "The sun is sacred in Duscur as well. Different name, same light."
Rufus had given his captain a sharp look, wondering if the old soldier had been harboring Joyist sympathies all this time. But there was no time to pursue the question as the crowd's attention shifted to a new arrival from the eastern path.
A collective murmur of recognition rippled through the gathering as a large man with distinctive scarring on his arms entered the meadow, accompanied by a woman carrying an infant and several older children. Rufus recognized him immediately from Lambert's diplomatic initiatives—the master blacksmith of Duscur's most respected clan, a man whose skill with metal was legendary throughout the northern territories.
What happened next defied all of Rufus's expectations. The Duscur blacksmith approached a group of Kingdom nobles, and instead of the awkward formality that typically characterized such cross-cultural interactions, they greeted each other with easy familiarity. Open palms were raised, genuine smiles exchanged, and within moments they were deep in conversation, the blacksmith's deep laugh booming across the meadow.
"This is... unusual," Rufus murmured, more to himself than to Gregor.
"Indeed, Your Highness," the captain agreed. "I've never seen Faerghan nobles and Duscur clan leaders interact so... comfortably."
Rufus moved deeper into the gathering, nodding politely when recognized but making no effort to engage beyond basic courtesy. He was here to observe, to understand this phenomenon that had captivated his brother and increasingly large portions of the population. To determine whether it represented a threat to the kingdom or merely a passing fancy that would eventually fade.
As midday approached, the atmosphere in the meadow shifted subtly. Conversations quieted, music faded, and a strange tension filled the air—not of fear or apprehension, but of anticipation. People began to turn their faces skyward, expressions transformed with expectation and hope.
And beneath it all, Rufus became aware of a sound he hadn't consciously registered before. A rhythmic pulsing, like a heartbeat, that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Doom, doom, doom. Not loud, but pervasive, as if emanating from the earth itself.
He glanced at Gregor, who showed no reaction to the sound. "Do you hear that?" Rufus asked, keeping his voice low.
The captain looked puzzled. "Hear what, Your Highness?"
"That rhythm. Like a drumbeat or a... heartbeat." Even as he said it, Rufus felt foolish. Clearly he was allowing the atmosphere to affect his perceptions, conjuring sounds that weren't really there.
But before Gregor could respond, the sunlight changed. It didn't brighten exactly, but rather... transformed. The quality of the light shifted, becoming more golden, more liquid somehow, as if the sunlight itself had been distilled into something purer and more potent.
Around him, people gasped, some falling to their knees, others raising open palms toward the sky. Faces lifted upward were transformed with expressions of such pure joy that Rufus felt like an intruder witnessing something deeply personal.
He looked up, expecting to see some natural phenomenon—an unusual cloud formation, perhaps, or some trick of light filtering through the trees. Instead, the sky appeared normal, the spring sun shining in a clear blue expanse. Yet the light bathing the meadow was unmistakably different, almost tangible in its golden radiance.
And that rhythm—doom, doom, doom—had intensified, no longer a subtle background pulse but a presence that seemed to resonate within his own chest, synchronizing with his heartbeat until he could no longer distinguish between them.
What happened next, Rufus would struggle for years to describe in terms that didn't sound like the very mystical nonsense he had so long derided. There was no physical manifestation, no white-haired youth materializing in their midst as the tales often claimed. Instead, there was a... presence. A sense of being seen—not physically, but in some deeper, more essential way that laid bare every thought, every motivation, every secret self-deception.
For Rufus, who had built his identity on rationality and control, the experience was profoundly unsettling. He felt stripped of all pretense, all the careful barriers he had constructed between his public self and his private doubts. And in that moment of vulnerability, he understood something that cut through years of cultivated skepticism: the presence was real. Whatever name people gave it—Joy Boy, Nika, the Sun God—it existed beyond their beliefs or disbeliefs, beyond the stories told about it, beyond even the Church's attempts to categorize or contain it.
The revelation didn't come as a dramatic epiphany but as a quiet certainty, like recognizing a truth that had always been present but never acknowledged. And with that recognition came not the ecstatic joy visible on the faces around him, but a more complex emotion—a mixture of humility, relief, and a strange kind of freedom that came from releasing a burden he hadn't known he was carrying.
When the golden light gradually faded and the gathering resumed its earlier festivity—though with a heightened energy, as if everyone had been refreshed by the experience—Rufus found himself changed in ways he couldn't immediately articulate. Not converted, exactly. He still harbored questions, still approached the phenomenon with analytical caution. But the absolute certainty of his disbelief had been irrevocably shaken.
That had been two years ago. Two years of quiet observation, of careful study, of gradual involvement in the movement that had once been the target of his derision. Not openly—he remained First Prince of Faerghus, with responsibilities to the Crown and appearances to maintain. But in small ways, he had begun to align himself with Joyist principles: advocating for educational reforms in his duchy, reducing punitive taxes on Duscur imports, intervening on behalf of commoners who brought legitimate grievances against nobles.
Lambert had noticed, of course. His brother missed little, especially changes in those closest to him. But to Rufus's surprise, Lambert had asked no questions, made no triumphant declarations about being right all along. He had simply included Rufus more fully in his reform initiatives, seeking his counsel on matters where Joyist principles intersected with Kingdom traditions.
It had been a strangely gentle awakening, this shift in Rufus's worldview. No dramatic conversion, no public declaration of faith. Just a gradual recognition that the world was larger, more complex, more filled with possibility than his rational mind had previously allowed.
Then came the child.
It happened at the spring festival in Fhirdiad, a celebration ostensibly honoring the planting season but which had, like many traditional observances, begun incorporating elements of Joyist symbolism. Rufus had been observing the festivities from a modest pavilion, deliberately positioned away from the main royal viewing area where Lambert and his pregnant wife received the formal salutations of the nobility.
A small boy, no more than four years old, had approached the pavilion, slipping past the guards with the casual confidence of childhood. Rufus had assumed the child was lost, separated from parents in the crowd, and had signaled to his attendants to stand down as the boy climbed the steps to the platform.
But the child hadn't been lost at all. He'd come directly to Rufus, offering a small pastry shaped like the sun that he produced from a pocket.
"For you," the boy had said, holding out the slightly crushed sweet with solemn ceremony.
Rufus had accepted it with equal gravity, thanking the child as protocol demanded even for such a humble gift. He'd expected the boy to run off then, mission accomplished. Instead, the child had fixed him with a remarkably direct gaze and spoken words that Rufus would remember for the rest of his life:
"The secret to happiness is freedom, and the secret to freedom is courage. Thank you for having courage."
Before Rufus could respond, the boy's mother had appeared at the pavilion steps, apologizing profusely for her son's intrusion. Rufus had assured her no offense was taken, watching as she led the child away, his small hand waving goodbye over his shoulder.
Courage. The word had echoed in Rufus's mind long after the festival ended. Had it taken courage to question his long-held skepticism? To acknowledge that perhaps, just perhaps, there were forces in the world that transcended rational explanation? Or was the true courage yet to come—the courage to live according to that new understanding, regardless of political consequence?
The question had lingered, unanswered but persistent, as the seasons changed and Lambert's son was born—a healthy boy with Blaiddyd blue eyes and a shock of blond hair who was named Dimitri Alexandre. Rufus had been named godfather, a role he accepted with unexpected emotion, swearing traditional oaths to protect and guide the child should anything happen to his parents.
Now, two years later, that promise had taken on new urgency as a virulent plague swept through the western regions of Faerghus, claiming lives indiscriminately across all social strata. The royal physicians had advised isolating the young prince from potential carriers, including his own parents who were required to meet regularly with Council members and petitioners from affected areas.
That was how Rufus found himself sitting at Dimitri's bedside on a stormy spring evening, serving as both guardian and storyteller while the rest of the castle bustled with crisis management. The two-year-old prince had been restless, unable to understand why his parents no longer tucked him in at night, why strangers in white robes examined him daily with gloved hands and masked faces.
"Another story, Uncle Rufus," Dimitri pleaded, his small face earnest in the candlelight. Despite the late hour, the child showed no signs of sleepiness, his blue eyes bright with the Blaiddyd energy that seemed inexhaustible at his age.
Rufus sighed, settling more comfortably in the chair beside the bed. "Very well, one more. What would you like to hear?"
"The one about Joy Boy and the fisher girl," Dimitri requested immediately. It was his current favorite, a tale about a Brigid child whose special connection to the sea had brought her people through a famine.
"Again?" Rufus raised an eyebrow, but he was already launching into the familiar narrative. "In the islands of Brigid, where the sea provides all that the people need, there lived a girl named Lalita who could speak with the fish..."
The story unfolded as it always did—the drought that drove the fish to deeper waters, the village's growing hunger, the girl's brave journey far from shore guided by Joy Boy's golden light. Dimitri listened with rapt attention, gasping at the dramatic moments and smiling at the resolution, though he'd heard it many times before.
"And the fish returned to Brigid's shores," Rufus concluded, "not because of magic or miracles, but because Lalita had the courage to look beyond the boundaries her people had always observed, to find new fishing grounds where life flourished. Joy Boy didn't give her a solution—he gave her the freedom to find her own."
"And everyone was happy," Dimitri added sleepily, the story finally having achieved its purpose.
"Yes," Rufus agreed, smoothing the blanket over his nephew's small form. "Everyone was happy."
He rose to extinguish the candle, thinking the child was finally drifting off to sleep, when Dimitri's voice came again, surprisingly clear.
"Uncle Rufus?"
"Yes, Dimitri?"
"What is freedom?"
The question caught Rufus off guard, not because it was profound from a two-year-old's lips—children often parroted concepts they heard in stories without understanding their meaning—but because it echoed the question he had been asking himself for years. What was freedom, really? Not in the political sense of governance systems or legal rights, but in the deeper sense that Joy Boy's followers spoke of—liberation of the heart and mind and soul.
He sat back down, considering how to answer in terms a child might grasp. "Freedom is..." he began, then paused, realizing that platitudes would not satisfy either of them. Instead, he reached for the truth he had gradually come to understand through his own journey.
"Freedom is the gift of life, Dimitri. It sounds simple, but it's actually enormous when you really think about it."
The prince's small brow furrowed with concentration. "Gift of life?"
"Yes. You see, some people don't get to truly live because others tell them they're less valuable, less worthy because of where they were born, or what they look like, or whether they have a Crest." Rufus chose his words carefully, aware of the delicacy of discussing such concepts with the heir to a kingdom founded on Crest-based hierarchy. "But being alive isn't a crime, and it isn't a sin. It's a gift. A gift that everyone deserves to enjoy fully."
Dimitri seemed to consider this, his young face surprisingly solemn in the candlelight. "Like how the Duscur people can't come to Fhirdiad sometimes? Mama says it's not fair."
Rufus blinked, startled by the child's perceptiveness. "Yes, exactly like that. Your mother is right—it isn't fair. People from Duscur deserve to live freely just as we do."
"And that's why you go to the Joyist gatherings? To help people be free?"
Another surprising question. Rufus hadn't realized Dimitri was aware of his attendance at such events. "I suppose so," he admitted. "I'm still learning what freedom means to me, but I know I want to fight for everyone's right to live without fear or oppression."
Dimitri nodded sagely, as if this confirmed something he had already concluded. "I think..." he yawned widely, finally succumbing to sleepiness, "I think that's good, Uncle Rufus."
Within moments, the prince was asleep, his breathing deep and regular, small hands clutching the stuffed lion that was his constant companion. Rufus remained seated beside the bed, watching his nephew's peaceful face and reflecting on their conversation.
When he finally rose to leave, extinguishing the bedside candle and moving quietly toward the door, the room should have been plunged into darkness. Instead, a soft golden glow filled the chamber, emanating from no discernible source.
Rufus froze, his hand on the doorknob, heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Slowly, he turned back toward the center of the room.
A figure stood beside Dimitri's bed, watching the sleeping child with an expression of infinite tenderness. Dressed in flowing white garments that seemed to capture and reflect the golden light surrounding him, the young man had hair as white as freshly fallen snow and skin like pale ivory. When he looked up at Rufus, his eyes were exactly as described in countless stories—the color of sunlight filtered through honey, radiant with a warmth that seemed to reach directly into the heart.
Joy Boy.
There was no mistaking him. No possibility of confusion or misidentification. The presence Rufus had felt at the meadow gathering two years ago was now condensed into physical form, standing not ten paces away with a gentle smile that somehow conveyed both amusement and compassion.
Rufus found himself unable to move or speak. All his careful rationality, his political caution, his lingering skepticism—all fell away in the face of this impossible reality. His mind raced with questions: Why here? Why now? Was Dimitri in danger from the plague? Was this a blessing or a warning?
As if reading his thoughts—and perhaps he was—Joy Boy shook his head slightly, his smile deepening. He gestured toward the sleeping prince with a reassuring motion, then turned his golden gaze fully on Rufus.
The experience was unlike anything Rufus had ever known. Those eyes seemed to see through every layer of pretense, every mask he had worn throughout his life, every doubt and fear and hidden longing. But there was no judgment in that gaze, only a profound acceptance that brought unexpected tears to Rufus's eyes.
Joy Boy moved then, stepping away from Dimitri's bed and approaching Rufus with smooth grace. The First Prince stood transfixed, unable even to bow or kneel as protocol would demand before a divine messenger. Instead, he simply watched, breath caught in his throat, as Joy Boy stopped before him.
A hand reached out—not to touch Rufus, but to trace symbols in the air between them. Golden light lingered where his finger passed, forming words in an ancient script that Rufus somehow understood despite never having studied it:
"You have found your freedom. I am grateful."
Joy Boy's smile widened, radiating such pure joy that Rufus felt his own lips curving in response. Then, impossibly gentle, the white-haired youth reached out and placed a hand atop Rufus's head in a gesture that was at once blessing and acknowledgment.
In that moment of contact, Rufus felt a surge of... something. Not power exactly, but potential. As if channels long blocked within him had suddenly been cleared, allowing emotions and insights to flow freely. The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying—a liberation that demanded response.
And then Joy Boy was gone. Not with a dramatic flash or fanfare, but simply stepping back into the golden light that had accompanied him, fading from view until only ordinary darkness remained, broken only by the soft silver of moonlight filtering through the chamber windows.
Rufus stood motionless, his hand still on the doorknob, mind struggling to process what had just occurred. The rational part of him—the skeptic, the pragmatist—searched for explanations: exhaustion, imagination, perhaps even the early symptoms of the plague affecting his perception. But his heart knew better.
Slowly, he released the doorknob and moved back to Dimitri's bedside. The prince slept peacefully, his small chest rising and falling with each breath, untroubled by divine visitations or the weight of kingdoms. Rufus reached out, gently brushing a strand of blond hair from the child's forehead, and felt a surge of protectiveness so fierce it nearly took his breath away.
"I will make this world better for you," he whispered, a promise to the sleeping child and to himself. "A world where freedom isn't just a word in stories, but a living truth."
He sank back into the chair beside the bed, no longer concerned with returning to his own chambers or the reports awaiting his attention. The night stretched before him, filled with possibilities he had never before allowed himself to consider.
What would it mean, truly, to embrace the liberation Joy Boy offered? Not just in private sympathy or cautious political maneuvering, but in bold action? What would it cost him—and what might it gain for Faerghus, for Fódlan, for little Dimitri sleeping innocently beside him?
Rufus didn’t know, but he was willing to try.
Chapter 9: The Sky-Splitter's Smile
Summary:
In which a young Holst Goneril encounters the legendary Joy Boy, and a memory becomes a cherished secret.
Chapter Text
The morning sun cast long shadows across the training yard of House Goneril's estate, turning the worn cobblestones into a patchwork of light and darkness. Five-year-old Holst Goneril stood alone in that interplay of illumination and shadow, his wooden training sword gripped tightly in sweaty hands. His pink hair, a shade lighter than it would be in adulthood, stuck to his forehead in damp curls. Despite the early hour, he had been practicing for nearly two hours already—an impressive feat for a child his age.
"Again," he whispered to himself, his voice carrying the determined gravity that had already begun to mark him as something special among the children of Leicester's nobility. "Until it's perfect."
He raised the wooden sword, his small arms trembling slightly from exertion, and launched into the sequence his father's master-at-arms had shown him the previous day—a basic series of strikes designed to build proper form in novice swordsmen. His movements were jerky but precise, each swing landing exactly where he intended.
Behind him, the Goneril estate sprawled across the hillside, its stone walls gleaming in the morning light. The eastern holding of the Leicester Alliance stood as a bulwark against Almyran incursions, and even in times of relative peace, the estate maintained a martial readiness that permeated the very air. Banners bearing the Goneril crest snapped in the breeze, and the distant sounds of soldiers training in the larger yards carried across the grounds.
His father, the current Duke Goneril, had departed three days earlier to attend an Alliance Roundtable, leaving behind strict instructions for Holst's continued training. "A Goneril must always be stronger than others," he had told Holst before mounting his horse. "Our family guards the Throat. Without our strength, the Alliance would fall."
Holst had nodded solemnly, already understanding the weight of his inheritance despite his tender age. Since birth, he had been raised on stories of Goneril heroes who had stood against Almyran hordes, of ancestors who had carried the family's Hero's Relic into battle and turned the tide with their might alone. He knew, with the absolute certainty that only children can possess, that he was destined to join their ranks—to become the strongest warrior in all of Leicester, perhaps in all of Fódlan.
And so he trained. While other noble children played at knights and monsters, Holst worked himself to exhaustion day after day, his small body pushing against its natural limitations with a stubbornness that both impressed and concerned the household staff.
"Young master will collapse if he continues this way," he had overheard his nursemaid telling the steward the previous evening. "Five years old, and he drives himself harder than grown men."
The steward had merely shrugged. "He is a Goneril. Their blood runs hot with the need to prove themselves. Better he learns discipline now than grows soft and fails when the border needs him."
Holst had slipped away before they noticed him, but their words had only strengthened his resolve. This morning, he had risen before dawn, stolen away from his chambers without waking his nursemaid, and come to this smaller training yard where he could practice undisturbed.
Now, as the sun climbed higher, he switched from sword forms to strength training. Setting aside the wooden blade, he dropped to the ground and began a series of push-ups, counting under his breath. His arms shook violently after fifteen, but he pushed on, determined to reach twenty—one more than he had managed yesterday.
"Sixteen... seventeen..." he grunted, his face flushed crimson with effort. "Eigh...teen..."
His arms gave out on the nineteenth attempt, and he collapsed onto the sun-warmed cobblestones, chest heaving. Frustration burned in his throat, sharper than his exhaustion.
"Not... good enough," he wheezed, rolling onto his back to stare up at the sky. Puffy white clouds drifted overhead, peaceful and indifferent to his struggles below. "Have to... get stronger."
The sky above Leicester was a brilliant blue that morning, the kind of perfect cerulean that appears only in early autumn when the summer heat has begun to recede but winter's chill remains a distant threat. Holst studied those lazy clouds, allowing his breathing to slow, calculating how long he should rest before attempting another set of exercises.
A shadow fell across his face, blocking the sun. Holst blinked, momentarily disoriented, before realizing someone was standing over him. He scrambled to his feet, embarrassment flooding through him at being caught in a moment of weakness.
"I wasn't done," he said defensively, brushing dirt from his training clothes. "I was just—"
The words died in his throat as he took in the figure before him. A young man stood on the cobblestones, though "stood" seemed an inadequate word for his presence. He seemed to occupy the space in a way that was both more substantial and less tangible than ordinary standing would suggest. His hair was white as freshly fallen snow, his garments of the same pristine hue, unmarked by dust or wear. But it was his eyes that captured Holst's attention—golden like honey held up to sunlight, warm and knowing and ancient all at once.
Holst had heard the stories, of course. Everyone in Fódlan had by this time. Tales of Joy Boy, the star-fallen youth who appeared where he was needed most, who smiled upon the world and brought justice with his golden gaze. For the past several years, these stories had spread across the continent like wildfire, growing in number and variation with each passing season.
House Goneril, with its traditional ties to the Church of Seiros and its conservative nobility, had officially dismissed such tales as peasant superstitions. "Nonsense that distracts from proper devotion to the Goddess," his father had declared at dinner when a visiting merchant had mentioned the growing movement of "Sunlight Children" in Alliance territories.
Yet the servants whispered different sentiments in the halls. Holst had seen the sun-shaped pins some of them wore discreetly under their collars, noticed the subtle open-palmed gestures they exchanged when they thought no one was watching. Even his own combat instructor, a grizzled veteran of numerous border skirmishes, kept a small carving of a rising sun in his pocket, which he touched superstitiously before each training session.
And now, impossibly, Joy Boy himself stood in the Goneril training yard, regarding Holst with those golden eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul.
"You're him," Holst breathed, too stunned to remember proper courtly manners or the dignity expected of a Goneril heir. "You're Joy Boy."
The white-haired youth didn't speak. Instead, he smiled—a smile so genuine, so radiant that Holst felt something loosen in his chest, a tightness he hadn't even realized was there until it began to dissolve. It was the smile of someone who understood perfectly what it meant to strive, to push beyond limitations, to seek strength not just for oneself but for those who would depend on that strength.
Holst stood straighter, suddenly conscious of his small stature, of the distance between what he was and what he hoped to become. "I'm going to be the strongest warrior in Leicester," he declared, the words carrying no hint of boastfulness, simply stated as fact. "I have to be. For my family. For the Alliance."
Joy Boy tilted his head slightly, that smile never faltering. Then, with a movement so fluid it seemed choreographed, he stepped back and struck a pose that was simultaneously ridiculous and magnificent. His arms flexed in an exaggerated display of strength, muscles rippling beneath the white garments in a way that defied their apparently slender construction. His stance widened, rooting him to the earth as if he had always been part of it, would always be part of it.
And then he looked up at the sky—at those perfect, puffy white clouds drifting lazily across the blue—and drew back his fist.
Holst should have laughed. Part of him, the part that had been raised on formal etiquette and proper noble behavior, knew this display was absurd, childish even. But a deeper part, the core of him that resonated with the rhythm of combat and the pursuit of strength, held its breath in anticipation.
Joy Boy's fist shot upward with impossible speed, connecting with... nothing. With the air itself. With the very concept of separation between earth and sky.
The impact made no sound—or rather, made a sound so profound that it registered not in Holst's ears but in his chest, in his bones, in the marrow from which his strength would one day grow. A single note that seemed to say: This is what power can be. This is what you might become.
Above them, the clouds—those physical, earthly clouds that had been drifting so peacefully—shuddered and split apart as if sliced by an invisible blade. The perfect blue sky became bisected by a line of even more perfect clarity, a path of heightened blueness that stretched from horizon to horizon. For a breathless moment, Holst felt he could see beyond the sky itself, into a realm where strength was not measured by muscle but by something far more fundamental.
He froze, wooden sword hanging forgotten from his fingertips, mouth open in an expression of pure wonder. The impossibility of what he had just witnessed collided with the undeniable evidence of his own eyes. Joy Boy had punched the sky. And the sky had yielded.
Before Holst could find his voice, before he could form any of the thousand questions suddenly crowding his mind, Joy Boy turned back to him. The ridiculous pose was gone, replaced by a posture of such natural dignity that it made the court mannerisms Holst had been taught seem like awkward pantomime. Those golden eyes regarded him with what Holst would later recognize as compassion—not pity, never pity, but a deep understanding of struggle and purpose.
Then Joy Boy stepped forward and placed his hand atop Holst's head. The touch was gentle, careful even, mindful of the strength contained within it. Fingers ruffled through pink hair in a gesture that managed to convey both approval and encouragement without a single word being spoken.
In that moment, Holst understood something that would shape his entire life: true strength wasn't just about how many push-ups you could do or how perfectly you could swing a sword. It wasn't even about defeating enemies in battle. True strength was something that resided in the heart first, in the will, in the determination to stand as a shield for others. And it was something joyful—a gift to be celebrated, not just a burden to be carried.
Joy Boy nodded once, decisively, his golden eyes catching the morning light like twin suns. Then he stepped back, his form seeming to shimmer slightly at the edges, as if he existed partially in some other realm that overlapped with their own.
Holst blinked, and between one heartbeat and the next, Joy Boy was gone. No dramatic disappearance, no fade to transparency—simply there one moment and not there the next, like a thought that passes through the mind too quickly to be fully captured.
Above, the clouds were already drifting back together, the perfect path of blue slowly closing like a wound healing in the sky. Soon there would be no visible evidence that anything extraordinary had occurred at all.
Except that everything had changed for Holst Goneril.
He stood motionless in the training yard, wooden sword clutched in suddenly steady hands, his exhaustion forgotten. The feeling of Joy Boy's hand upon his head lingered, a phantom pressure that seemed to contain a promise: You are on the right path. Keep going. Find your joy in strength, and your strength in joy.
After several long moments, Holst lifted his own small fist toward the sky—not in mimicry of Joy Boy's impossible feat, but in salute to it. In acknowledgment of what he had witnessed and what he now understood he was striving for.
"I won't forget," he whispered to the empty air, to the mended sky, to himself. "I promise."
Then he bent to retrieve his wooden sword and resumed his practice forms, moving with renewed purpose and a lightness that hadn't been there before. The servants who came looking for him an hour later found him still training, a small, determined figure moving through the dappled sunlight with unexpected grace, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
If they noticed something different about the young heir—a new steadiness in his gaze, a more natural fluidity to his movements—they attributed it to the natural progression of his training. None of them suspected that Holst Goneril had, that morning, received instruction from a teacher unlike any other.
And Holst told no one, not even when questioned directly about his improved form. The encounter felt too personal, too sacred to share—a secret between himself and the golden-eyed youth who had punched the sky apart and ruffled his hair as if to say: Well done. Keep going. You'll get there.
It was a secret he would keep for many years to come.
"Brother! Broooother! You're not even listening!"
The high-pitched complaint dragged Holst's attention back to the present moment. He blinked, the training yard of ten years ago fading from his mind's eye to be replaced by the flower-strewn garden of the Goneril estate where he now sat on a stone bench, his four-year-old sister Hilda standing before him with her tiny fists planted on her hips in an attitude of extreme displeasure.
At fifteen, Holst had already begun to fulfill the promise of his childhood determination. Tall for his age and powerfully built from years of dedicated training, he was developing a reputation throughout Leicester territories as a prodigy in combat arts. His skill with an axe had already surpassed that of warriors twice his age, and whispers had begun about his potential compatibility with Freikugel, the Hero's Relic that had been wielded by Goneril heirs for generations, though Holst thinks he doesn’t need it for protecting people.
But none of that mattered when faced with the formidable displeasure of his baby sister. Hilda's pink hair, a shade darker than his own, was pulled into pigtails that quivered with indignation. Her cheeks puffed out in the adorable pout that had already proven devastatingly effective at wrapping the entire household around her tiny finger.
"I'm sorry, Hilda," Holst said, reaching out to gently pat her head. "What were you saying?"
The patting seemed to mollify her somewhat, though she maintained her stern expression with the dedication only a four-year-old could muster. "I said, tell me how you met Joy Boy! Everyone has stories about Joy Boy except me!"
Ah. This again. Holst suppressed a smile. Ever since Hilda had begun to understand language, she had been fascinated by the tales of Joy Boy that now permeated every corner of Fódlan society. Unlike their father, who continued to dismiss such stories as distractions from proper devotion to the Church and the Alliance, young Hilda consumed every tale with insatiable enthusiasm.
The past decade had seen Joy Boy transition from whispered legend to something approaching an unofficial folk saint. Across Leicester, Faerghus, and even parts of Adrestia, children grew up on bedtime stories about the white-haired youth with golden eyes who appeared to the downtrodden and the struggling, who inspired even the most hardened hearts to find joy and justice. In marketplace puppet shows, Joy Boy defeated evil barons with nothing but his smile and his impossible strength. In tavern songs, he liberated slaves and inspired tyrants to renounce their cruelty.
The sun symbols that had once been worn in secret now adorned market stalls and festival decorations openly. The open-palmed greeting of "Sunlight Children" had become common practice among merchants and travelers. And with each passing year, more noble houses cautiously acknowledged the movement, if not officially endorsing it, then at least no longer actively opposing it.
Even the Church of Seiros had moderated its stance, now referring to Joy Boy as "a possible manifestation of the Goddess's mercy" rather than denouncing the tales outright. Archbishop Rhea herself had released a statement acknowledging that "the Goddess works in ways beyond our understanding, and it is not for us to limit the forms her guidance may take."
But for Holst, Joy Boy was not a story or a symbol or a theological debate. He was a memory—golden eyes in the morning light, a ridiculous pose that somehow contained true dignity, a sky split apart by the force of pure joy.
A memory he had never shared with anyone.
"Please, brother!" Hilda tugged at his sleeve insistently. "You never tell me! Everyone says you met him! Madam Bethany says you must have because you changed after that day when you were little!"
Holst raised an eyebrow, amused and slightly concerned that the household staff were spreading such rumors. Madam Bethany was Hilda's nursemaid, a kind woman who had served House Goneril for decades. She had been present on that long-ago morning when Holst had returned from the training yard with a new light in his eyes and a curious smile on his lips.
"And what exactly did Madam Bethany tell you?" he asked, lifting Hilda to sit beside him on the bench.
Hilda swung her legs, her tiny boots not quite reaching the ground. "She said you were a very serious little boy, all frowns and training, training, training. And then one day you came back from practicing and you were different. You still trained lots and lots, but you smiled more." She looked up at him with enormous pink eyes. "She thinks Joy Boy visited you. Did he? Did he smile at you? Did he do amazing things?"
Holst considered his sister's eager face, so full of hope and wonder. He had kept his encounter with Joy Boy private not out of selfishness but because it had felt... sacred somehow. A moment of personal revelation not meant to be turned into yet another tale for public consumption.
But this was Hilda asking—Hilda whose protection had become the center of his world from the moment she was placed in his arms as a squalling infant. Hilda who might someday need her own moment of inspiration when the weight of being a Goneril began to press upon her small shoulders.
"Joy Boy," he began slowly, choosing his words with care, "doesn't always appear the same way to everyone. The stories say he shows himself where he's needed most, in the form that's most needed."
Hilda nodded seriously, her expression suggesting she was receiving wisdom of the utmost importance.
"When I was very young," Holst continued, "about your age now, I thought strength meant only one thing—being able to lift heavy things, to fight better than anyone else, to never show weakness." He smiled ruefully. "I trained until I collapsed, day after day, because I was afraid of not being strong enough when it mattered."
"Like when the Almyrans come?" Hilda asked, her voice dropping to a whisper on the word "Almyrans" as if speaking of bogeymen rather than the neighboring nation.
Holst made a mental note to have a conversation with the household staff about how they discussed border relations around his impressionable sister. "Like when anyone needs protection," he corrected gently. "A Goneril's strength is for shielding others, not just for fighting."
"That's what Joy Boy teaches too!" Hilda exclaimed. "In the puppet show at the harvest festival, he helped a farmer who couldn't move his cart, but he didn't just lift it—he showed all the villagers how to work together to make it easier!"
"That sounds like him," Holst said, unable to suppress a genuine smile at the accuracy of the characterization. "You see, Hilda, true strength isn't just in your arms or your sword. It's in here—" he tapped her chest lightly, "—and here." He touched her forehead.
Hilda seemed to consider this deeply, her small brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with the directness only children possess, she returned to her original question: "But did you meet him? Did he do something amazing?"
Holst hesitated only a moment longer before making his decision. "Yes," he said simply. "I met him. Once."
His sister's eyes widened to perfect circles of excitement. "What happened? What did he look like? Did he talk to you? Did he—"
"Slow down," Holst laughed, placing a calming hand on her bouncing shoulder. "One question at a time."
"What did he look like?" Hilda demanded immediately.
"Just like the stories say. White hair, white clothes, and eyes like... like sunlight through honey." Holst found himself transported back to that moment, the memory so vivid he could almost feel the morning sun on his skin again. "He didn't speak—at least, not with words."
"Did he do something amazing?" Hilda's hands were clasped beneath her chin now, her entire being focused on Holst's answer.
He looked up at the sky—blue, perfect, whole—and felt again that resonant impact that had vibrated through his very bones. "He punched the sky," Holst said softly. "He punched it so hard that the clouds split apart."
"Really?" Hilda gasped, her gaze automatically lifting to the sky as if expecting to see the evidence still visible after all these years.
"Really," Holst confirmed. "It was... impossible. Magnificent. Like watching someone reach out and touch the fabric of the world itself."
"And then what happened?" Hilda was practically vibrating with excitement now.
Holst touched the top of his own head, remembering. "Then he patted my head, like this—" he demonstrated on Hilda's pink locks, "—and he smiled at me. And then he was gone."
"That's it?" Hilda's disappointment was palpable. "He didn't give you a magical weapon or teach you a special technique or anything?"
Holst laughed, the sound resonating with genuine amusement. "No magical weapons, no special techniques. Just a smile and a pat on the head."
"That doesn't sound very exciting," Hilda pouted.
"No?" Holst raised an eyebrow. "And yet it changed everything for me."
"How?" she asked, curiosity overcoming her disappointment.
Holst considered how to explain the profound shift that had occurred within him that day—how Joy Boy's impossible display had expanded his understanding of what strength could be, how it could contain joy and wonder alongside discipline and determination.
"Before that day," he said carefully, "I trained because I was afraid. Afraid of not being strong enough, of disappointing our father, of failing my duty to House Goneril." He looked down at his hands, now callused and strong from years of dedicated practice. "After meeting Joy Boy, I still trained just as hard—harder, even—but the reason changed. I trained because I understood what my strength was for. Not just to fight, but to protect. Not just to endure, but to uplift."
He smiled at his sister's confused expression. "That probably doesn't make much sense to you yet. But someday it will."
Hilda seemed ready to protest, but then her face brightened with a new thought. "Do you think I'll ever meet Joy Boy too? All the stories say he visits children who need help or hope or... or something special."
The innocent question caught Holst off guard. Would Joy Boy appear to Hilda someday? The thought created an unexpected tightness in his chest. As her brother, he wanted to protect her from all hardship, to ensure she never reached the point of needing the kind of intervention Joy Boy seemed to provide. And yet...
"Perhaps," he said, choosing honesty over false reassurance. "If you ever need him. But remember, Hilda, you have something many don't."
"What's that?" she asked, tilting her head.
"You have me," Holst said simply. "And I promise you this—whenever you need strength or protection, I'll be there. My strength is your strength, always."
Hilda considered this solemnly before breaking into a brilliant smile. "That's good," she declared. "Because I don't really like training like you do. It's sweaty and boring and takes forever."
Holst laughed, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Well, we can't all be warriors, can we? The world needs all kinds of strengths."
"I'm good at making people do things for me," Hilda announced with complete seriousness. "Madam Bethany says I'm 'persuasive beyond my years.'"
"That you are," Holst agreed, biting back another laugh. "A fearsome talent indeed."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a servant announcing that Duke Goneril requested Holst's presence in the study. Training assessments, no doubt. At fifteen, Holst was already being prepared for real command duties along the border.
"Can I come too?" Hilda asked, though her wrinkled nose suggested she wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the prospect.
"Not this time, little one," Holst said, standing and brushing invisible dust from his training clothes. "Why don't you ask Madam Bethany to take you to the gardens? I heard the first autumn roses are blooming."
The mention of flowers was enough to divert Hilda's attention, and she scampered off happily, the conversation about Joy Boy temporarily forgotten. But as Holst watched her go, he found himself wondering whether he had done the right thing in sharing his experience, limited though his disclosure had been.
Some secrets were meant to be kept, held close to the heart as private talismans against doubt and fear. His encounter with Joy Boy had been such a secret for ten years, a personal touchstone he returned to in moments of uncertainty.
And yet, sharing it with Hilda had not diminished its power. If anything, seeing the wonder in her eyes had refreshed the memory, making it more vivid than it had been in years. Perhaps that was part of Joy Boy's gift as well—not just the initial encounter, but the ripples it created through time, touching others indirectly through those who had experienced his presence directly.
As Holst made his way to his father's study, his thoughts turned to the future—to the responsibilities awaiting him as heir to House Goneril, to the border he would someday be charged with defending, to the sister he was determined to protect with all the strength he possessed.
The path ahead would not be easy. Already there were rumors of increased Almyran activity at the border, of political tensions within the Alliance itself, of changes coming to Fódlan that would test even the strongest among them.
But whenever his resolve wavered, whenever the weight of duty threatened to become too heavy, Holst knew he would remember—remember a morning ten years ago when a golden-eyed youth had punched the sky apart and smiled as if to say: This is what strength can be when shaped by joy.
And he would smile too, and continue forward on the path of the protector he had chosen to become.
Chapter 10: The King of Grappling's First Crown
Summary:
In which young Balthus von Albrecht discovers the power of his fists and the joy of battle, only to meet a legendary figure who teaches him that true strength lies not just in victory, but in how one fights. A day of street brawling becomes a turning point that will echo through the years and help forge the man who would one day call himself the King of Grappling.
Chapter Text
The late morning sun beat down on the cobbled streets of Kupala, turning the modest trading town nestled in the foothills of Fódlan's Throat into a steaming cauldron. Most sensible folk had retreated indoors or sought shade beneath canvas awnings, but in a dusty square behind the tannery district, a crowd had gathered despite the heat. Their excited voices rose above the usual market-day clamor, punctuated by the unmistakable sounds of combat.
"Five-to-one on the big lad! Five-to-one!" "I'll take that bet! The runt's quicker than he looks!" "Ten gold says neither lasts another round!"
In the center of this impromptu arena, two boys circled each other warily. One was a burly fifteen-year-old with arms like tree trunks, his face already scarred from previous bouts. The other, notably smaller but still powerfully built for his age, was Balthus von Albrecht – twelve years old, fists wrapped in dirty cloth, and sporting a split lip that dripped blood onto his already sweat-soaked tunic.
"Ready to quit, lordling?" the older boy sneered, feinting left before throwing a heavy right cross that whooshed past Balthus's ear. "Run back to your fancy house and cry to your mommy?"
Balthus responded with a grunt and a swift uppercut that connected with the older boy's jaw. The impact sent a satisfying shock up his arm.
"Not much for talking during a fight," Balthus replied, dancing backward as his opponent staggered. "Save your breath. You're gonna need it."
The crowd roared its approval, the sound washing over Balthus like a wave. This was the fifth bout he'd fought today, and the accumulated bruises from the previous four were making themselves known with every movement. His ribs ached where a farm boy twice his size had landed a lucky hit. His knuckles were raw despite the wrappings. His left eye was swelling shut.
And yet, Balthus von Albrecht had never felt more alive.
Three months ago, he'd been just another noble son – albeit one from a minor house with more prestigious blood than actual wealth. His days had been filled with stuffy tutors drilling him on proper etiquette, the correct way to address various ranks of nobility, and the tedious history of House Albrecht's connections to the Leicester Alliance. His mother, determined to see her son rise above the family's relatively modest circumstances, had been relentless in her efforts to mold him into a proper gentleman.
Then had come the endless arguments about his Crest – the Crest of Chevalier, manifested unexpectedly when he'd broken three training swords in a single afternoon. His mother had been ecstatic; his father, strangely troubled. The arguments between them had grown worse with each passing day, leaving Balthus to escape to the training yard where he pounded training dummies until his hands bled, trying to drown out the shouting with the rhythm of his fists.
But even that haven had been poisoned when his mother began parading him before visiting nobles, speaking of advantageous marriages and political connections that might be forged through her Crest-bearing son. At twelve years old, Balthus had found himself transformed from a boy into a commodity – a bargaining chip in his mother's desperate climb toward greater status.
So he had run. Not permanently – he wasn't foolish enough to think he could survive on his own just yet – but in increasingly longer escapes into the nearby town of Kupala, where no one cared about Crests or noble lineages or marriage alliances. Where a boy with fast fists and a faster grin could make a name for himself in the rough-and-tumble world of street brawling.
Where he was now faced with a boy who outweighed him by thirty pounds and had three years' growth on him, but who was beginning to show signs of fatigue as their bout entered its third minute.
"Thought you'd have given up by now," the older boy huffed, circling more cautiously now. "Most toffs don't last past the first bloody nose."
"I'm not most toffs," Balthus shot back, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "And I'm just getting warmed up."
The crowd pressed closer, forming a tight ring around the combatants. Among them, a grizzled man with a ledger scribbled furiously, taking bets and calculating odds. He'd been initially dismissive of the noble-born boy with the wild dark hair and the too-fine tunic, but after watching him dispatch four opponents in succession, the bookmaker had revised his assessment. The kid had natural talent – raw and unpolished, but unmistakable.
The older boy lunged suddenly, attempting to grapple Balthus to the ground. It was a smart move; on the cobblestones, Balthus's greater speed would be neutralized, and the bigger boy's weight would give him the advantage. But Balthus had been watching his opponent's footwork, had seen the subtle shift in weight that telegraphed the move a half-second before it came.
He pivoted sharply, letting the older boy's momentum carry him forward into empty air. As his opponent stumbled, Balthus delivered a quick combination – left jab to the kidney, right cross to the temple – that sent the bigger boy crashing to the ground.
The crowd erupted in cheers and groans, depending on where their wagers had been placed. The bookmaker's eyebrows shot up appreciatively.
"Eight! Nine! Ten!" someone counted, as the older boy struggled to regain his feet but ultimately slumped back to the ground, dazed.
Balthus raised his fists in victory, a fierce grin splitting his bruised face. The crowd surged forward, some to congratulate him, others to collect their winnings or pay their debts. The bookmaker elbowed his way through, counting out coins from a heavy pouch.
"Not bad, lordling," the man said, pressing the coins into Balthus's filthy palm. "Your cut. Thirty percent, as agreed."
Balthus examined the small pile of gold and silver. It wasn't much by noble standards – probably less than what his mother spent on a single pair of gloves – but it was the first money he'd ever earned through his own efforts. The weight of it in his hand felt different from the allowance he received at home. Heavier. More real somehow.
"Think you've got another bout in you?" the bookmaker asked, eyeing him appraisingly. "The dock workers get off shift soon. They always look for entertainment before heading to the taverns, and they bet heavy after a day's wages."
Balthus considered the offer. His body ached, and he knew he should head home before his absence was noted. His mother would be furious if she discovered where he'd been spending his afternoons – fighting for coin like a common street tough rather than practicing the elegant fencing style favored by Leicester nobility.
But the weight of those coins in his palm, the lingering roar of the crowd in his ears, the pure satisfaction of victory earned through nothing but his own strength and skill... it was intoxicating.
"Yeah," he decided, flexing his wrapped hands. "I've got at least one more in me."
The bookmaker grinned, revealing a mouth with several gaps where teeth should have been. "Good lad. Rest up a bit. I'll find you when the crowd's built up again."
As the bookmaker pushed his way back through the dispersing spectators, Balthus made his way to a water barrel propped against the wall of the tannery. He splashed his face, wincing as the cool water hit his various cuts and bruises, then took a long drink from the ladle someone had left hanging on the barrel's edge. The water tasted of wood and iron, but it was wonderfully refreshing after the heat and exertion of the fight.
Leaning against the wall, he watched as the square gradually emptied, the spectators drifting away to attend to their interrupted business or to spend their winnings at nearby taverns. A few cast glances his way – some impressed, others calculating, sizing him up as potential future opponents.
Balthus closed his eyes, letting the sunlight warm his face. This was freedom – the kind he never felt within the stifling walls of his family home. Here, no one cared about his bloodline or his Crest or his mother's ambitions. Here, he was judged solely by what his fists could do, by the strength in his own body and the determination in his own heart.
Time passed in that pleasant haze of exhaustion and satisfaction. The square grew quiet, the only sounds the distant calls of merchants closing up their stalls and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby tavern. Balthus might have dozed off briefly, for when he opened his eyes again, the quality of light had shifted, taking on the golden hue of late afternoon.
And he was no longer alone.
Across the square, seated on a barrel that Balthus was certain hadn't been there before, was a figure that made him straighten up in surprise. A young man – or perhaps not so young, for there was something in his bearing that suggested ancient wisdom despite his youthful appearance. He wore garments of pure white that somehow remained pristine despite the dust and grime of the square. His hair, too, was white as new-fallen snow, framing a face that wore an expression of such genuine good humor that Balthus found himself smiling reflexively in response.
But it was the eyes that truly captured his attention. Golden eyes, like sunlight filtering through honey, that seemed to glow with an internal light of their own.
Balthus had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had by now. Tales of Joy Boy, the mysterious wanderer who appeared when he was needed most, bringing justice and, well, joy wherever he went. For the past several years, these stories had spread across Fódlan like wildfire, gaining new details and variations with each telling. In Leicester taverns, traveling merchants spoke of slavers whose ships mysteriously emptied overnight, their human cargo vanishing without a trace. In Faerghus villages, mothers told their children of brutal lords who woke one morning with their hearts changed, casting aside their whips and opening their granaries to the hungry. In Adrestian markets, puppeteers enacted plays wherein a silent figure with golden eyes taught cruel masters the error of their ways through increasingly improbable and humorous means.
The nobility largely dismissed such tales as peasant superstitions or deliberate exaggerations of some skilled trickster's exploits. Balthus's own father had snorted derisively when a servant had nervously recounted a story of Joy Boy freeing imprisoned debtors in a nearby town. "Mass hallucination," the elder Albrecht had declared, "or more likely, some charlatan playing dress-up to stir the rabble."
Yet there was no denying the impact these stories had on the common folk of Fódlan. The sun symbols that had begun appearing on market stalls and humble dwellings; the open-palmed greeting that travelers exchanged on roads; the songs that minstrels sang of impossible feats performed with a smile – all spoke to a movement that had spread far beyond mere tales.
And now, if Balthus's eyes weren't deceiving him, the subject of those tales sat not twenty paces away, regarding him with friendly interest.
"Uh... hello?" Balthus ventured, pushing himself away from the wall. "You're him, aren't you? Joy Boy?"
The white-haired figure didn't speak. He merely smiled wider, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. Then, with a fluid movement that somehow conveyed both gravity and playfulness, he hopped down from the barrel and executed a formal bow that wouldn't have been out of place in the most refined noble courts.
Balthus couldn't help but laugh at the incongruity of such elegant manners in this dusty back alley. "Fancy moves for a back-alley brawl location," he commented. "You looking for a fight? Because I gotta warn you, I've already gone through five guys today, and I'm just getting started."
The boast was pure bravado – Balthus's muscles screamed with fatigue, and he knew his next opponent would likely hand him his first defeat of the day – but something about this strange visitor made him want to project confidence.
Joy Boy straightened from his bow, his smile never faltering. He tilted his head to one side, studying Balthus with an expression of curious interest. Then, without warning, he clapped his hands together once, the sound ringing out like a bell.
What happened next would be etched into Balthus's memory forever, a moment he would recount countless times in the years to come – though rarely would his listeners believe him.
The air around Joy Boy seemed to shimmer, like heat rising from sun-baked stone. His form blurred at the edges, not as though he were moving but as though reality itself was struggling to contain him. And then, with a pop that Balthus felt rather than heard, Joy Boy's appearance changed.
Gone were the simple white garments, replaced by the most outlandish boxing attire Balthus had ever seen – white shorts emblazoned with golden suns, a belt that seemed to be made of solid light, and oversized red boxing gloves that looked comically large even on Joy Boy's surprisingly muscular frame. On his head appeared a strange contraption – a speaking trumpet like those used by ship captains, but attached to a band that encircled his head.
Before Balthus could process this transformation, Joy Boy raised the speaking trumpet to his lips and began gesturing wildly, as though addressing an invisible crowd. No words emerged, but somehow Balthus clearly understood the meaning: Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, prepare yourselves for the match of the century!
"What in the name of the Goddess...?" Balthus muttered, wondering if perhaps he'd taken one too many blows to the head during his earlier bouts.
Joy Boy continued his silent announcement, pacing the empty square with exaggerated steps, pointing dramatically at Balthus and then at himself, building imaginary hype for an imaginary audience. His free hand gestured expansively, as if indicating a packed arena rather than a deserted back alley.
Despite his confusion, Balthus found himself grinning. There was something infectious about the strange youth's enthusiasm, something that made the absurdity of the situation seem perfectly reasonable. "You want to fight me?" he called out. "Is that it? Because I'm game if you are, weird getup and all."
Joy Boy turned to him with a beaming smile and a thumbs-up gesture that somehow conveyed both approval and friendly challenge. Then, with another dramatic flourish, he swept his arm through the air in a horizontal arc.
The world... shifted.
One moment, Balthus was standing in the dusty square behind the tannery district; the next, he found himself standing on a raised platform surrounded by ropes – a proper wrestling ring, though unlike any he had ever seen. The ropes glowed with the same golden light as Joy Boy's belt, and the floor beneath his feet was springy but firm, ideal for absorbing impact from falls.
Around the ring, where moments before there had been only empty space, now stood a crowd of spectators – or at least, the impression of a crowd. Balthus couldn't focus on any individual faces; they seemed to shift and blur when he tried to look directly at them. But the sound was unmistakable – the roar of hundreds of voices, the stomping of feet, the clapping of hands in rhythmic anticipation.
"How did you—" Balthus began, but his question was cut short as he noticed movement at the edge of the ring.
A massive figure was climbing through the ropes – a man easily twice Balthus's size, with bulging muscles and a face that seemed constructed primarily of scar tissue and bad intentions. He wore a wrestling mask that covered the upper half of his face, leaving visible only a jaw like a granite cliff and a mouth fixed in a permanent snarl.
"Who the hell is that?" Balthus yelped, backing away toward his corner of the ring.
Joy Boy appeared at his side, still in his announcer/boxer regalia, and patted Balthus's shoulder reassuringly. With a series of gestures and expressions, he somehow communicated a complex message: This is the Mountain of Kupala, undefeated champion of the underground fighting circuit. He's been challenging all comers for years, crushing their spirits and their bodies. No one has stood against him and remained standing.
"And you think I should?" Balthus asked incredulously. "I'm twelve! He looks like he eats twelve-year-olds for breakfast!"
Joy Boy's golden eyes twinkled with mischief. He reached into thin air and pulled out – from nowhere that Balthus could discern – a small chalkboard and piece of chalk. With quick, fluid strokes, he wrote:
Age doesn't matter in the ring. Only heart. And you've got plenty of that, King of Grappling.
"King of Grappling?" Balthus read aloud, momentarily distracted from the mountain of muscle now stretching ominously in the opposite corner. "That's not my name. I'm Balthus von Albrecht."
Joy Boy shook his head, erased the board, and wrote again:
Not yet. But it could be. If you want it.
Something in those simple words resonated deep within Balthus. King of Grappling. It had a nice ring to it – better than 'Balthus von Albrecht, second son of a minor noble house with more ambition than prospects.' A name earned through his own efforts rather than inherited from ancestors he'd never met.
"Alright," Balthus decided, drawing himself up to his full height – which, while impressive for his age, still left him a good two heads shorter than his opponent. "I'll do it. But if I get killed, I'm coming back to haunt you, Joy Boy."
Joy Boy's silent laughter was somehow more expressive than any voiced mirth Balthus had ever heard. He erased the chalkboard once more and wrote:
You won't die. This isn't real... but it's not NOT real either. Just remember: the point isn't to win. It's to find your joy in the fight.
Before Balthus could demand clarification of this cryptic statement, Joy Boy vanished from his side and reappeared in the center of the ring, once again in his announcer persona. He gestured grandly, and a silent bell seemed to ring through the very air itself.
The Mountain of Kupala charged with a roar that shook the entire ring.
Balthus had just enough time to think, This is going to hurt , before a ham-sized fist connected with his midsection, driving the air from his lungs and lifting him clear off his feet. He sailed through the air and crashed into the ropes, which caught him with surprising gentleness before bouncing him back toward his attacker.
Using the momentum of the bounce, Balthus ducked under the Mountain's next swing and delivered a quick jab to the giant's kidneys. It was like punching a stone wall – the Mountain didn't even flinch.
The next few minutes were a blur of pain and desperate evasion. The Mountain was deceptively fast for his size, cutting off Balthus's attempts to create distance and delivering bone-jarring blows that would have ended the fight instantly if they'd landed squarely. As it was, Balthus managed to partially deflect most of them, transforming potential knock-outs into merely agonizing glancing hits.
Through it all, Joy Boy circled the ring, silent but somehow projecting the commentary of an enthusiastic announcer:
The Mountain corners the young challenger! What a devastating combination! But wait – Balthus slips away! Incredible agility from the newcomer! The Mountain seems frustrated, ladies and gentlemen – he's not used to opponents who can still stand after the first round!
"Not helping!" Balthus grunted as he narrowly avoided a clothesline that would have taken his head off. His earlier fatigue was making itself known with a vengeance, his limbs feeling like they were weighted with lead. Worse, none of his counter-attacks seemed to have any effect on the Mountain, who shrugged off Balthus's best punches as though they were nothing more than annoying insect bites.
The phantom crowd was going wild, their roars surging and ebbing with the flow of the match. Despite his predicament, Balthus found himself energized by their enthusiasm, drawing strength from their approval of his stubborn refusal to stay down.
But as the fight entered what felt like its tenth minute, Balthus knew he was nearing his limit. His vision was blurring at the edges, his breathing ragged, his arms so heavy he could barely lift them to protect himself. The Mountain, meanwhile, seemed as fresh as when the bout began, advancing inexorably with the patience of a predator who knows its prey is weakening.
This is it, Balthus thought as he backed into a corner, no longer able to summon the energy to dance away. I'm going to get flattened, and it's going to hurt, but at least I lasted this long.
The Mountain drew back his fist for what would surely be the finishing blow. Balthus braced himself, determined to take it without flinching – to go down with dignity, if nothing else.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of white.
Joy Boy had leapt into the ring, not as the announcer now but as a competitor. He stood between Balthus and the Mountain, his stance easy but somehow implacable, his golden eyes fixed on the masked giant with an expression that was still friendly but now contained something else – a quiet certainty, a gentle firmness.
The Mountain paused, confusion visible in the part of his face not covered by the mask. Then, with a dismissive grunt, he swung his massive fist at this new interloper.
What happened next transpired so quickly that Balthus's eyes could barely track it. Joy Boy seemed to flow like water around the Mountain's punch, not so much dodging it as simply choosing not to be where it landed. Then, with a movement like a dancer's spin, he positioned himself behind the Mountain, wrapped his arms around the giant's waist, and lifted.
The Mountain of Kupala, a man who must have weighed twenty stone if he weighed an ounce, rose into the air as though he were no heavier than a child's doll. Joy Boy's muscles strained visibly beneath his white attire, not from the weight itself but from the controlled power he was exerting. For a breathless moment, the entire scene seemed to freeze – Joy Boy standing tall with the Mountain suspended above his head, the phantom crowd gone silent in anticipation, Balthus wide-eyed and slack-jawed in the corner.
Then Joy Boy moved, a blur of white against the golden light of the ring, and the Mountain went sailing through the air in a perfect arc. He crashed down – not onto the springy floor of the ring, but somehow through it, landing with an enormous splash in what appeared to be a conveniently placed haycart that Balthus could swear hadn't been there a moment before.
The phantom crowd erupted into the loudest cheers yet, the sound washing over Balthus like a physical force. Joy Boy turned to him, that radiant smile once again lighting his face, and offered a hand to help Balthus up from the corner where he had slumped in exhaustion.
"YO, THAT WAS AWESOME!" Balthus shouted, his voice cracking with excitement as he accepted the hand up. "How did you do that? He must weigh a ton! And where did the hay come from? And how did you make this ring appear? And—"
Joy Boy silenced the barrage of questions with a gentle finger to his lips and a wink that somehow managed to convey both secrecy and shared joy. Then, with a flourish, he produced the chalkboard once more:
The King of Grappling never reveals his secrets. He just enjoys the fight and protects those who need protecting.
"But I'm not—" Balthus began, only to be cut off as Joy Boy erased the board and wrote again:
Not yet. But you could be. Remember: strength alone is nothing. Strength with joy is everything.
Before Balthus could respond, a sound like distant thunder rolled across the sky – or perhaps it was just the continuing applause of the phantom crowd. Joy Boy glanced up, then back at Balthus with an apologetic smile. The chalkboard appeared once more:
Time to go. Places to be, people to help. But I'll see you again, King of Grappling. Keep growing stronger – but never forget why strength matters.
"Wait!" Balthus called, suddenly desperate to prolong this impossible encounter. "Will I really see you again? And how do I find my joy in fighting? And—"
But Joy Boy was already fading, his form becoming translucent as the wrestling ring, the phantom crowd, and the entire surreal scene began to dissolve around them. The last thing Balthus saw clearly were those golden eyes, crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth as Joy Boy gave him a final wink and a thumbs-up gesture.
And then Balthus was alone in the dusty square behind the tannery, with no evidence that anything extraordinary had occurred beyond a strange lightness in his chest and the lingering echo of phantom cheers in his ears.
"Young lord! There you are!" A harried voice broke through Balthus's daze. The bookmaker from earlier was hurrying across the square, trailed by a burly dockworker with fists like sledgehammers. "We've been looking all over for you! Your next bout is ready when you are – top coin on this one, the dockers have been wagering heavy!"
Balthus blinked, trying to reconcile the mundane reality of the square with the fantastical experience he had just undergone. Had it been real? A dream brought on by exhaustion and too many blows to the head? Or something in between – not quite real but not entirely imaginary either?
He looked down at his hands, expecting to find them bruised and swollen from his earlier fights. Instead, they felt somehow refreshed, the pain and fatigue of the day's exertions mysteriously absent. In fact, his entire body hummed with a new energy, as though he had just awoken from a restorative sleep rather than fought five consecutive bouts in the summer heat.
The dockworker cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping branches. "This the kid?" he asked the bookmaker, eyeing Balthus dubiously. "Bit young, ain't he?"
"Age doesn't matter in the ring," Balthus found himself saying, the words coming to him as naturally as breathing. "Only heart."
The dockworker raised an eyebrow but nodded grudgingly. "Got spirit, I'll give him that. Let's see if he's got the skills to back it up."
As they walked toward the more populated area of town where a larger crowd was gathering for the evening's entertainment, Balthus felt a strange calm settle over him. The nervous anticipation he had felt before his earlier bouts was gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that had nothing to do with whether he would win or lose, and everything to do with the joy of testing himself, of finding his limits and then pushing beyond them.
"Hey," he asked the bookmaker suddenly, "you ever heard of someone called 'The King of Grappling'?"
The man scratched his stubbled chin. "Can't say that I have. Some fighter from the capital, maybe? Or one of those masked wrestlers from Dagda?"
"No," Balthus said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just a name I heard somewhere. Thought it had a nice ring to it."
That evening, Balthus von Albrecht defeated three more opponents, including the dockworker who had initially dismissed him as too young to present a challenge. With each victory, his movements grew more fluid, his technique more assured, and the smile on his face more genuine. The crowd, sensing something special in this young fighter with the wild dark hair and the fearless grin, began to chant a name – not his given name, which few of them knew, but a title that someone in the crowd had started calling him after his first impressive win of the evening:
"KING! OF! GRAPPLING! KING! OF! GRAPPLING!"
When Balthus finally returned home that night, slipping through the servants' entrance with pockets full of winnings and a heart full of newfound purpose, he carried with him not just the memory of an impossible encounter, but the seed of the man he would become – a man who fought not from anger or fear, but from joy and the simple love of testing his strength against worthy opponents.
And if the servants noticed their young master humming a strange, rhythmic tune as he snuck back to his chambers – a tune that somehow sounded like the beat of a drum or the pounding of a joyful heart – they wisely chose not to mention it.
Fourteen years later, Balthus leaned against the stone wall of the Ashen Wolves' classroom in Abyss, idly flexing his knuckles as he watched Yuri attempt to explain the finer points of reason magic to a frustrated Hapi. At twenty-six, Balthus von Albrecht – now simply Balthus, having left his noble name behind along with the mountain of debt that accompanied it – had grown into his title. The King of Grappling was known throughout the underground fighting circuits of Fódlan as a force to be reckoned with, his fame nearly matched by his notorious bounty.
"You're wearing that stupid grin again," Constance observed, not looking up from the complicated magical formula she was transcribing. "The one that makes you look like you're plotting something or remembering something you're not sharing with the rest of us."
"Just thinking about old times, Constance," Balthus replied, his grin widening. "The first time I earned my title."
"The King of Grappling," Yuri interjected, giving up on the magic lesson for the moment. "Yes, we've all heard the story a hundred times. How you single-handedly defeated ten dock workers and proclaimed yourself royalty in the realm of punching people very hard."
"First of all, it was seven dock workers, not ten," Balthus corrected. "And second, I never proclaimed myself anything. The crowd gave me that name fair and square."
"After you suggested it to them," Hapi deadpanned, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger.
"Details," Balthus shrugged good-naturedly. "The point is, that was when I knew what I was meant to do with my life."
"Accumulate debt and hide underground from your creditors?" Constance asked sweetly.
Balthus laughed, unperturbed by the jab. "Fight. Test myself against worthy opponents. Protect those who can't protect themselves." His expression grew momentarily serious. "And do it all with joy, not anger."
"Joy, hmm?" Yuri raised an eyebrow. "That's a peculiar philosophy for someone who makes his living with his fists."
Balthus's mind drifted back to that impossible afternoon fourteen years ago – the wrestling ring that appeared from nowhere, the Mountain of Kupala sailing through the air, and those golden eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul. Most days, he convinced himself it had been nothing but a vivid dream brought on by exhaustion and too much sun. But then he would catch glimpses – a flash of white in a crowded marketplace, a distant figure with impossibly bright eyes watching from a rooftop, a silent laugh that seemed to echo in his bones rather than his ears – and he would wonder.
"Let's just say I had a good teacher," Balthus said, pushing himself away from the wall and stretching his massive frame. "The strongest dude I've ever met, as a matter of fact."
"Stronger than you?" Hapi asked skeptically. "I thought the King of Grappling bowed to no one."
Balthus's grin returned, bright and genuine. "There's always someone stronger, Hapi. The trick is to welcome that fact rather than fear it." He cracked his knuckles decisively. "Now, who's up for some training? I'm feeling the urge to grapple someone royal!"
As his friends groaned and made excuses to avoid being his sparring partner, Balthus laughed – a sound as joyful and uninhibited as the boy who had once watched the sky split open with wonder. And somewhere, perhaps in a dusty square in Kupala or a grand palace in Enbarr or a humble village in the Oghma Mountains – or perhaps everywhere at once – a white-haired youth with golden eyes paused in his endless wandering and smiled, as though hearing the echo of that laughter across the years.
Chapter 11: The Banana Blade
Summary:
In which young Catherine experiences her first encounter with the mysterious Joy Boy, who rescues her from kidnappers in the most unexpected way. What begins as a terrifying day becomes a pivotal moment in her life, teaching her that sometimes the most powerful weapons aren't forged of steel, but found in the most ordinary places - like fruit stands.
Chapter Text
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the cobblestone streets of Faerghus, casting harsh shadows that provided little respite from the summer heat. Nine-year-old Catherine—known then as Cassandra Rubens Charon—trudged along behind her governess, Lady Beatrice, with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner marching to the gallows. Her fine blue dress, meticulously pressed that morning, was now crumpled and stained with dirt from where she'd "accidentally" fallen while chasing a stray cat through the marketplace.
"Stand up straight, Lady Cassandra," Lady Beatrice hissed, pulling Catherine forward by her elbow. "A daughter of House Charon does not slouch. And for the goddess's sake, stop scowling. You'll develop wrinkles before you're twenty."
Catherine responded by scowling harder, a small act of defiance that made her feel momentarily better about being dragged through town on what her governess had euphemistically called "a cultural excursion" but was, in reality, nothing more than a tedious shopping expedition. Three hours of watching Lady Beatrice haggle over fabrics and ribbons had left Catherine in a foul mood, one not improved by the restrictive formal attire she'd been forced to wear despite the sweltering heat.
"Can we go home now?" Catherine asked, not bothering to mask the whine in her voice. "You've bought enough ribbons to decorate the entire castle for the Founding Day celebrations."
"We are not here for ribbons alone, young lady," Lady Beatrice replied primly. "Your father specifically requested that we visit the bookbinder to collect the new texts for your history lessons."
Catherine groaned. History lessons were marginally better than etiquette lessons, but still firmly in the category of "boring things adults force children to endure." What she really wanted was to be back at Castle Charon, where Thunderstrike Cassandra—her secret alter ego—could practice swordplay with the wooden blade her older brother had carved for her.
Lady Beatrice steered them through the crowded marketplace, one hand firmly gripping Catherine's shoulder as though she expected the girl to bolt at any moment—which, to be fair, Catherine had done on no fewer than three previous outings. They passed stalls selling everything from fresh fish to intricately carved wooden toys, the air thick with the mingled scents of spices, sweat, and livestock.
Catherine's attention wandered as Lady Beatrice stopped to examine a display of imported teas. Her gaze drifted across the marketplace, past the bustling crowds, to land on something unusual—a fruit vendor's cart laden with strange yellow crescent-shaped fruits she'd never seen before.
"What are those?" she asked, tugging at Lady Beatrice's sleeve and pointing.
The governess glanced over disinterestedly. "Bananas. Exotic fruits from Brigid or Dagda, I believe. Horrendously expensive and not nearly worth the coin. Now, focus, Lady Cassandra. Which of these teas do you think your mother would prefer?"
But Catherine had already stopped listening, her attention captured by the vibrant yellow fruits. She had heard of bananas in her geography lessons—tropical fruits that grew in climates much warmer than Faerghus's perpetual chill—but had never seen one in person. Why would anyone ship such delicate goods all the way to this cold northern realm? And who would pay the exorbitant prices they surely commanded?
As if in answer to her unspoken question, a commotion erupted near the fruit vendor's stall. A group of people had gathered, their excited voices rising above the general marketplace din. Catherine strained to see past the press of bodies, catching glimpses of what appeared to be a street performance of some kind.
"Lady Beatrice," she said, tugging more insistently at her governess's sleeve. "Something's happening over there. Can we go see?"
"Absolutely not," Lady Beatrice replied without looking up from the tea selection. "Street performers are common rabble-rousers, and no place for a noble daughter."
Catherine bit her lip, weighing the consequences of disobedience against her burning curiosity. The crowd's enthusiastic reactions—gasps followed by delighted laughter—tipped the scales.
"I'll be right back," she declared, already pulling away. "Just one quick look!"
"Lady Cassandra!" Lady Beatrice's scandalized cry followed her, but Catherine had already slipped into the crowd, ducking beneath elbows and squeezing between bodies with the practiced ease of a child accustomed to escaping unwanted supervision.
She emerged at the front of the gathered spectators and found herself with a perfect view of the most peculiar sight she had ever witnessed. There, in a small cleared space before the fruit vendor's cart, stood a young man unlike any Catherine had ever seen in Faerghus—or anywhere, for that matter.
He wore garments of purest white that somehow remained pristine despite the dusty marketplace. His hair was the same snowy hue, framing a face that bore an expression of such genuine joy that Catherine found herself smiling reflexively in response. But most striking were his eyes—golden and luminous, seeming to catch and reflect the sunlight like polished coins.
The white-haired youth was performing what appeared to be an elaborate mime routine, telling a story without words. He balanced atop a barrel with impossible grace, mimicking the actions of a ship's captain navigating stormy seas. Then, with a silent laugh, he leapt down, transforming mid-movement into a hapless sailor being tossed about by the waves—his body seeming to defy the very laws of nature as he bent and twisted in ways that should have been impossible for human limbs.
The crowd roared with laughter, and coins rained down around the performer. Yet Catherine noticed something odd—the youth made no move to collect the money. Instead, he gestured toward the fruit vendor, an elderly man with a weathered face, directing the audience's generosity toward him instead.
"It's him," a woman beside Catherine whispered reverently. "It's Joy Boy."
"Joy Boy?" Catherine echoed, the name unfamiliar to her.
The woman looked down at her in surprise. "You haven't heard the stories, child? Where have you been living, under a rock?"
"In a castle, actually," Catherine replied matter-of-factly.
The woman laughed. "Of course you have, with those fine clothes. Well, noble daughter, Joy Boy is... difficult to explain. Some say he's a wandering spirit who appears when people need him most. Others claim he's a trickster god taking human form. All I know is that wherever he goes, things change—usually for the better, especially for those who've been treated unjustly."
Catherine frowned, skeptical. Castle Charon's maester had taught her that such superstitions were the domain of the uneducated. Gods didn't walk among mortals, and magic, while real, followed strict rules and patterns. This sounded more like the fantastic tales her nursemaid used to tell before Lady Beatrice had dismissed the woman for "filling the child's head with nonsense."
Yet there was something undeniably strange about the white-haired performer. The way he moved, the way the light seemed to bend around him, the impossible stunts he performed with a casualness that suggested they required no effort at all.
As Catherine watched, Joy Boy produced a banana from his white garments and peeled it with a theatrical flourish. He took a bite, his expression transforming into one of such exaggerated bliss that the crowd erupted in fresh laughter. Then, without warning, he tossed the banana peel over his shoulder.
Catherine expected it to simply fall to the ground. Instead, the peel hung suspended in mid-air for a heartbeat before floating gently down to land precisely at the feet of a burly man standing at the edge of the crowd.
The man—whom Catherine hadn't noticed before—cursed under his breath. There was something off about him—something in the furtive way his eyes darted around the marketplace, in the tension that radiated from his stocky frame. He wore a cloak despite the summer heat, and one hand remained suspiciously hidden beneath its folds.
Joy Boy continued his performance, but Catherine noticed his golden gaze flick repeatedly toward the cloaked man, his smile never faltering even as his attention divided.
"Lady Cassandra!"
Catherine winced as Lady Beatrice's voice cut through the crowd noise. The governess pushed through the spectators, her face flushed with exertion and anger. "I have been looking everywhere for you! This behavior is absolutely unacceptable!"
"But Lady Beatrice, look!" Catherine pointed toward Joy Boy, who was now juggling several bananas while balanced on one foot atop a stack of crates that seemed far too unstable to support even a child's weight, let alone a grown man's. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"
"I see nothing but a common street performer wasting our valuable time," Lady Beatrice sniffed, grabbing Catherine's wrist. "Come along. We still need to visit the bookbinder before returning to the castle."
"But—"
"No arguments, Lady Cassandra. Your father will hear of this disobedience."
Catherine allowed herself to be pulled away, casting a regretful glance over her shoulder at Joy Boy. To her surprise, he was looking directly at her, those golden eyes twinkling with something that might have been amusement or concern—or perhaps both. He gave her a small nod, as if acknowledging her specifically among the dozens of spectators, before returning to his performance.
Lady Beatrice marched Catherine through the marketplace with renewed determination, her grip painfully tight on the girl's wrist. "Honestly, the very idea—a daughter of House Charon gawking at street entertainers like a common peasant! What if someone had recognized you? The scandal would have reached your father before we even returned home."
Catherine barely listened to the tirade, too busy thinking about Joy Boy and the strange banana fruit. She had never seen anyone move the way he did, as though gravity were merely a suggestion rather than a law. And there had been something in his eyes—something ancient and knowing that seemed at odds with his youthful appearance and playful demeanor.
"Are you listening to me, Lady Cassandra?" Lady Beatrice demanded.
"Yes, Lady Beatrice," Catherine answered automatically, the response so ingrained she could deliver it while completely ignoring the governess's words.
The bookbinder's shop was located at the far end of the marketplace, in a narrow alley that connected the main square to the craftsmen's district. As they turned into this quieter passage, Catherine noticed the sudden absence of the marketplace's hustle and bustle. The alley was deserted except for a single figure walking some distance ahead of them—a burly man in a cloak.
Catherine felt a prickle of unease. "Lady Beatrice," she whispered, "I think that's the man from—"
"Enough, Lady Cassandra," the governess interrupted. "I will not hear another word about that ridiculous street performer or anyone associated with him."
The cloaked man ahead of them paused, as though he'd heard Lady Beatrice's carrying voice. He turned slightly, and Catherine caught a glimpse of his face—ruddy, with a poorly healed scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His gaze locked onto them, narrowing with sudden interest.
Catherine's unease blossomed into full-fledged alarm. She tugged at Lady Beatrice's hand. "We should go back," she urged. "Take another route."
Lady Beatrice frowned down at her. "Whatever for? This is the quickest way to the bookbinder's. Really, child, your imagination runs wild. This is precisely why your father insisted on more structured education and less frivolous—"
The governess's words cut off abruptly as the cloaked man stepped directly into their path. Up close, he was even more intimidating—broad-shouldered and hulking, with hands like ham hocks and breath that reeked of cheap spirits.
"Well, well," he drawled, looking Catherine up and down with an appraising eye. "Ain't you a pretty little noble thing? All dressed up like a doll."
Lady Beatrice drew herself up to her full height, which was still considerably less than the man's. "Step aside, sir. We are on House Charon business."
A slow, unpleasant smile spread across the man's scarred face. "House Charon, is it? That's mighty interesting." His hand emerged from beneath his cloak, revealing a wickedly curved dagger. "I reckon Lord Charon would pay a tidy sum to get his little girl back safe and sound. Don't you think so, my lady?"
Lady Beatrice's face drained of color. She pushed Catherine behind her, backing away slowly. "Help!" she cried, her voice high and thin with fear. "Guards! Someone, please!"
Her cries echoed off the narrow alley walls, but no response came. The marketplace noise was too distant, the craftsmen's district too far ahead. They were caught in a dead zone between the two busier areas, exactly as the man had planned.
"No one's coming to help you, my lady," the would-be kidnapper taunted, advancing slowly, dagger held low and ready. "Now, be a good woman and hand over the little noble. Do it quiet-like, and I won't have to hurt either of you."
Catherine felt fear freeze her limbs. This wasn't like the play-fights with her brother, where wooden swords clacked harmlessly against each other. This was real danger, with real steel that could draw real blood. Thunderstrike Cassandra, her brave alter ego, seemed very far away in that moment.
Lady Beatrice was trembling but stood her ground, keeping Catherine firmly behind her. "You will not touch this child," she declared, her voice steadier than Catherine would have expected. "Do you have any idea what Lord Charon does to those who threaten his family?"
The man chuckled. "Can't do much to me if he can't find me, can he? And by the time he pays the ransom, I'll be halfway to Dagda with enough gold to live like a king." He lunged suddenly, grabbing Lady Beatrice by the throat with his free hand while keeping the dagger visible. "Last chance, woman. Step aside or bleed."
What happened next occurred so quickly that Catherine had trouble processing it. One moment, Lady Beatrice was gasping for breath in the kidnapper's grasp; the next, something yellow came sailing through the air from the direction they had come.
A banana peel—unmistakably vibrant against the dull cobblestones—landed directly in the kidnapper's path. As if compelled by some unseen force, the man stepped forward onto it. His boot made contact, and physics took over with almost comical precision.
"What the—" was all he managed before his legs shot out from under him. He flailed wildly, releasing Lady Beatrice as he desperately sought balance. The dagger flew from his grasp, clattering harmlessly against the alley wall.
The kidnapper's descent seemed to happen in slow motion. His arms windmilled, his expression transformed from menace to shock, and then—with a heavy thud and a groan of pain—he landed flat on his back, his head connecting solidly with the cobblestones.
Catherine and Lady Beatrice stood frozen, staring at the dazed man. Then a flash of white movement caught Catherine's eye. Standing at the alley entrance, twirling another banana in his hand, was Joy Boy.
He strolled toward them with the unhurried grace of someone taking a pleasant afternoon walk, not someone who had just foiled a kidnapping attempt. His golden eyes assessed the situation—the fallen kidnapper, the shaken governess, the wide-eyed noble daughter—and his ever-present smile widened with satisfaction.
The kidnapper groaned, beginning to regain his senses. Without missing a beat, Joy Boy produced another banana from somewhere within his white garments, peeled it casually, and then, with perfect nonchalance, dropped the fresh peel directly onto the man's face.
The kidnapper spluttered and clawed at the mushy fruit covering his eyes, giving Joy Boy the opportunity to make an elaborate pantomime of dusting off his hands, followed by a series of gestures that somehow clearly conveyed: And that takes care of that!
Lady Beatrice had backed away, pulling Catherine with her. "Stay behind me, Lady Cassandra," she whispered, though whether she perceived Joy Boy as another threat or a savior remained unclear.
Joy Boy noticed their uncertainty. With deliberate slowness, he reached into his garments once more and produced yet another banana—his third, by Catherine's count, though she couldn't imagine where he was storing them all. He extended it toward her, his golden eyes twinkling with gentle encouragement.
"Lady Beatrice," Catherine whispered, tugging at her governess's sleeve. "He saved us. I think... I think he wants to be friends."
"Nonsense," Lady Beatrice hissed, though with less conviction than usual. "We have no idea who—or what—this person is."
But Catherine was already slipping out from behind her protector, approaching Joy Boy with cautious steps. She stopped just beyond arm's reach, studying him with the intense curiosity only a nine-year-old can muster.
"Are you really Joy Boy?" she asked. "The woman in the crowd said you might be a god."
Joy Boy's silent laughter shook his shoulders. He shook his head firmly, then pointed to his chest before spreading his arms wide in a gesture that somehow conveyed: Just a friend passing through.
"You saved us with a banana peel," Catherine continued, both amazed and slightly incredulous. "How did you know it would work?"
Joy Boy winked and mimed slipping dramatically, his body contorting in ways that should have been impossible as he enacted an exaggerated fall without actually hitting the ground. Then he straightened and again offered the banana to Catherine.
This time, she accepted it. The fruit felt strangely heavy in her small hands, its yellow skin smooth and surprisingly firm. "I've never eaten one before," she admitted. "How do you open it?"
Joy Boy's eyebrows shot up in exaggerated surprise. Then, with the solemn air of someone performing a sacred ritual, he demonstrated—gripping the stem end and peeling back the skin to reveal the pale, crescent-shaped fruit within.
Catherine mimicked his actions, delighted when the peel came away easily. She sniffed the exposed banana cautiously, then took a small bite. The texture was softer than she'd expected, the flavor sweet and unlike anything she'd tasted before.
"It's good!" she declared, taking another, larger bite.
Joy Boy beamed, clearly pleased by her enjoyment. Then his attention shifted to the kidnapper, who was beginning to stir more purposefully now. With a fluid motion that was almost too fast to follow, Joy Boy produced a length of rope—from where, Catherine couldn't begin to guess—and in three quick movements had the would-be kidnapper bound securely.
Lady Beatrice, who had been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes, finally found her voice. "We... we must thank you, sir," she said stiffly. "Your intervention was most timely."
Joy Boy executed an elaborate bow, complete with flourishes that would have looked ridiculous coming from anyone else but somehow seemed perfectly natural for him. When he straightened, he pointed down the alley toward the craftsmen's district, then made a series of gestures that Catherine interpreted as: Shall I escort you the rest of the way?
"Yes, please!" Catherine answered before Lady Beatrice could object. "And can you show me more things to do with bananas on the way?"
Joy Boy's golden eyes sparkled with mischief. He produced yet another banana, peeled it halfway, then held it to his ear like a speaking trumpet. He nodded seriously, as though receiving important information, before offering it to Catherine with an expression that clearly said: Try it!
Giggling, Catherine mimicked the gesture, holding the partially peeled banana to her ear. "I don't hear anything," she admitted after a moment.
Joy Boy shook his head and mimed listening more intently. Catherine tried again, concentrating harder this time.
"Still nothing," she reported.
Joy Boy slapped his forehead in mock realization. He took the banana back, peeled it completely, took a bite, then offered the remainder to Catherine with a cheeky grin that said: That's what they're really for!
Catherine's laughter echoed off the alley walls. Even Lady Beatrice, still shaken but recovering, managed a tentative smile.
As they walked toward the bookbinder's shop, leaving the trussed-up kidnapper for the city guards to find, Joy Boy performed an ongoing series of banana-related antics—using the peels as impromptu mustaches, pretending the fruits were tiny boats sailing through the air, balancing one atop his head while executing a perfect cartwheel.
By the time they reached their destination, Catherine had consumed two entire bananas and was clutching a third for later. Her fear had completely dissipated, replaced by a sense of wonder and excitement. This had been, without question, the most interesting "cultural excursion" of her life.
At the bookbinder's doorstep, Joy Boy made a show of checking an imaginary timepiece, then mimicked regretful farewell.
"Do you have to go?" Catherine asked, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Joy Boy nodded solemnly. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his golden eyes, he produced one final banana and pressed it into her hands. He pointed to it, then at her, then mimed a comical slipping motion followed by a triumphant pose.
"I think," Lady Beatrice said slowly, "he's suggesting you keep it as a... weapon?"
Joy Boy clapped his hands silently, pointing at Lady Beatrice with an approving nod.
Catherine examined the banana with newfound respect. "A weapon," she repeated, turning the concept over in her mind. Conventional wisdom said weapons were made of steel and wood—swords, axes, lances. The idea that something as simple and silly as a banana peel could bring down a dangerous man seemed absurd.
And yet, she had seen it with her own eyes.
"I'll practice," she promised solemnly. "Though I still want a real sword someday."
Joy Boy's shoulders shook with silent laughter. He ruffled her hair—a liberty that would have earned anyone else a sharp rebuke from Lady Beatrice, but which the governess allowed to pass without comment—then backed away, bowing deeply to them both.
As he straightened from his bow, a shaft of sunlight broke through the narrow gap between the alley buildings, illuminating him in golden radiance. He stepped into the light, his white garments and hair seeming to absorb and reflect it simultaneously, creating an effect like a miniature sun.
And then, between one blink and the next, he was gone—leaving behind nothing but the memory of golden eyes and a faint scent of tropical fruit.
Nine years later, Cassandra Rubens Charon—now known simply as Catherine, a Knight of Seiros and wielder of the legendary Thunderbrand—stood over a groaning bandit, the tip of her sword resting lightly against his throat. Around her lay the scattered remains of his compatriots, some moaning in pain, others unconscious, none dead—exactly as Lady Rhea had instructed when dispatching Catherine and her partner to deal with the road agents plaguing the trade routes near Garreg Mach.
"You're slipping in your old age," a dry voice commented behind her. "One of them almost got away."
Catherine grinned without turning around. "But he didn't, did he, Shamir?"
Shamir Nevrand, former Dagdan sniper and Catherine's reluctant partner in the Knights of Seiros, stood with her bow still loosely nocked, her expression a familiar blend of exasperation and grudging amusement. "Only because he tripped over that... thing you threw." She nudged the object with her toe, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Seriously, Catherine? A banana peel?"
"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Catherine replied cheerfully, sheathing Thunderbrand with a flourish after ensuring the bandit was securely bound. "That's the third one this month who's gone down that way. They never see it coming."
"Because it's ridiculous," Shamir muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched suspiciously. "Normal knights use normal weapons. Not fruit."
Catherine reached into her pack and extracted a slightly bruised banana, offering it to her partner with a challenging grin. "Want one? I always carry a few. Never know when you might need a snack... or an unexpected advantage."
Shamir rolled her eyes but accepted the fruit. "You're impossible."
"That's what makes me so much fun to work with," Catherine countered, already moving to secure the remaining bandits for transport back to the monastery. As she worked, she hummed a tuneless melody, remembering golden eyes and impossible movements and the day she'd learned that sometimes the most effective weapons were the ones your enemies least expected.
She'd never seen Joy Boy again after that day in the alley, though she'd heard stories over the years—tales of the white-haired wanderer who appeared when needed most, who righted wrongs with a smile and vanished like mist in the morning sun. Some called him a god, others a spirit, still others a highly trained performer with an unusual sense of humor.
Catherine didn't know what to believe, but she knew what she'd seen. And she knew that somewhere out there, a silent figure with golden eyes might be watching, might see her using his unorthodox tactics, and might be laughing that silent laugh that seemed to echo in the heart rather than the ears.
"Hurry up," Shamir called, already loading the first of the bound bandits onto their cart. "Lady Rhea is expecting us back before sunset."
"Coming," Catherine replied, finishing the knots on the last bandit's bindings with practiced efficiency. She paused, glancing skyward at the late afternoon sun. "Just paying my respects to an old friend."
Shamir followed her gaze, saw nothing but empty sky, and shook her head. "One of these days," she said, "you're going to have to tell me the real story behind your strange fruit fixation."
Catherine grinned, tossing a fresh banana peel onto the grass beside the road. "Maybe someday," she agreed. "But you probably wouldn't believe me."
As they set off toward Garreg Mach, Catherine's hand drifted to the small pouch at her belt—a special compartment she'd had fashioned specifically to carry her unorthodox "weapons." The familiar weight of the bananas nestled there was comforting, a reminder of the day she'd learned that strength came in many forms, that the unexpected could be powerful, and that sometimes the most serious lessons arrived wrapped in laughter.
Some knights had lucky charms or sacred relics. Catherine had bananas. And in her opinion, that made her the luckiest knight of all.
Chapter 12: The Flick That Changed Everything
Summary:
In which a disgraced son of House Gautier encounters the mysterious Joy Boy in the forests of Faerghus. What begins as an attempted robbery becomes a year-long journey of redemption across Fódlan, teaching the bitter young man that there is more to strength than Crests, more to life than birthright, and more to family than blood.
Chapter Text
The cold bit through Miklan's threadbare cloak like daggers, each gust of wind a fresh assault on bones that had known little warmth these past weeks. He huddled deeper into the meager shelter of the forest hollow, watching with narrowed eyes as travelers passed along the main road. His stomach growled, a painful reminder that it had been two days since his last proper meal—if stale bread and a withered apple could be called "proper."
Sixteen years old, and this was what had become of the once-heir to House Gautier. Sleeping in ditches, stealing what food he could, and lurking in forests like a common bandit. All because he'd been born wrong.
No, not wrong. Crestless .
The word burned like acid in his mind as he watched a merchant's cart rumble past, laden with goods bound for the capital. Miklan's hands clenched involuntarily, remembering the way his father had looked at him that final day—not with rage, but with something far worse: disappointment, as though Miklan were a failed investment rather than a son.
"You endangered your brother for the last time," Margrave Matthias Raoul Gautier had declared, his voice carrying the final weight of judgment. "The true heir to House Gautier."
True heir. As if blood and birthright meant nothing without that cursed Crest.
Six weeks had passed since he'd been cast out. Six weeks of hunger, cold, and growing rage. The first two weeks, Miklan had convinced himself it was temporary—surely his father would relent, would send riders to bring him home. By the third week, that hope had curdled into bitterness. By the sixth, into hatred.
Not just for his father. Not just for Sylvain, the nine-year-old usurper who'd stolen everything that should have been his. But for everyone who walked the world with easy smiles and full bellies, everyone who slept in warm beds while he shivered beneath the stars.
The merchant's cart disappeared around a bend, and Miklan slumped back against the gnarled oak that had been his companion for three days now. Perhaps tomorrow he would have better luck. Perhaps tomorrow someone weaker, more vulnerable would pass. Someone he could—
A flash of white through the trees caught his attention.
Miklan straightened, suddenly alert. A lone figure was moving through the forest, not along the road but weaving between trees with the casual confidence of someone taking a pleasant stroll through their own garden. The figure was dressed all in white—impractically clean white, the kind that should have been immediately soiled by the forest floor.
"Idiot," Miklan muttered, a predatory gleam entering his eyes.
Only a complete fool would wander the forests of northern Faerghus alone, dressed like a noble's pampered son on his way to a garden party. The stranger might as well have painted a target on his back. Miklan's hand moved to the crude dagger at his belt—stolen from a farmer's kitchen three villages back—and he rose silently from his hiding place.
The white-clad figure continued his meandering path, occasionally pausing to examine a flower or appreciate the dappled sunlight breaking through the canopy. He seemed utterly oblivious to any danger, and something about his carefree demeanor stoked Miklan's rage to new heights. How dare anyone be so cheerful, so unconcerned, while he suffered?
Miklan tracked the stranger through the underbrush, moving from tree to tree with practiced stealth. As he drew closer, he could make out more details: the stranger's hair was as white as his clothing, a stark contrast against the greens and browns of the forest. He appeared unarmed, carrying nothing but what looked like a small satchel at his side.
Perfect. An unarmed, wealthy fool, ripe for the taking.
When the distance had closed to less than ten paces, Miklan made his move. He burst from behind a thick fir tree, dagger raised, a snarl contorting his features.
"Your purse or your life!" he growled, the words feeling strange and theatrical on his tongue—words he'd heard in stories but never imagined saying himself.
The white-haired stranger turned, and Miklan faltered mid-step.
Golden eyes. Eyes like liquid sunlight, bright and impossible, fixed on him with mild curiosity rather than fear. The stranger's perpetual smile didn't waver; if anything, it widened slightly, as though Miklan had just told an amusing joke rather than threatened his life.
Before Miklan could recover his momentum, the stranger stepped aside with casual grace—not hurried, not frightened, just a simple shift that left Miklan charging past him and straight into a thorny bush.
Pain exploded across Miklan's face and arms as thorns tore at his exposed skin. He howled, more in rage than agony, and whirled back around, dagger still clutched in his bleeding hand.
"You'll pay for that!" he spat, lunging again.
This time, the stranger didn't step aside. Instead, he simply stood his ground—and when Miklan's blade should have connected with flesh, it somehow slid past, as though the white-clad figure were made of mist rather than matter. Miklan's own momentum betrayed him again, sending him stumbling forward. Strong hands caught him by the shoulders, spun him around as easily as one might turn a child's top, and then—inexplicably—Miklan found himself flying through the air.
He landed hard on his back, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. The forest canopy spun dizzily above him as he gasped like a landed fish. When he finally managed to roll onto his side, the stranger was standing over him, head tilted to one side, that infuriating smile still firmly in place.
And then, with terrible clarity, Miklan knew exactly who—or what—he had just attacked.
The rumors had reached even the sheltered halls of House Gautier. Tales of a white-haired youth with golden eyes who appeared when most needed, who never spoke yet somehow communicated volumes, who could not be harmed and vanished like mist in sunlight. Joy Boy, some called him. The Liberator. The Silent One.
Miklan had dismissed the stories as peasant superstition, the kind of mythmaking common folk engaged in to distract themselves from the harsh realities of life. But there was no mistaking those golden eyes, that impossible white hair, that permanent smile that somehow conveyed more emotion than most people's entire faces.
"You're him," Miklan wheezed, scrambling backward along the forest floor. "You're Joy Boy."
The figure gave no confirmation, but something in those golden eyes twinkled with what might have been acknowledgment. Fear clutched at Miklan's heart. What would Joy Boy do to him? The stories varied wildly—some said he never harmed anyone, others that those who opposed him met strange and terrible fates. Would Miklan find himself transformed into a tree? Struck mute for the rest of his days? Cursed to wander the forests, forever lost?
But instead of any magical retribution, Joy Boy simply stepped forward, bent down, and—with startling speed—flicked Miklan hard in the center of his forehead.
The pain was immediate and disproportionate, as though the slender finger contained the force of a blacksmith's hammer. Miklan yelped, hands flying to the spot which already felt like it was swelling into a sizeable lump. When he pulled his fingers away, they came back spotted with blood.
Yet when he looked up, prepared to launch into a tirade of curses, Joy Boy was already walking away, continuing his meandering path through the forest as though nothing had happened.
"Hey!" Miklan shouted, struggling to his feet. "That's it? You're just going to leave?"
Joy Boy didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge the shout in any way. He simply kept walking, an impossible figure in white, soon to be swallowed by the shadows of the ancient forest.
But something snapped in Miklan then—not rage, not fear, but a desperate need to understand. What had just happened? Why had he been spared with nothing but a flick to the forehead? What did it mean?
Before he could question his own actions, Miklan found himself stumbling after the retreating figure, one hand pressed to his bleeding forehead, the other still clutching his useless dagger.
"Wait!" he called. "Just... wait!"
Joy Boy didn't slow his pace, didn't give any indication he'd heard. But he didn't disappear either, maintaining a speed that kept him just visible through the trees—always ahead, but never quite out of sight.
It was, Miklan realized belatedly, exactly the pace one would set if one wanted to be followed.
Three days later, Miklan found himself standing waist-deep in frigid river water, struggling to repair a damaged mill wheel while the miller and his family watched anxiously from the bank. His hands were raw and bleeding from the rough work, his muscles screaming with effort as he heaved against the massive wooden components.
"A little more to the left!" the miller called. "The axle needs to fit into the bearing!"
Miklan grunted, shifting his weight to leverage the wheel slightly leftward. It was backbreaking work, the kind he'd never imagined doing in his former life as heir to House Gautier. Servants did this sort of labor, or paid workmen—not nobles.
Yet here he was, performing physical labor like a common peasant, all because of Joy Boy and his inscrutable ways.
The pattern had established itself quickly after that first encounter. Joy Boy never acknowledged Miklan directly, never gave any sign that he was aware of being followed. But neither did he make any effort to lose his unwanted shadow. Instead, he simply traveled from village to village, farm to farm, appearing wherever help was needed.
And somehow—through means Miklan couldn't begin to understand—he ensured that Miklan helped as well.
The first time had been at a small farmstead where a roof had collapsed under the weight of early snow. Joy Boy had arrived, assessed the situation with those golden eyes, and immediately set to work alongside the farmer. Miklan, hidden in the nearby trees, had watched with grudging curiosity.
When Joy Boy finished helping the grateful farmer and continued on his way, Miklan had followed—only to find himself face-to-face with the same farmer moments later, asking if he was "Joy Boy's apprentice" and could he please help repair the chicken coop as well?
Before Miklan could refuse, he'd felt it—a presence behind him, and the distinct impression that refusal would earn him another of those painful flicks. He'd turned, seen Joy Boy watching from a distance, that perpetual smile somehow more pointed than before, and found himself agreeing to help.
The pattern repeated itself at every stop. Joy Boy would arrive, help those in need, and move on—while Miklan found himself drafted into service cleaning stables, mending fences, carrying water, or whatever task needed doing. If he tried to shirk or complain, Joy Boy would materialize as if from nowhere, those golden eyes fixed on him in silent admonishment, one finger raised in warning.
The wheel finally slotted into place with a satisfying thunk, and Miklan sagged with relief. His legs had lost all feeling in the icy water, but the job was done. The mill could operate again, and the village would have flour for the winter.
"Bless you, young man," the miller said as Miklan waded back to shore, his sodden clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. "We'd have starved without this repair."
Miklan nodded stiffly, uncomfortable with gratitude. He'd never been thanked for anything in his life—had been born to expect service, not provide it.
"Your master is waiting in the tavern," the miller continued, gesturing toward the village square. "Said to tell you he's proud of your work today."
Miklan's head snapped up. "He spoke to you?"
The miller looked confused. "No, no. Joy Boy never speaks, everyone knows that. But he has ways of making himself understood." The man tapped his chest. "You just feel what he means, right here."
Miklan wanted to scoff, to dismiss this as more peasant superstition, but he couldn't. He'd felt it himself—the strange communication that passed from Joy Boy without words, meanings that registered directly in the mind or heart.
"He's not my master," Miklan muttered, but the protest sounded weak even to his own ears.
The miller smiled knowingly. "Whatever you say, lad. There's dry clothes and a hot meal waiting for you, courtesy of the village. Least we can do."
As Miklan trudged toward the village tavern, he caught sight of Joy Boy sitting outside on a rough-hewn bench, surrounded by children who watched in delighted awe as he produced flower after flower from seemingly nowhere, each blossom materializing between his white-gloved fingers before being presented to a wide-eyed child.
Joy Boy looked up as Miklan approached, those golden eyes meeting his for a brief moment. There was something approving in that gaze—or perhaps Miklan only imagined it, desperate as he was for any acknowledgment of his labor.
Either way, he found himself standing straighter as he passed, oddly proud of the day's work despite his exhaustion. Perhaps it was worth it, this strange servitude, if it meant a dry place to sleep and a hot meal in his belly.
And perhaps, just perhaps, there was something to be said for the naked gratitude in the miller's eyes—so different from the calculating assessments he'd grown accustomed to in noble society, where every interaction was weighed for advantage or disadvantage.
Weeks turned to months, and the seasons changed around them as they traveled. Miklan lost track of how many villages they'd visited, how many people they'd helped. They moved in a great meandering circle across Faerghus, dipping occasionally into Alliance territory, even venturing once to the northern borders of the Adrestian Empire.
Through summer heat and autumn chill, they walked. Joy Boy never seemed to tire, never seemed affected by weather or terrain. Miklan, however, grew leaner and harder with each passing day, the softness of noble upbringing weathered away by constant travel and labor.
They helped farmers bring in harvests and midwives deliver babies. They rebuilt structures destroyed by storms and rescued livestock from precarious situations. They carried messages between isolated communities and escorted vulnerable travelers through dangerous passes.
And everywhere they went, Miklan noticed the same reverent reaction to Joy Boy's presence—the whispers, the wide eyes, the smiles that bloomed like flowers turning toward the sun. Some called him god, spirit, or saint, but most simply called him friend—the strange, silent friend who appeared when needed most.
What began as grudging service slowly transformed in Miklan. The resentment remained—he was still Crestless, still disinherited, still cast aside by his family—but it was joined by something else: a growing pride in work well done, in problems solved through the strength of his back and the skill of his hands rather than the accident of his birth.
And sometimes, in unguarded moments, he found himself genuinely enjoying the simple pleasure of helping others—a concept so foreign to his upbringing that he hardly recognized the warm feeling in his chest for what it was.
One evening, as they sheltered in a small woodland shrine dedicated to some forgotten local deity, Miklan finally voiced the question that had been building within him for months.
"Why me?" he asked the silent figure sitting cross-legged beside the shrine's small fire. "Of all the people in Fódlan, why waste your time on me?"
Joy Boy looked up, those golden eyes reflecting the dancing flames. His smile, ever-present, seemed somehow thoughtful.
Miklan plowed ahead, the words tumbling out now that he'd begun. "I'm nobody. Worse than nobody—I'm a failure. Born without what matters, cast aside by my own blood. I tried to—" His voice caught, something like shame finally penetrating the armor of his resentment. "I tried to hurt a child. My own brother. Because of what he had that I didn't."
The admission hung in the air between them, the first time Miklan had spoken aloud the truth of his banishment. Joy Boy's expression didn't change, but something in his posture invited Miklan to continue.
"So why not let me rot in that forest? Why bother with me at all?"
Joy Boy rose in one fluid motion and approached where Miklan sat hunched against the shrine wall. For a moment, Miklan thought he might receive another of those painful flicks—though those had grown less frequent as the months passed and his complaints diminished.
Instead, Joy Boy knelt before him and reached out one white-gloved hand, pressing it gently against Miklan's chest, directly over his heart.
The sensation that followed was impossible to describe—like warmth and light flowing directly into his body, bypassing skin and bone to touch something essential at his core. With it came understanding, not in words but in pure emotion:
Because what's broken can be mended. Because what's dark can be illuminated. Because even the hardest heart can learn to beat for others instead of only itself.
Tears sprang to Miklan's eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. He jerked away from the touch, scrubbing roughly at his face with the back of his hand.
"That's naive," he growled, but the words lacked conviction. "People don't change. Not really."
Joy Boy's smile widened slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners in what looked surprisingly like genuine amusement. He made an expansive gesture that encompassed Miklan from head to toe, then pointed to the shrine's small window, through which the evening stars were beginning to appear.
The meaning was clear enough: Look how far you've already come.
Miklan had no answer for that. He turned away, pretending to arrange his bedroll, but the warmth in his chest remained—a small, stubborn flame where once there had been only cold resentment.
That night, he dreamed of his brother Sylvain—not as the usurper who had stolen his birthright, but as the small child who had followed him adoringly before things went wrong, before Crests and inheritance poisoned what should have been an unbreakable bond.
He woke with tears on his face and a strange, painful longing in his heart.
Winter came, harsh and unforgiving as always in Faerghus. They traveled south as the first snows fell, seeking milder weather in Alliance territory. There, in a small village nestled at the foot of Fódlan's Throat, Miklan encountered something completely outside his experience: a gathering of what the locals called "Joyists."
They met in a converted barn on the outskirts of the village—people from all walks of life, from weather-beaten farmers to sharp-eyed merchants and knights, from gray-haired elders to bright-faced children. They brought food to share and stories to tell, creating a feast from humble ingredients and a celebration from simple pleasures.
And they spoke of Joy Boy not as a god to be worshipped but as a friend who had shown them a better way to live—with open hands and open hearts, finding liberation in service rather than dominion.
"The first time I saw him," recounted an elderly woman with hands gnarled from decades of fieldwork, "I was at my lowest. My husband dead, my crop failed, tax collectors at my door. I was ready to end it all." She smiled, the lines in her face deepening. "Then there he was in my field, planting seeds by moonlight. Didn't say a word, just worked all night. By morning, my entire field was planted with a faster-growing crop that would yield before winter. Saved my life, he did."
"He freed my children," added a dark-skinned man whose accent marked him as Almyran. "Taken by Fódlan bandits while we fished near the border. The authorities did nothing—just Almyran children, after all." The bitterness in his voice was old but still potent. "But Joy Boy returned them three days later, unharmed. The bandits were found trussed up like festival hogs in the town square, each with a sunflower stuck in their mouth."
Tale after tale of unexpected help, of justice served with a certain whimsical flair, of burdens lifted and paths illuminated. Miklan listened, fascinated despite himself, as he realized just how long Joy Boy had been wandering Fódlan, how many lives he had touched.
"What is this?" he finally asked a youngish man who seemed to be some sort of leader in the gathering. "Some kind of church?"
The man laughed, shaking his head. "Nothing so formal as that. We're just people whose lives have been changed by him. We gather to remember, to share our stories, to help each other as he helped us." He gestured to the simple meal being shared, the easy camaraderie among people of different backgrounds and stations. "This is Joyism, if it's anything—finding joy in freedom and freedom in service."
"That makes no sense," Miklan objected. "Freedom and service are opposites."
The man smiled. "Are they? Consider this: a noble serves his king because he must, because duty and tradition demand it. A free man serves where he sees need, because his heart moves him to act. Which service is more true? Which servant is more free?"
Miklan had no immediate answer. He watched as Joy Boy moved through the gathering, somehow both the center of attention and its most self-effacing participant. Unlike in the churches Miklan had attended as a child—formal affairs where the goddess was distant and the clergy solemn—here the object of reverence was present, tangible, passing bread with his own hands and listening to each speaker with undivided attention.
Yet for all the adoration directed his way, Joy Boy himself constantly redirected it—turning praise into opportunities for others to be recognized, deflecting gratitude toward practical action. There was something both unsettling and compelling about it, a form of leadership that led by lifting others rather than standing above them.
Later that night, as the gathering dispersed and people returned to their homes, Miklan found himself lingering, helping to clean the space without being asked—a small miracle in itself for anyone who had known him before.
"Will you join us again?" asked the young leader as they worked. "You're welcome here, you know. Whatever your past."
Miklan hesitated. "I'm just passing through."
"Aren't we all?" The man smiled. "But while we're passing, we might as well pass together." He extended a hand. "I'm Edrick, by the way."
"Miklan." He took the offered hand, surprised by the firm, honest grip. "Miklan of..." He stopped, realizing he could no longer claim House Gautier as his own. "Just Miklan."
Edrick nodded, asking no further questions, and Miklan felt a weight lift that he hadn't realized he was carrying. Here, no one cared about his Crestless status or his noble lineage. Here, he was just another person in a gathering of equals, judged only by his actions in the present moment.
It was terrifying. It was liberating.
They stayed in that village through the worst of winter, and Miklan found himself drawn back to the Joyist gatherings again and again. There was something in their simple philosophy that spoke to the wounded place inside him—a vision of a world where bloodlines and Crests didn't determine a person's worth, where strength was measured in how much one lifted others rather than how much power one held over them.
By the time spring arrived, bringing with it the first brave crocuses pushing through melting snow, Miklan realized he had changed in ways both subtle and profound. His body was harder, his hands calloused from honest work. His face, once perpetually twisted in resentment, had learned new expressions—concentration, satisfaction, even occasional laughter.
But the greater change was within. The burning coal of hatred that had fueled him after his banishment had cooled, not to cold ash but to something steadier—a banked fire that could warm rather than consume.
The year turned full circle. Exactly twelve months from the day Miklan had first encountered Joy Boy in the northern forests of Faerghus, they stood together on a hill overlooking a bustling market town near the border of the Alliance and the Empire. Spring was in full bloom, the countryside a riot of colors after winter's austere palette.
"I think I understand now," Miklan said quietly, not looking at his silent companion. "What you've been trying to teach me."
Joy Boy made no response, but his golden eyes turned toward Miklan, their expression attentive.
"All my life, I believed strength came from what you were born with—a Crest, a name, a title. I hated my brother for having what I lacked, blamed him for taking what I thought was mine by right." Miklan ran a hand through his hair, longer now and streaked with sun-bleached strands from months outdoors. "But strength isn't given at birth. It's built day by day, choice by choice."
He gestured down toward the town, where people went about their business—merchants trading, children playing, workers laboring, all part of the great tapestry of ordinary life.
"They're strong—those people down there. The farmer who breaks his back to feed his family, the mother who stays up nights with a sick child, the blacksmith creating tools that will outlast his own hands. They don't need Crests to matter. Their lives have meaning without ancient blood or fancy titles."
Miklan turned to face Joy Boy directly. "And I don't either. That's what you wanted me to see, isn't it? That I could build something better than what was taken from me. Something that no one can take away because it comes from inside, not from inheritance or bloodline."
Joy Boy's eternal smile seemed to soften, becoming something more personal, more genuine. He extended one white-gloved hand and placed it gently on Miklan's head—not a flick this time, but a pat, the kind a teacher might give a pupil who has finally grasped a difficult lesson.
The touch lasted only a moment, but it conveyed volumes: approval, affection, and a gentle push toward independence. Then Joy Boy stepped back, made a small bow, and turned as if to leave.
"Wait," Miklan said, suddenly alarmed. "Are you going? Just like that?"
Joy Boy didn't turn back, but he raised one hand in a simple wave—not goodbye, Miklan somehow knew, but see you around. Then, between one step and the next, between one blink and another, he was gone—not vanished dramatically but simply no longer there, as though he had stepped behind an invisible curtain into some other realm of existence.
Miklan stood alone on the hillside, the spring breeze ruffling his hair. For the first time in a year, he had no one to follow, no silent guide to direct his path. The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He was free—truly free, perhaps for the first time in his life. Free from the crushing expectations of House Gautier, free from the bitter resentment that had consumed him after his banishment, free even from the strange apprenticeship that had occupied the past year.
What would he do with that freedom?
The answer came more easily than he expected. Down in the town, people were living their lives, building their futures day by day, choice by choice. He would do the same. Not as the disinherited son of House Gautier, bitter and vengeful, but as Miklan—just Miklan—with hands that had learned to create rather than destroy and a heart that had learned to give rather than only take.
He touched the spot on his forehead where Joy Boy had flicked him that first day, long healed now but somehow still significant—the point where his old life had ended and his new one begun.
"Thank you," he said to the empty air, knowing somehow that the words would find their way to those golden eyes, that eternal smile. "I won't waste it."
Then, shouldering his pack—fuller now than the meager possessions he'd carried a year ago, rich with gifts from those he'd helped and mementos from places he'd visited—Miklan started down the hill toward the town, toward whatever future he would build with his own two hands.
Behind him, though he didn't see it, a single sunflower suddenly bloomed on the hillside where none had been before—a silent farewell gift from a friend who never spoke but somehow said everything that mattered.
The merchant convoy wound its way through the mountain pass, wagons groaning under the weight of valuable goods. At its head rode a broad-shouldered man with russet hair streaked with early gray at the temples, his watchful eyes scanning the treacherous terrain. A long scar ran across his left cheek, the mark of a battle long past, but it didn't detract from the quiet authority in his features.
"Hold," Miklan called, raising his fist. The convoy creaked to a halt behind him, the experienced drivers responding instantly to his command. "Something's not right."
His second-in-command, a battle-hardened woman from Sreng named Kylva, rode up beside him. "Bandits?" she asked, hand already moving to the axe at her side.
Miklan narrowed his eyes, studying the narrow pass ahead. "Maybe. Or just desperate people. Either way, we should—"
An arrow whistled through the air, missing Miklan's shoulder by inches. Instantly, the mounted guards accompanying the convoy formed a protective perimeter around the wagons.
"Defensive positions!" Miklan shouted, drawing his own weapon—not the crude dagger he'd once threatened Joy Boy with, but a well-crafted sword, unadorned but perfectly balanced. "Remember, we don't kill unless absolutely necessary!"
The ambush was clumsy and poorly coordinated—the work of amateurs rather than professional bandits. Within minutes, Miklan's trained mercenaries had subdued the attackers, a group of thin, ragged men and women whose desperation showed in their hollow eyes.
Miklan dismounted, approaching their leader—a gaunt-faced man clutching a rusty blade with white-knuckled intensity.
"You picked the wrong convoy," Miklan said, not unkindly. "The Liberator's Hand doesn't carry unprotected cargo."
The man's eyes widened at the name. "The Liberator's Hand? We didn't know—we thought you were just another noble's shipment." His voice cracked with a mixture of fear and shame. "Our village, it's been three weeks without proper food. The blight took our crops, and the local lord won't release his stores..."
Miklan studied the man, seeing in him echoes of his former self—the desperate youth ready to prey on others because his own circumstances felt so hopeless. But where once he might have seen only a bandit deserving punishment, now he saw a man driven by need, trying to feed his people the only way he knew how.
"Kylva," Miklan called over his shoulder. "Have Brendt bring up the supply wagon. And send for Eliza—we have wounded to tend to."
"You're helping us?" the man asked incredulously. "After we attacked you?"
Miklan sheathed his sword. "Eight years ago, I was in your position—worse, actually. I was attacking innocent travelers out of bitterness rather than necessity." He gestured toward the convoy, where his people were already unloading supplies. "The Liberator's Hand doesn't just trade goods, friend. We bring aid where it's needed."
As his mercenaries distributed food and medicine to the would-be ambushers, Miklan questioned them about their village's situation. The story was a familiar one—a poor harvest, a lord more concerned with collecting taxes than ensuring his people's survival, and the creeping specter of starvation as winter approached.
"We'll detour to your village," Miklan decided. "My healers can tend to the sick, and we have enough surplus to see you through until the next planting season." He fixed the village leader with a stern gaze. "In return, two things: First, no more ambushes. If you need help, seek out the Joyist communities—they'll get word to me. Second, when you're back on your feet, you help the next village that struggles. That's how it works."
The man clasped Miklan's forearm, tears welling in his eyes. "Done. On my life, done. But why help strangers who tried to rob you?"
Miklan's hand unconsciously rose to his forehead, to the spot where a flick had changed everything. "Because someone once helped me when I deserved it least," he said simply. "And I promised not to waste the chance I was given."
The village of Kestrel's Roost sat nestled in a verdant valley where the borders of Faerghus and Sreng blurred together—not a place marked on any official map, but a thriving community nonetheless. Stone houses with high-peaked roofs lined well-kept streets, and colorful gardens bloomed even in the cooling autumn air.
In the center of the village stood a structure unlike the others—a large circular building with a domed roof, its walls adorned with painted sunflowers and its doors open wide to welcome all who passed. Above its entrance, a simple wooden sign bore a carving of a smiling face with two dots for eyes.
A small girl with wild auburn curls and skin a shade between her father's pale Fódlan complexion and her mother's deeper Sreng tones raced through these open doors, her laughter echoing off the wooden rafters within.
"Papa! Papa!" she called, weaving between the benches where villagers gathered for the evening meal. "Uncle Syl is here! He brought me a present!"
Miklan looked up from where he had been deep in conversation with the village elder, a smile transforming his scarred face from forbidding to warm in an instant. At twenty-five, he still bore the solid build of his youth, but it was now honed by years of purposeful work rather than petty resentment. His eyes, once perpetually narrowed in suspicion, now crinkled at the corners from frequent smiles.
"Did he now, Freya?" Miklan rose, scooping up his daughter and settling her on his shoulders. "And did you thank him properly?"
The little girl giggled, tugging on her father's hair. "I did! Mama said I had very good manners. It's a book about the stars, Papa. Can we look at them tonight? Please?"
"If the skies are clear, little one." Miklan navigated through the gathering hall, nodding greetings to villagers as he passed. The space served many purposes—dining hall, meeting place, school, and gathering point for the local Joyist community. Tonight, it buzzed with activity as people prepared for the harvest festival.
Outside, Miklan spotted his brother immediately. Sylvain stood by the village well, flirting good-naturedly with a young woman drawing water—some things never changed—but his demeanor shifted to genuine warmth when he caught sight of Miklan and Freya approaching.
"There's my favorite niece!" Sylvain called out, his grin widening.
"I'm your only niece, silly!" Freya corrected him from her perch on her father's shoulders.
"All the more reason you're my favorite." Sylvain stepped forward, clasping his brother's forearm in greeting. At seventeen, he had grown into a handsome young man, the beginnings of his adult frame promising the same broad-shouldered build as his brother, though tempered with a charm that Miklan had never possessed.
"Didn't expect you until tomorrow," Miklan said, lowering Freya to the ground so she could properly hug her uncle. "Everything alright at home?"
A shadow crossed Sylvain's face briefly. "Same as always. Father sends his... regards." The hesitation spoke volumes about the strained relationship between Miklan and the Margrave. "I left early. Couldn't wait to see my favorite people before heading south to the Academy."
Miklan nodded, understanding the unspoken. "Well, you're always welcome here. Kylva's been cooking all day once she heard you were coming—apparently my own brother prefers my wife's cooking to sharing a meal with me."
"Your cooking could strip paint, Mik," Sylvain laughed, ruffling Freya's hair. "Besides, Kylva promised to tell me more embarrassing stories about you. Did you really fall out of a tree trying to impress her father?"
"That's slander and lies," Miklan protested with mock seriousness. "I was pushed. By the wind. Very strong wind." He shot his daughter a warning look as she opened her mouth. "And don't you start, little miss. I've heard quite enough about how clumsy Papa is from your mother."
Freya giggled, the sound bright as sunlight. "Mama says you're like a bear trying to dance at a tea party."
"She would know," Miklan sighed dramatically. "She married the bear."
As they walked toward Miklan's home at the edge of the village—a sturdy two-story structure built with his own hands—the brothers fell into an easy conversation about trade routes and Academy gossip. To casual observers, they might have appeared to be any pair of siblings—the older, more serious brother and the younger, more carefree one—with no hint of the bitter history that had once divided them.
But those who knew them well could see the evidence in small moments: the way Sylvain occasionally watched his brother with a mixture of wonder and gratitude; the protective stance Miklan unconsciously adopted when they passed through crowded areas; the deliberate care both took to listen when the other spoke.
These were not brothers who had grown up easy in each other's company. These were brothers who had found their way back to each other despite everything—who had rebuilt what had been broken, one careful conversation at a time.
Dinner at Miklan's home was a boisterous affair. Kylva, tall and striking with her traditional Sreng tattoos tracing patterns across her dark skin, commanded the table with the same authority she brought to the battlefield. As Miklan's second-in-command in the mercenary band and his partner in life, she balanced his sometimes-brooding tendencies with her straightforward humor.
"So," she said, passing Sylvain a second helping of venison stew, "you truly intend to spend two years locked up with stuffy nobles learning proper lance technique? As if your brother and I haven't taught you everything worth knowing already."
Sylvain grinned, accepting the food gratefully. "Apparently, proper education requires more than 'hit them before they hit you' and 'don't die.' Who knew?"
"Wasteful," Kylva snorted, but her eyes twinkled with affection for her brother-in-law. "In Sreng, we would simply throw you into your first real battle and see if you survived."
"And that's why I love visiting," Sylvain replied cheerfully. "The constant reminders of my own mortality really liven things up."
Miklan watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction. Eight years ago, he could never have imagined this scene—his wife and brother bantering across his table, his daughter drowsing against his side, his home filled with warmth and laughter.
After the meal, when Freya had been tucked into bed with stories of the stars from her beloved uncle, the adults gathered around the hearth with cups of spiced wine. The conversation turned, as it inevitably did during Sylvain's visits, to news from House Gautier.
"Father's not well," Sylvain admitted, staring into his cup. "His cough grows worse each winter. The healers say it's settling in his lungs."
Miklan's expression remained carefully neutral. "I see."
"He asks about you," Sylvain continued, watching his brother's face. "About Freya and Kylva too. He keeps that drawing she sent him last spring on his desk."
Kylva laid a hand on her husband's arm, feeling the tension there. "Your father is welcome to visit anytime," she said, her tone making it clear this was a reminder of a long-established position. "Our door is open to him."
"But you won't go to him," Sylvain stated, not a question but not quite an accusation either.
Miklan sighed, setting down his cup. "It's... complicated, Syl."
"It's been eight years, Mik. People change. You changed."
"People change when they want to change," Miklan replied, his voice low. "Father has never acknowledged what he did—casting out his own son, a child who needed guidance rather than abandonment. He talks around it, makes excuses, pretends it was for my own good." The old bitterness surfaced briefly before he mastered it. "I don't hate him anymore. That's progress enough for now."
Sylvain nodded slowly. "I understand. I just... I don't want you to miss the chance to reconcile before it's too late."
"Some wounds take longer to heal than others," Miklan said. "I've forgiven him in here—" he tapped his chest, "—but forgiveness doesn't mean I'm ready to pretend nothing happened."
The conversation lapsed into silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Finally, Kylva stood and stretched.
"Enough heavy talk. Sylvain, tell us about this Blue Lions house you'll be joining. Any pretty girls to distract you from actually learning something?"
Sylvain's face lit up, grateful for the change of subject. "Well, there's the prince himself, of course—you remember Dimitri? And Felix, Ingrid... oh, and apparently a cute opera singer is enrolling this year too. Very mysterious..."
As Sylvain launched into Academy gossip, Miklan felt the tension ease from his shoulders. This was their pattern—moments of difficulty navigated, not avoided, then life continuing forward. It wasn't perfect, but it was real—a relationship built on truth rather than obligation.
Later, after Sylvain had retired to the guest room and Kylva had gone to check on Freya, Miklan stood alone on the porch of his home, gazing up at the star-filled sky. The night was clear and cold, autumn asserting itself in the crispness of the air.
"I wish you could see this," he murmured to the absent Joy Boy. "What your flick to the head eventually led to."
In eight years, Miklan had built something he never could have imagined during his bitter youth: The Liberator's Hand, a trading company and mercenary band dedicated to fair commerce and protection for those who needed it. Named in honor of Joy Boy—though few outside the Joyist communities understood the reference—it had grown from Miklan alone with a cart of traded goods to a network spanning northern Fódlan.
They protected vulnerable villages, ensured fair prices for remote communities, and quietly spread the Joyist philosophy of freedom through service. Not as evangelists—Joy Boy himself had never preached or demanded followers—but through example, showing a different way to exist in a world obsessed with Crests and bloodlines.
Miklan's hand rose again to that spot on his forehead, a gesture that had become habitual over the years. Sometimes he imagined he could still feel the sting of that flick—the moment when his life had pivoted from a path of destruction to one of creation.
He had never seen Joy Boy again after that day on the hillside, but he felt his presence often—in sunflowers that seemed to bloom in unlikely places, in moments of unexpected kindness from strangers, in the golden afternoon light that sometimes reminded him of those otherworldly eyes.
And in Freya, his daughter, born three years earlier after he and Kylva had formalized their partnership in both the mercenary band and life. A fierce, joyful child who approached the world with boundless curiosity and an open heart.
Crestless, the healers had confirmed—a fact that had filled Miklan with secret relief. His daughter would never know the burden of being valued for something in her blood rather than the content of her character. She would grow up in a community where worth was measured by actions, not accidents of birth.
The door creaked behind him, and Kylva joined him on the porch, wrapping herself in a woolen blanket against the chill.
"Heavy thoughts?" she asked, leaning against his side.
"Old ones," he corrected, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Good ones, mostly."
She nodded, understanding without needing details. "Your brother is worried about you and your father."
"Sylvain worries too much. He always did." Miklan sighed. "I'm not angry anymore, Kylva. Not like I was. But every time I consider visiting Gautier territory, I remember how it felt to be thrown away because I wasn't useful enough, worthy enough."
"Your father never knew the pain of losing family," Kylva observed quietly. "Perhaps that's why he could discard you so easily. He never understood what he was throwing away."
Miklan considered this. "Maybe. Or maybe he did know and thought the Crest was worth more than his son." He shook his head. "Either way, I won't stop him from knowing Freya. Every child deserves grandparents who love them."
"And you?" Kylva asked. "What do you deserve?"
Miklan looked out over the sleeping village—his village, filled with people who respected him not for his name or birth but for who he had chosen to become. He thought of his daughter sleeping peacefully upstairs, of his brother who had forgiven unforgivable transgressions, of his wife who had seen worth in him when he struggled to see it himself.
"I have everything I deserve," he said finally. "More than I deserve, probably."
Kylva snorted, elbowing him gently. "Self-pity doesn't suit you anymore, husband."
"Not self-pity," Miklan corrected, smiling slightly. "Gratitude. Eight years ago, I was nothing—less than nothing. A bitter, angry boy lashing out at the world because it hadn't given me what I thought I was owed." He gestured toward their home, the village beyond. "Now I have all this. A purpose. A family. A community."
"Because someone believed in you," Kylva said softly. She had heard the story of Joy Boy many times—it was part of the Joyist tradition to share such stories—but she never tired of hearing how this silent, smiling figure had transformed her husband's life with a single flick to the forehead.
"Someone showed me a different way," Miklan agreed. "But I had to choose to follow it." He turned to face her fully, taking her calloused hands in his own. "Every day since then has been a choice. To build rather than destroy. To help rather than harm. To love rather than hate."
Kylva smiled, the firelight from inside the house catching on the intricate tattoos that framed her face. "Those choices made you the man I chose to follow. Then to love."
Miklan's throat tightened with unexpected emotion. Even after years together, her directness still caught him off guard sometimes—the way she could express in simple words what he struggled to articulate.
"Tomorrow," he said impulsively, "let's take Sylvain and Freya to the sunflower fields before he leaves for the Academy. Freya loves them, and they'll be in full bloom."
Kylva nodded, understanding the significance. The sunflower had become the unofficial symbol of the Joyists—a plant that always turned its face toward the light, that provided nourishment and beauty in equal measure. For Miklan personally, they would always be connected to Joy Boy—to that single bloom that had appeared on the hillside as he departed.
"A good plan," she agreed. "Now come to bed. Trading caravans don't organize themselves, and you promised Brendt you'd review the western route before the next expedition."
As they turned to go inside, Miklan paused, looking once more at the night sky. A shooting star streaked across the darkness, brilliant and fleeting.
"Thank you," he whispered again to the absent friend who had changed everything with a flick. "I haven't wasted it."
And somewhere, though Miklan couldn't see it, a sunflower bloomed in the darkness, its face turned toward the stars as if smiling up at the heavens—a silent acknowledgment from a friend who never spoke but somehow said everything that mattered.
Chapter 13: The Broken Church's Blessing
Summary:
In which Mercedes von Martritz, a young refugee from the Adrestian Empire, discovers unexpected solace in the ruins of an abandoned church in Eastern Faerghus. As winter approaches and resources grow scarce, Mercedes finds herself caught between two faiths—the formal structure of Sothism that has sheltered her, and the growing warmth of the Joyist movement that promises liberation. A chance encounter with Joy Boy himself in the broken sanctuary brings healing not just to the shattered windows, but to a heart burdened by loss and uncertainty.
Chapter Text
The old church waited at the edge of the village like a forgotten sentinel, its weathered stone walls standing firm despite the sagging roof and broken windows. Most villagers avoided it, claiming it was too dangerous—too likely to collapse in a strong wind or heavy snow. But Mercedes von Martritz found comfort in its quiet decay. At fourteen, she had already learned that broken things could still be beautiful, still be useful.
Much like herself.
Mercedes pulled her woolen cloak tighter as she picked her way through the snow-dusted path leading to the church's entrance. Eastern Faerghus winters were notoriously harsh, and though the true cold had yet to arrive, the morning air carried a biting chill that promised worse to come. Her breath formed small clouds that dissipated as quickly as they appeared, ephemeral and fleeting like the sense of safety she'd been chasing since fleeing her stepfather's estate.
She should have been helping Mother with the laundry—the church that had taken them in expected everyone to contribute—but instead, she'd slipped away during the morning meal. Just for an hour, she promised herself. Just enough time to think, to pray, to remember the brother she'd left behind.
Emile. She closed her eyes briefly against the wave of sadness. He should be fourteen now, no longer the small, solemn boy she'd last seen. Did he hate her for leaving? Did he understand why they had to go? Mother rarely spoke of him, and when Mercedes pressed for answers, her eyes would grow distant and her replies vague.
"It's for the best," she would say, turning away to hide her tears. "One day you'll understand."
But Mercedes didn't understand. Not why they had to leave Emile behind with Baron Bartels, not why having a Crest made them valuable enough to hunt down, not why her mother had remarried a man who saw them only as breeding stock for the next generation of Crest-bearers.
The heavy wooden door of the abandoned church groaned as Mercedes pushed it open, the sound echoing through the empty nave. Inside, the air was still and cold but mercifully dry. Someone—likely other village children using the place as a hideaway—had swept away most of the debris near the entrance, though fallen leaves had accumulated in the corners and bird droppings stained the remaining pews.
Mercedes moved with practiced familiarity to what had once been the chancel, where a simple stone altar remained intact despite the neglect surrounding it. She knelt before it, ignoring the cold that immediately seeped through her dress to chill her knees.
"Goddess," she began, then hesitated, uncertain what to pray for. Safety seemed inadequate—they were safe for now, housed in the church dormitory with the orphans and widows. Health felt selfish when others in the village struggled with far more serious ailments than her occasional cough. And praying for reunion with Emile felt like tempting fate, like inviting Baron Bartels to discover their whereabouts.
In the end, she simply whispered, "Please watch over my brother," before lapsing into silence, her hands clasped tightly before her.
A shuffling sound from behind startled her. Mercedes turned, half-expecting to see one of the village children who sometimes followed her, curious about the Adrestian refugee with the gentle voice and sad eyes. Instead, she found herself staring at a girl about her own age, blonde hair spilling from beneath a fur-lined hood.
"Oh! I didn't mean to intrude," the girl said, her refined accent marking her as nobility despite her simple clothing. "I saw you enter and thought... well, I've seen you at the village church, helping with the children."
Mercedes relaxed slightly, recognizing the girl from the village. "You're Constance, aren't you? From House Nuvelle?"
The girl brightened, clearly pleased to be recognized. "Constance von Nuvelle, yes! And you're Mercedes von Martritz." She stepped closer, her boots crunching on the scattered debris. "I've wanted to speak with you for ages, but you always seem so busy with the little ones."
Mercedes smiled despite herself. Constance's enthusiasm was infectious, a welcome change from the careful politeness most villagers showed her—kindness tinged with wariness, as if her Adrestian origins might somehow contaminate them.
"I enjoy working with children," Mercedes said, rising from her knees and brushing off her skirt. "They're honest in their needs and joys. It's... simpler."
Constance nodded sagely, though Mercedes suspected the other girl's experience with children was limited at best. House Nuvelle was one of the few noble houses in the area—minor nobility, but nobility nonetheless. Their daughter likely spent more time with tutors than with village children.
"Why are you praying here?" Constance asked, gesturing to the dilapidated space around them. "The village church is much warmer, and Father Reginald would surely welcome you."
Mercedes glanced toward the eastern wall, where a once-magnificent stained glass window now gaped with holes, missing pieces creating a jagged puzzle of colored light and shadow. "I like the quiet," she admitted. "And sometimes... sometimes I need to speak to the Goddess without intermediaries."
"Ah," Constance said, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You mean without Father Reginald's sermons about Joyist heresy and the importance of proper devotion to Saint Seiros?"
Mercedes flushed, caught in an uncomfortable truth. The village priest had been kind enough in providing shelter, but his sermons had grown increasingly focused on the "dangers" of following the white-haired youth they called Joy Boy—a figure Mercedes had heard whispered about since arriving in Faerghus six months earlier.
"I'm not a heretic," she said carefully. "I was raised in the Church of Seiros traditions. It's just..."
"You're curious," Constance finished for her. "About Joy Boy and the Joyists. Everyone is, even if they won't admit it." She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Did you know Duke Rufus himself is rumored to be a Joyist? The First Prince of Faerghus!"
Mercedes's eyes widened. She had heard rumors, of course—everyone had—but to hear it stated so baldly was shocking. "Surely not openly," she murmured. "The Church would never allow it."
"That's just it," Constance said, her eyes alight with excitement. "The Church doesn't know what to do about it. They can't declare the royal family heretics without risking civil war, and more people join the movement every day. Did you know there's a Joyist gathering at the old mill tonight? The traveling merchants brought news of it."
Mercedes shook her head, both in denial and to dispel the temptation Constance's words created. Mother had warned her to avoid attention, to blend in, to be the perfect Seiros devotee. Attending a Joyist gathering would be the opposite of keeping a low profile.
"I can't," she said regretfully. "Mother would worry."
Constance looked disappointed but nodded understanding. "Of course. I shouldn't have suggested it. It's just... you seem different from the others. More open-minded." She paused, studying Mercedes with unexpected intensity. "And I've heard the Joyists help people in trouble. People running from something—or someone."
The implication was clear: Constance knew, or at least suspected, that Mercedes and her mother were fugitives of a sort. The realization sent a chill through Mercedes that had nothing to do with the drafty church.
"I should go," she said, gathering her cloak around her. "Mother will be looking for me."
"Wait," Constance called as Mercedes turned to leave. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just... if you ever need help, the Joyists have been known to shelter those in need. No questions asked." She hesitated, then added more softly, "Everyone has secrets, Mercedes. You're not alone in that."
Mercedes paused at the doorway, looking back at the blonde girl standing amid the broken beauty of the abandoned church. "Thank you, Constance. Perhaps... perhaps we could talk again sometime?"
Constance's face lit up with a genuine smile. "I'd like that very much."
As Mercedes made her way back to the village, her mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts. Mother had always taught her to be cautious, to trust in the Goddess's protection but to rely on practical measures first. Revealing their situation to anyone, even indirectly, went against everything they'd practiced in the months since their escape.
Yet something about Constance's earnest offer tugged at Mercedes. Perhaps it was the loneliness of being always apart, always watching what she said, always fearful of discovery. Perhaps it was simple curiosity about this Joy Boy and his followers, who seemed to inspire both devotion and fear in equal measure.
Or perhaps it was just that, at fourteen, Mercedes longed for a friend who saw her as more than a refugee, more than Baron Bartels' runaway stepdaughter, more than a girl with a valuable Crest.
The weather worsened throughout the day, clouds gathering heavy and dark over the mountains. By evening, a bitter wind howled through the village, rattling shutters and sending villagers scurrying to secure livestock and bring in firewood before the storm hit in earnest.
Mercedes helped serve the evening meal at the church dormitory, ladling thin soup into wooden bowls while trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness in her own stomach. Food had grown scarcer as winter approached, and with new refugees arriving weekly, the church's resources were stretched thin.
"Just a little for me," she told Sister Greta when her turn came, gesturing for the older woman to give her a smaller portion. "I'm not very hungry tonight."
Sister Greta's kindly face creased with concern. "You're a growing girl, Mercedes. You need proper nourishment."
"The little ones need it more," Mercedes insisted, nodding toward the youngest orphans huddled near the fire. "Please, Sister. I'll be fine."
Reluctantly, the nun complied, but her worried gaze followed Mercedes as she carried her meager meal to the table where her mother sat, head bent in conversation with a reed-thin woman who had arrived the previous week.
"...heard from my cousin in Fhirdiad that the Duke himself attended," the woman was saying in a hushed voice. "Just stood there in the crowd like a common man, no guards or anything. And when Joy Boy appeared—"
She fell silent as Mercedes approached, casting a nervous glance toward where Father Reginald sat at the head table. The priest's sharp eyes missed little, and his sermons had grown increasingly pointed about the dangers of "false prophets" and "foreign influence" in recent weeks.
"Mercedes," her mother greeted her with a tired smile. "Where have you been all day? I missed you at the laundry."
"I was helping Sister Greta with the orphans," Mercedes replied, the half-truth coming easily after months of practice. She couldn't bring herself to mention the abandoned church or her conversation with Constance, knowing it would only worry her mother further.
The meal passed in relative silence, broken only by the howl of wind outside and the occasional murmur of conversation among the refugees. Mercedes ate slowly, savoring each spoonful of the watery soup and the half-slice of stale bread that accompanied it. When she finished, the hunger had dulled but not disappeared—a constant companion since their arrival in Faerghus.
As the tables were cleared and residents began preparing for evening prayers, Mercedes's mother touched her arm gently. "You look tired, dear. Why don't you go up early? I'll make your excuses to Father Reginald."
Mercedes hesitated, torn between gratitude for the reprieve and guilt at leaving her mother to handle the evening chores alone. "Are you sure? I can stay and help with the dishes."
"I'm sure," her mother said firmly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day."
With a grateful nod, Mercedes slipped away from the common room, climbing the narrow stairs to the dormitory they shared with three other women. The space was cramped but clean, with thin pallets arranged along the walls and a small brazier in the center that provided minimal heat.
But instead of preparing for bed, Mercedes found herself drawn to the tiny window that overlooked the village. Through the swirling snow, she could just make out the silhouette of the abandoned church, its broken spire a darker shadow against the night sky.
Something pulled at her—a restlessness she couldn't define, a feeling that she needed to be there tonight. It was foolish, dangerous even, to venture out in such weather. Yet the urge persisted, growing stronger with each passing moment.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Mercedes reached for her cloak, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. She retrieved the small prayer book she kept hidden beneath her pallet—her last gift from Emile before they fled—and tucked it into her pocket.
The dormitory was silent as she slipped back down the stairs, everyone gathered in the common room for evening prayers. Outside, the snow had deepened, already reaching her ankles as she made her way carefully through the village, head bowed against the stinging wind.
By the time she reached the abandoned church, Mercedes was shivering uncontrollably, her hands and feet numb with cold. It had been foolish to come, she realized as she pushed open the heavy door, but now that she was here, she might as well make use of the shelter before attempting the return journey.
The interior was darker than she'd ever seen it, the usual shafts of moonlight blocked by the storm clouds. Mercedes closed the door behind her, shutting out the worst of the wind, and fumbled in her pocket for the small tinderbox she always carried.
After several attempts with trembling fingers, she managed to light the stub of a candle she found on a shelf near the door. The tiny flame cast grotesque shadows across the walls, transforming the familiar space into something eerie and otherworldly.
Mercedes made her way carefully toward the chancel, intending to pray for guidance—and perhaps forgiveness for her impulsive midnight journey. But as she approached the altar, a movement caught her eye, causing her to freeze mid-step.
She was not alone.
Near the eastern wall, where the damaged stained glass window had stood incomplete for as long as Mercedes had been visiting, a figure moved with strange, fluid grace. Tall and slender, dressed in flowing white that seemed to glow with its own inner light, the figure traced patterns across the broken window with one extended finger.
Mercedes's breath caught in her throat. She should have been terrified—a stranger in an abandoned church during a snowstorm was the beginning of every cautionary tale told to children. Yet fear was not what filled her as she watched the figure work.
Instead, there was a sense of wonder, of witnessing something rare and precious—like watching a deer step from the forest at dawn, or seeing the first flower break through winter's snow.
The figure—a young man, she realized now—continued his work, apparently unaware of her presence. Where his finger touched the broken glass, it... changed. Colors brightened, cracks sealed themselves, and missing pieces materialized as if conjured from the very air. It was as though he was drawing directly onto reality, his finger leaving trails of golden light that solidified into glass and lead.
"Joy Boy," Mercedes whispered, the name escaping her lips before she could stop it.
The figure turned, and Mercedes gasped at the sight of his face. His hair was indeed white as the stories claimed, but they had failed to capture how it moved like a living flame, defying gravity in ways that should have been impossible. His eyes were incredible—large golden irises that emanated a gentle light, illuminating his serene features. Most striking of all was the misty trail that seemed to float around his shoulders, like clouds caught in human form.
He smiled at her, a smile so genuinely happy that Mercedes felt her own lips curving in response despite her shock. There was something childlike in his joy, an innocence that seemed at odds with the power he clearly wielded.
"I... I didn't mean to interrupt," Mercedes managed, clutching her candle tighter. "I can leave if you..."
Joy Boy shook his head, still smiling, and gestured toward the work he had been doing on the window. Mercedes followed his gaze and gasped again, but this time in delighted surprise.
The window was being restored, but not to its original design. Instead of the formal, stylized depiction of Saint Seiros that had once occupied the space, Joy Boy was creating something entirely new—a circular pattern with rays emanating from a central point, like a sun rising over mountains. The colors were vibrant and warm—golds, oranges, and reds that seemed to capture sunlight itself within the glass.
Yet for all its beauty, the design had a childlike quality to it, as if drawn by a skilled but very young artist. The lines were perfect in their imperfection, the proportions deliberately skewed to emphasize feeling over form.
"It's beautiful," Mercedes said softly, drawing closer to examine the work. "Like a sunrise."
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, his smile widening. He pointed to Mercedes, then to the partially completed window, his meaning clear despite his silence: He was creating it for her.
"For me?" she asked, touched beyond words. "But... why? I'm nobody special."
The white-haired youth tilted his head, considering her with those luminous eyes. Then, with careful deliberation, he reached out and placed his hand gently on her chest, directly over her heart. There was nothing invasive about the gesture—it felt more like a blessing than a touch, a recognition of something within her that Mercedes herself couldn't fully see.
When he withdrew his hand, Mercedes felt a curious warmth spreading from the spot he'd touched, flowing through her veins like liquid sunlight. For the first time since fleeing Adrestia, she felt truly warm, truly safe.
Joy Boy turned back to the window, working with renewed vigor. His finger traced patterns across the glass, filling in the missing sections with apparent delight in his creation. As Mercedes watched, fascinated, she realized he was humming—not a tune she recognized, but a simple, joyful melody that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the church.
The building itself responded to his presence. The air grew warmer, the shadows less deep, and the pervasive smell of mold and decay faded, replaced by a fresh scent like sun-warmed grass.
When at last he stepped back from his work, the window was complete—a masterpiece of color and light that transformed the entire chancel. Even with the storm raging outside, the glass seemed to glow with an inner radiance, casting colorful patterns across the stone floor.
"Thank you," Mercedes whispered, overcome with emotion. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Joy Boy beamed at her, his smile somehow conveying both childlike pleasure and ancient wisdom. He reached into the folds of his white garment and withdrew something small that glittered in the candlelight.
With the same gentle reverence he'd shown in touching her heart, he placed the object in Mercedes's palm—a crystal in the shape of a flower, its facets catching and refracting light in a rainbow of colors. It was warm to the touch, as if it had been lying in direct sunlight rather than carried within his robes.
"For me?" Mercedes asked again, studying the perfect crystal flower with wonder. "I don't understand... what does it mean?"
But Joy Boy merely smiled and placed a finger to his lips, then pointed to her heart once more. The meaning was clear enough: The understanding would come from within, in time.
Before Mercedes could ask anything else, Joy Boy turned back to the window, placed his palm flat against the center of the sun design, and... pushed. Not physically, but as if he were pressing against some invisible barrier. The glass rippled like water, and then, impossibly, Joy Boy stepped through it, vanishing into the night beyond.
Mercedes rushed to the window, pressing her own hand against the now-solid glass. Outside, the snowstorm continued unabated, with no sign of the white-haired youth anywhere in the darkness.
She stood there for a long time, the crystal flower clutched tightly in her hand, its warmth a tangible reminder that what she had witnessed was real, not a dream or a hallucination born of hunger and cold.
When at last she turned away from the window, Mercedes noticed the church itself had changed. The debris was gone, the floor swept clean. The damaged roof had been repaired, no longer allowing snow to drift through gaps in the beams. Even the old pews had been restored, the wood polished to a soft gleam in the candlelight.
It was as if Joy Boy's very presence had healed the building—just as his touch had somehow eased the constant ache of fear and longing in Mercedes's heart.
She sank onto one of the newly restored pews, the crystal flower still warm in her palm. For the first time since leaving Emile behind, Mercedes felt a sense of peace washing over her, a certainty that somehow, everything would be all right.
Not immediately. Perhaps not even soon. But someday.
"I understand now," she whispered, though she wasn't entirely sure what she understood, only that something fundamental had shifted within her. "I'll remember. I promise."
Outside, the storm began to ease, the howling wind dying down to a gentle murmur. Through the newly restored window, the first hints of moonlight began to filter through, catching in the crystal flower's facets and casting rainbows across Mercedes's upturned face.
In that moment, kneeling in an abandoned church renewed by a silent deity's touch, Mercedes von Martritz made a decision. She would learn more about Joy Boy and his followers, about this faith that seemed to exist alongside the Church of Seiros like a parallel melody in a complex harmony.
Not out of rejection of the Goddess—never that—but out of recognition that faith, like light, could reach people in different ways, through different windows.
And perhaps, just perhaps, it might eventually lead her back to the brother she had lost.
The crystal flower became Mercedes' most treasured possession. She kept it hidden beneath her clothes, suspended from a thin leather cord around her neck where it rested against her skin, always warm as if remembering the touch of its creator. In the months that followed her encounter with Joy Boy, Mercedes found herself seeking out bits of information about the Joyist movement, listening to whispered conversations in the marketplace and observing the subtle symbols followers used to identify one another.
Constance proved an invaluable friend and ally in this pursuit. The noble girl's position afforded her access to information that rarely reached the church dormitory, and she shared it eagerly during their clandestine meetings at the abandoned church—now a place of unexpected beauty thanks to Joy Boy's restorative touch.
"They say he appeared in Fhirdiad again," Constance whispered one spring afternoon as they sat beneath the radiant stained glass window. "At the foundling home near the eastern gate. A child was dying of fever, and the physicians had given up hope."
Mercedes leaned forward, her needlework forgotten in her lap. "What happened?"
"He cured the child with a touch," Constance said, her eyes bright with excitement. "Just placed his hand on the little one's forehead, and the fever broke immediately. And then—this is the part everyone's talking about—he left a mark like a small sun on the child's palm. It glowed for three days before fading."
Mercedes instinctively touched the spot on her chest where Joy Boy had placed his hand. Though no visible mark remained, she sometimes felt a lingering warmth there, especially when she prayed or helped tend to the sick.
"Did anyone try to capture him?" she asked, knowing the Church of Seiros had grown increasingly determined to apprehend the mysterious figure they labeled a heretic.
Constance shook her head. "That's just it—the Knights of Seiros were watching the foundling home, waiting for him to appear. They had the place surrounded. But when Joy Boy left, he simply... walked through them. As if they couldn't see him at all."
Such stories accumulated throughout the year: Joy Boy appearing to the desperate and downtrodden, offering healing or food or shelter through seemingly impossible means, then vanishing as mysteriously as he had arrived. With each tale, the movement grew, despite the Church's increasingly harsh rhetoric against "false miracles" and "demonic influence."
Father Reginald's sermons became daily warnings against heresy, his rhetoric so severe that even some of the most devout began to question his approach. When a respected village elder was denounced for possessing a crude drawing of Joy Boy's distinctive sun symbol, tensions in the community reached a breaking point.
"It's not right," Mercedes overheard her mother saying to Sister Greta one evening, their voices low but heated. "Olrich has attended services faithfully for sixty years. To treat him like a criminal over a drawing—"
"I know," Sister Greta replied, sounding weary. "But Father Reginald answers to the Archbishop, and the Archbishop has declared the Joyist movement a threat to the Church's authority."
"A threat?" Mercedes's mother scoffed. "How can hope be a threat? These people have suffered enough—lost homes, lost family. If they find comfort in stories of a white-haired youth bringing miracles, what harm does it do?"
Sister Greta had no answer for that, and neither did Mercedes, who retreated silently to the dormitory, the crystal flower warm against her skin as if responding to her troubled thoughts.
Winter returned to Eastern Faerghus, harsher than the previous year. Food grew scarce, and illness swept through the village, claiming the youngest and oldest residents first. The church dormitory became an infirmary of sorts, with Mercedes and her mother working alongside the nuns to tend the sick.
It was amidst this hardship, as the first anniversary of her encounter with Joy Boy approached, that Mercedes received the news that would change everything.
"There's a letter for you," Sister Greta said one morning, her expression unusually grave as she handed Mercedes a sealed parchment. "From Adrestia."
Mercedes's hands trembled as she accepted the letter. Only one person in Adrestia knew where they had fled, an old servant who had helped them escape. And she would only write if the matter was gravely important.
The letter's contents were brief and devastating:
Baron Bartels has learned of your whereabouts. He prepares to journey north before the mountain passes close for winter. He speaks openly of reclaiming what is his—both you and your mother. May the Goddess protect you both.
Mercedes read the words three times before their meaning fully registered. Baron Bartels—her stepfather—was coming for them. The man who had treated her mother as breeding stock, who had seen Mercedes herself only as a vessel for producing more Crest-bearing children, had discovered their sanctuary.
"Mercedes?" her mother called, entering the small alcove where Mercedes stood frozen, the letter clutched in her hand. "What is it, dear? You've gone pale as—"
She fell silent as Mercedes wordlessly handed her the letter. As she read, Mercedes watched the blood drain from her mother's face, her hands beginning to shake so violently that the parchment rattled.
"No," she whispered. "No, not after all this time..."
"Mother," Mercedes said, finding her voice at last. "We have to leave. Tonight, before word reaches the village."
But her mother shook her head, a strange calm settling over her features. "No. No more running. We've been running for too long." She straightened her shoulders, a resolve hardening in her eyes that Mercedes had never seen before. "He took my son from me. I won't let him take my daughter too."
That night, as snow fell thickly outside, they made plans in whispers. Sister Greta, informed of their plight, promised to arrange a cart and supplies that would carry them further north, perhaps even to Sreng where Baron Bartels' influence could not reach. They would leave in two days, when the storm abated enough to allow travel.
But fate—or perhaps something more deliberate—intervened before their plans could be set in motion.
The drums came first, a low, rhythmic pounding that echoed through the village shortly after midnight. Mercedes, who had been helping Sister Greta prepare medicines for the journey, rushed to the dormitory window at the sound.
"What is it?" she asked, straining to see through the swirling snow.
"Imperial soldiers," Sister Greta whispered, her face ashen in the candlelight. "Baron Bartels must have sent them ahead."
But as the procession came into view, Mercedes realized they were not looking at Imperial soldiers at all. A line of figures moved through the village center, each bearing a small drum and a glowing lantern. They wore white cloaks that seemed to repel the falling snow, and though their hoods were drawn up against the cold, something about their fluid movements reminded Mercedes of the figure she had encountered in the abandoned church a year before.
"Joyists," she breathed, the crystal flower suddenly warm against her skin. "They're Joyists."
The drumming grew louder, drawing villagers from their homes despite the late hour and inclement weather. Mercedes watched as Father Reginald emerged from the church, wrapping his robes tightly around himself as he confronted the procession.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice carrying through the stillness. "This village is under the protection of the Church of Seiros. Your kind are not welcome here."
The lead figure lowered his hood, revealing not the white-haired visage of Joy Boy, but the face of a man Mercedes recognized immediately—Duke Rufus Blaiddyd, prince of the Kingdom of Faerghus and uncle to the young crown prince.
"I come not as a heretic, Father," Duke Rufus said, his deep voice resonating across the village square, "but as a protector of my people. We have received word that Imperial agents seek refugees within this village. I am here to ensure their safety."
Father Reginald faltered, clearly unprepared to confront royalty. "Your Grace, I... this is most irregular. If there are concerns about Imperial agents, the Knights of Seiros—"
"Cannot act quickly enough," Duke Rufus interrupted. "The mountains will soon be impassable. We must move now." He gestured behind him, where more white-cloaked figures emerged from the snowy darkness. "These are my personal guard. They will remain in the village until the threat has passed."
Mercedes felt her mother's hand close around her arm, squeezing tightly. "It's him," she whispered. "Baron Bartels. He must be close."
Even as she spoke, a commotion arose at the village's southern entrance. Torches appeared through the snow, and the unmistakable red uniforms of Imperial soldiers became visible in their light.
At their center rode a figure Mercedes had hoped never to see again—Baron Bartels, his cold eyes scanning the gathered villagers with predatory intensity.
"I seek fugitives from Imperial justice," he announced without preamble, his gaze settling on Father Reginald. "A woman and her daughter, fled from my household a year past. I have reason to believe they shelter here."
Father Reginald drew himself up, perhaps finding courage in Duke Rufus's presence. "This is a house of the Goddess. All who seek sanctuary here are under Her protection."
"The Empire respects the Church's sovereignty," Baron Bartels said, his tone suggesting otherwise, "but these fugitives have committed crimes against my house. The Empire demands their return."
"What crimes?" Duke Rufus asked, stepping forward. "What charges do you lay against them that justify pursuing them across borders in the dead of winter?"
Before Baron Bartels could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows near the church dormitory—a young man with pale hair, his face partially obscured by a heavy cloak but his bearing unmistakably martial.
"The only criminal here is you, Father."
The voice sent a shock through Mercedes—older, deeper, but achingly familiar. Emile . Her brother had somehow found them, had somehow grown into this tall, solemn young man standing defiant in the snow.
Baron Bartels wheeled his horse toward the new speaker, his expression darkening. "You dare—" he began, then stopped abruptly as recognition dawned. "You. The boy. What are you doing here?"
Emile—no longer the quiet child Mercedes had left behind but a young man of fourteen—stepped fully into the torchlight. In his hand glinted a dagger, its blade catching the red glow of the Imperial torches.
"I've come for my mother and sister," he said, his voice steady despite his youth. "They left because of what you are—what you planned to do. To treat my mother as breeding stock, and then my sister when mother could bear no more children. To take Mercedes as your wife when she came of age."
A collective gasp rose from the villagers. Even Father Reginald looked shocked, his previous animosity toward the refugees momentarily forgotten in the face of such an accusation.
Baron Bartels' face contorted with rage. "Silence, boy! You know nothing of a noble's duty to his line. The Crest must be preserved, the bloodline continued. Your mother and sister belong to House Bartels by law and by oath."
"They belong to themselves," Emile countered, taking another step forward. "And I won't let you touch them again."
Mercedes watched in horror as her brother raised the dagger, clearly intent on attacking their stepfather despite being outnumbered by the Imperial soldiers. She started forward, desperate to stop him from throwing his life away, but before she could reach the square, a brilliant light erupted between the opposing groups.
The light coalesced into a familiar figure—tall and slender, with hair white as the falling snow and eyes that glowed like twin suns. Joy Boy stood in the center of the village square, one hand raised toward Emile in a clear gesture of restraint.
A hush fell over the gathering, broken only by the soft hiss of snowflakes meeting torch flames. Joy Boy turned slowly, his gaze falling upon Baron Bartels with an intensity that made the nobleman shrink back in his saddle.
No words were spoken—Mercedes had never heard Joy Boy speak—but a silent communication seemed to pass between deity and mortal. Baron Bartels' face drained of color, his expression shifting from outrage to something approaching fear.
"You have no power here," he said, but his voice wavered. "This is a matter of Imperial law."
Joy Boy tilted his head, regarding the baron with what appeared to be curiosity more than anger. Then, with deliberate grace, he approached the mounted nobleman, one hand outstretched.
The Imperial soldiers moved to intercept him, but found themselves unable to advance—not frozen or restrained, but simply... hesitant, as if their bodies refused to obey the command to attack this gentle, silent figure.
Joy Boy reached Baron Bartels and placed his palm flat against the man's chest, directly over his heart. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the baron began to change—his form shrinking, contorting, his fine clothes pooling empty on the saddle as his body twisted and reformed into something small and furred.
Where Baron Bartels had sat astride his horse, a common brown rat now huddled, whiskers twitching in apparent confusion. It looked around wildly, then leapt from the saddle and scurried into the darkness, leaving behind only the empty clothes as evidence of the nobleman's existence.
The Imperial soldiers stared in shock, some crossing themselves in the gesture of the Church of Seiros, others backing away in undisguised fear. Without their leader, their purpose seemed to evaporate, and within moments they had retreated from the village square, torches bobbing in the darkness as they fled.
Joy Boy watched them go, then turned to face Emile, who had lowered his dagger and now stood frozen in disbelief. The white-haired deity approached the young man and, with surprising sternness, flicked him hard on the forehead.
Emile yelped, more in surprise than pain, and rubbed the spot with his free hand. "What was that for?"
Joy Boy made no verbal response, but his meaning was clear in the pointed look he cast at the dagger still clutched in Emile's hand: Killing bad people is still killing. Violence is not the answer, even against those who deserve it.
Then, his expression softening, Joy Boy reached into the folds of his white garment and withdrew a crystal flower identical to the one he had given Mercedes a year before. He placed it in Emile's palm, closing the young man's fingers around it with gentle insistence.
Mercedes, who had been watching in stunned silence, finally found her voice. "Emile," she called, rushing forward to embrace her brother. "You're here... you're really here."
Emile returned her embrace awkwardly, still clutching both dagger and crystal flower. "Mercedes," he murmured into her hair. "I found you. I promised I would."
Their mother joined them, tears streaming down her face as she gathered both her children in her arms. "My boy," she sobbed. "My beautiful boy. How did you find us?"
"I had help," Emile said, glancing toward Joy Boy, who stood watching the reunion with an expression of quiet satisfaction. "Dreams... visions of a church with a sun-window. And then this man—or whatever he is—appeared at the estate three days ago. He didn't speak, just... showed me the way."
Joy Boy nodded in confirmation, his smile widening at the reunited family. Then, to everyone's surprise, he rose from the ground, floating several feet into the air as if gravity held no sway over him. With a final wave to Mercedes and her family, he soared upward, disappearing into the swirling snow like a dream dissolving at dawn.
In the days that followed, the village buzzed with talk of the miracle they had witnessed. Father Reginald, shaken by both Baron Bartels' revelations and Joy Boy's undeniable power, retreated to his quarters for prayer and reflection, emerging with a newfound humility that softened his previous harsh stance against the Joyists.
Duke Rufus, true to his word, left a contingent of his white-cloaked guards in the village until spring. More surprisingly, he took a personal interest in Mercedes and her family, arranging for them to relocate to Fhirdiad where they would be under his direct protection.
"You'll want for nothing," he assured Mercedes's mother as preparations for the journey were made. "I have a friend—a merchant with connections throughout the Kingdom. A good man, a widower with no children of his own. He's been looking for a partner in his business, someone with a keen mind and gentle manner."
"Your Grace, I couldn't possibly—" Mercedes's mother began, but Duke Rufus waved away her protests.
"Consider it repayment for the injustice you've suffered at Imperial hands," he said. "The Joyist community takes care of its own, and after what we witnessed, I think we can agree you're one of us now—whether you wear the symbol openly or not."
He nodded toward the crystal flower that now hung around Emile's neck, matching the one Mercedes had worn for a year. The siblings exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them. They didn't speak of Joy Boy often—not out of shame or fear, but because the experience felt too personal, too sacred to reduce to mere words.
The crystal flowers remained with them as they built their new life in Fhirdiad—symbols of protection, of second chances, of faith found in unexpected places. Mercedes's mother did indeed find love with Duke Rufus's merchant friend, a kind-eyed man whose laughter filled their home and whose genuine affection helped heal old wounds.
Mercedes and Emile grew into adulthood as commoners, free from the burden of noble expectations and Crest-based value. They found joy in simple things—Emile's skill with horses, Mercedes's talent for healing and baking, the easy camaraderie of friends who knew nothing of their noble past.
Years passed, and when Mercedes turned twenty-two, with Emile a year younger, an unexpected opportunity arose—admission to the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery, the prestigious institution where nobles and commoners alike trained in the arts of war and governance.
"Are you certain you want to go?" their mother asked as they packed their belongings for the journey. "Garreg Mach is the heart of the Church of Seiros. Your... experiences might not be welcomed there."
Mercedes touched the crystal flower that still hung around her neck, its warmth a constant reminder of the silent deity who had changed the course of their lives. "I think it's time," she said softly. "The Goddess works in many ways. Perhaps this is one of them."
Emile—who had begun styling himself as "Jeritza" in recent years, a symbolic separation from the boy who had once lived under Baron Bartels' control—nodded agreement. "We've hidden long enough. And if the Church truly seeks understanding of faith, they should welcome all perspectives."
Their mother smiled, though worry still creased her brow. "Just be careful. Not everyone is as open-minded as you might hope."
As they departed for Garreg Mach, the crystal flowers warm against their skin beneath their traveling clothes, Mercedes and Emile carried with them more than just memories of Joy Boy's intervention. They carried a faith that defied easy categorization—rooted in the Church of Seiros but expanded by their encounter with something beyond its teachings.
They didn't speak of Joy Boy to others, not because they were ashamed, but because they understood that some experiences transcended words, existing instead in the quiet certainty of a heart forever changed. The jewels they wore were more than mere trinkets—they were promises, reminders that even in the darkest times, unexpected light could find its way through broken windows to illuminate a new path forward.
And as they crossed the threshold into the next chapter of their lives, that light went with them, guiding their steps toward whatever future awaited.
Chapter 14: The Shadow's Reluctant Light
Summary:
In which a young Hubert von Vestra, heir to the Empire's most secretive noble house, confronts the ultimate betrayal when he discovers his father's conspiracy against the Imperial family they've sworn to protect. As he stands at the precipice of patricide, believing it the only path forward, an unexpected visitor from his childhood returns. Joy Boy's silent intervention offers Hubert a different kind of liberation than he sought, sparing him from crossing a line from which there is no return. Yet in the aftermath, Hubert struggles with an unfamiliar emotion—relief—and the unsettling possibility that perhaps not all light must be extinguished in service to one's duty.
Chapter Text
The knife felt wrong in his hands.
Not the weight—Hubert von Vestra had been trained since childhood in the handling of blades. At fifteen, he could identify a poisoned cup from across a banquet hall, recognize the subtle shift in a guard's stance that betrayed murderous intent, and slip unnoticed through the shadowed corridors of Enbarr's Imperial Palace. The knife itself was perfectly balanced, its edge honed to lethal sharpness, its grip wrapped in black leather that absorbed the sweat from his palm.
No, what felt wrong was the purpose. This blade had been crafted for protection—for the swift, decisive defense of the Adrestian Emperor and his heirs. Not for patricide.
Yet here Hubert stood in his father's private study, concealed behind heavy velvet curtains that smelled of tobacco and expensive cologne, the knife a cold promise in his trembling hand. The documents he had discovered three days prior lay precisely where he had found them—in the false bottom of his father's desk drawer, the secret compartment revealing a conspiracy that turned Hubert's carefully ordered world to ash.
Moonlight spilled through leaded windows, casting ghostly patterns across the polished floor. The room was silent save for the ticking of an ornate clock and Hubert's own carefully controlled breathing. This was the appointed hour. Count Vestra always retired to his study at precisely half past midnight for a final glass of brandy before bed. The routine had not varied in Hubert's memory; his father was nothing if not methodical.
The familiar creak of the door hinges announced his arrival, and Hubert pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the curtains, forcing his breathing to slow, his muscles to relax. A predator must be patient, his father had taught him. Ironic that I should apply that lesson now.
Count Vestra moved with the quiet confidence of a man secure in his position, unaware that his own son had uncovered his ultimate betrayal. He crossed to the sidebar, crystal decanter chiming softly against glass as he poured his customary two fingers of amber liquid. The study door closed with a soft click, and the count settled into his high-backed leather chair, swirling the brandy and inhaling its bouquet before taking the first sip.
Hubert moved then, a shadow detaching from shadows, his footsteps silent on the Brigid carpet. The count did not notice his presence until Hubert had circled the desk, positioning himself between his father and the door.
"Father," Hubert said, his voice unnaturally calm.
Count Vestra's hand paused midway to his lips, the only indication of his surprise. His eyes—the same pale green as Hubert's own—flicked to his son's face, then to the knife held at his side.
"Hubert," he responded, voice even. "What an unexpected pleasure. Might I ask why you're armed in my private study at this hour?"
Hubert reached into his jacket with his free hand and withdrew a folded document, tossing it onto the desk. "I believe you recognize this correspondence."
The count didn't even glance at the paper. "You've been through my desk. How disappointing, though not entirely surprising. You always were distressingly thorough."
"Then you don't deny it?" Hubert felt something cold and hard forming in his chest, a kernel of rage crystallizing around the hurt of betrayal. "You don't deny conspiring with Duke Aegir and the others to strip Emperor Ionius of his powers? To essentially render the Imperial family prisoners in their own palace?"
Count Vestra sighed and set down his glass. "Politics is complicated, my son. Someday you will understand that loyalty to an ideal must sometimes supersede loyalty to a person."
"Spare me your justifications," Hubert hissed, the knife twitching in his hand. "The Vestra family has served the Imperial household for eleven centuries. We are their shadow, their shield against threats both foreign and domestic. And you—" his voice cracked slightly, the only betrayal of the emotions raging beneath his controlled exterior, "you would betray that sacred trust for what? More power? Gold? Or did you simply tire of standing in another's shadow?"
The count's expression hardened. "I serve the Empire, boy. Not one man. Ionius is weak—his health deteriorates daily, and his policies threaten to destabilize everything our ancestors built. The Insurrection of the Seven is a necessary correction, not a betrayal."
"You call it 'correction' to strip the Emperor of his authority? To facilitate an attempted assassination that could have killed not just Ionius but his entire family?" Hubert's voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I was there, Father. I saw the Imperial children huddled in terror as your conspirators' assassins closed in. I saw little Edelgard's face—"
"Ah, yes. The Imperial princess." Count Vestra's lip curled slightly. "Your peculiar devotion to that girl has always concerned me. A Vestra serves the throne, not a particular occupant. Your attachment is a weakness, Hubert."
"My loyalty is what makes me a Vestra," Hubert replied, advancing a step. "A concept you seem to have forgotten."
For the first time, a flicker of genuine emotion crossed the count's face—anger, certainly, but beneath it, something that might have been disappointment. "I had hoped to explain this to you properly when you were older. To help you understand the complexities of true service to the Empire. I see now that was a miscalculation on my part."
"Indeed." Hubert tightened his grip on the knife. "Your final one."
A thin smile crossed his father's lips. "You mean to kill me, then? Your own father? The man who taught you everything you know about subterfuge and survival?"
"Not everything," Hubert corrected. "You never taught me about loyalty. That, I learned elsewhere."
The count's eyes narrowed. "Think carefully about what you're doing, Hubert. Patricide is not a sin easily hidden, even for one with your talents. And who would believe your accusations against me? Duke Aegir? Lord Arundel? The Prime Minister? All would deny everything, and you would be branded a delusional murderer."
"I'm not concerned with being caught," Hubert said coolly. "Only with removing a threat to the Imperial family. What happens to me afterward is immaterial."
A look of genuine surprise crossed Count Vestra's face, quickly replaced by calculation. "Such melodrama. You propose to sacrifice yourself for the sake of that sickly Emperor and his doomed line? For what purpose? The Insurrection is already a fact, boy. My death would change nothing."
"Perhaps not for the Empire at large," Hubert conceded, raising the knife to a more threatening position. "But it would ensure that the next Count Vestra remembers his proper place. And it would give me the satisfaction of watching you die knowing you failed to corrupt your heir."
The count's jaw tightened, and for the first time, his composed demeanor showed cracks. "You are fifteen years old, Hubert. A child still, despite your precocious talents. Do not force me to treat you as a threat."
Hubert barked a short, bitter laugh. "A bit late for paternal concern, don't you think? You forfeited the right to call yourself my father when you betrayed your oath."
"Enough of this nonsense." The count stood abruptly, his hand moving toward the desk drawer where Hubert knew he kept a small pistol. "I've tolerated this tantrum long enough."
Hubert lunged forward, knife raised, his hesitation finally overcome by the clear threat. All his training narrowed to this moment—the angle of attack, the vulnerable points, the necessary force. His father, despite his years behind a desk, was still quick, managing to partially deflect the blade with his forearm, though Hubert's superior position allowed him to press his advantage.
They struggled in silent, deadly choreography, the count attempting to reach his weapon while Hubert fought to drive his blade home. Blood—warm and shockingly bright—spilled from a shallow cut on his father's arm, staining the expensive silk of his shirtsleeve. The sight of it crystallized something in Hubert's mind: this was real. This was happening. He was about to kill his own father.
As if triggered by that realization, the air in the study seemed to change—pressure building as if before a storm, the quality of light shifting subtly. The ticking of the clock slowed, then stopped altogether. The moonlight streaming through the windows intensified, taking on a golden hue that had no natural source.
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, a third figure stood in the study.
Hubert's breath caught in his throat as recognition hit him with the force of a physical blow. He had not seen that white-garbed figure in a decade, had convinced himself that his childhood memories were merely fanciful imaginings. Yet here he was, unchanged by the years—white hair styled like a flickering flame, impossibly large golden eyes that seemed to glow with their own inner light, and that strange cloud-like mantle draped over his shoulders, shifting and curling like living mist.
"Joy Boy," Hubert whispered, the knife suddenly heavy in his hand.
The figure smiled—the same warm, toothy grin that had so confused a much younger Hubert, who had known only stern faces and cold calculation in his father's household. Joy Boy's gaze moved from Hubert to Count Vestra, who had frozen in place, eyes wide with disbelief at the impossible apparition in his study.
"What manner of trick is this?" the count demanded, voice hoarse. "What sorcery—"
Joy Boy lifted one finger and shook it gently from side to side—the universal gesture of disapproval, like a parent catching a child with their hand in the sweets jar. His smile remained in place, but his golden eyes held a sobering gravity as he looked directly at Hubert.
In that moment, Hubert felt stripped bare. Those eyes seemed to see through him—past the rage, past the cold determination, past the logical justifications he had constructed. They saw the frightened boy beneath, the child who, despite everything, did not truly want to become a murderer at fifteen. Did not want to carry the weight of his father's blood through the remainder of his life.
For the first time in years, Hubert felt the sting of tears threatening. He blinked them back furiously, angry at this sudden weakness. "He's a traitor," he said, voice cracking despite his best efforts. "He betrayed everything—"
Joy Boy nodded sagely, as if to say, I understand . Then he stepped forward, placing himself between Hubert and his father with deliberate care. He gestured for Hubert to lower the knife, his expression gentle but firm.
"Don't interfere," Hubert warned, though his hand had already begun to tremble. "This is necessary. This is justice."
Joy Boy simply shook his head, the cloud-like mantle around his shoulders swirling more rapidly, as if reflecting his concern. He pointed to Hubert's heart, then made a crushing motion with his hands.
The message was clear enough: This will destroy part of you .
"I don't care," Hubert insisted, his voice strained. "Some prices must be paid."
Behind Joy Boy, Count Vestra had recovered enough from his shock to reach for the desk drawer again. "Hubert," he said, his voice taking on the commanding tone that had controlled Hubert's childhood, "step away from that... whatever it is. We can discuss this matter rationally, as befits our station."
Joy Boy turned at the sound of the count's voice, his expression shifting to something harder to read. He raised one eyebrow, as if considering, then nodded to himself as if reaching a decision. With a movement too quick for Hubert to follow, Joy Boy raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
What happened next defied all natural law and reason.
Count Vestra's form began to waver, like a reflection in disturbed water. Then, with a sound like the popping of a cork, he simply... exploded. Not in any violent or grotesque fashion, but in a chaotic cascade of party favors—balloons in bright colors, streamers that glittered in the moonlight, confetti that drifted through the air in lazy spirals, and what appeared to be small wrapped candies that clattered across the desk and floor.
Where the imposing figure of Count Vestra had stood moments before, there was now only a colorful heap of celebratory objects, tumbling and settling on the study carpet.
Before Hubert could process this impossible transformation, Joy Boy made another swift gesture. The pile of party favors began to swirl like leaves caught in a whirlwind, compressing and contracting until they formed a tight, colorful mass. With a dramatic flourish, Joy Boy produced a small toy box—its origin as mysterious as Joy Boy himself—and proceeded to stuff the transformed count into it, packing the impossible mass into the tiny container with comical effort.
Hubert's knife clattered to the floor, forgotten in his shock. "What... what did you do to him?"
Joy Boy secured the lid on the box with a satisfied pat, then turned to Hubert with a wink. He made a series of gestures: first pointing to the box, then making a sweeping "gone" motion, followed by touching his heart and pointing to Hubert.
The message seemed to be: He's gone, but your heart remains intact .
Hubert stared at the cheerful little box that supposedly contained his father, his mind struggling to accept what his eyes had witnessed. "Is he... dead?"
Joy Boy tilted his head, considering the question, then shook it decisively. He made a "sleeping" gesture with his hands against his cheek, then pointed to the box again.
"He's... contained? Imprisoned?" Hubert guessed, still trying to make sense of the impossible.
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, pleased by Hubert's understanding. Then, with the same warm smile that had briefly brightened Hubert's childhood, he tucked the toy box under his arm and made a small bow, as if taking leave after a pleasant social call.
"Wait!" Hubert called, his voice sounding young and uncertain even to his own ears. "Where will you take him? What happens now?"
Joy Boy paused at the question, then pointed to Hubert himself. After a moment's consideration, he bent down and retrieved the knife from the floor, holding it out handle-first with a questioning look.
Hubert realized he was being offered a choice: take back the knife and all it represented, or let it go.
For a long moment, he stared at the weapon, remembering the weight of it in his hand, the determination that had driven him to this point. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "No. I... I don't need it anymore."
Joy Boy's smile widened, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners with what appeared to be genuine delight. He tucked the knife into his white garments, where it vanished from sight, then made a final gesture—touching his own chest, then Hubert's, then pointing upward. With that, he turned and walked toward the wall... and through it, vanishing as if the solid stone were merely mist, taking the toy box containing Count Vestra with him.
For several minutes, Hubert stood frozen in the center of the study, his pulse gradually slowing from its frantic pace. The evidence of what had occurred surrounded him—a few drops of blood on the carpet from his father's arm, scattered confetti and colorful streamers, the lingering scent of something sweet and festive that had no place in the austere study.
Then, as the full reality of the situation hit him, something unexpected happened. A sound escaped Hubert's throat—a short, sharp exhalation that might have been a sob but emerged as something else entirely. A chuckle. Small, confused, and entirely involuntary.
He pressed his hand to his mouth, shocked by his own reaction. This was a crisis. His father was... what? Transformed? Imprisoned in some magical toy box? There would be questions, investigations. The other conspirators would suspect foul play. He needed to plan, to control the narrative, to protect the Imperial family from whatever fallout might follow.
And yet, he had just witnessed his dour, controlling father turned into party favors and stuffed into a child's toy box by a silent figure with golden eyes who had once played peek-a-boo with Hubert's baby sister when no adults were looking.
The absurdity of it all bubbled up again, and this time Hubert couldn't contain it. A genuine laugh escaped him—rusty and unpracticed, but real. In that moment, something within him felt lighter, as if a burden he had carried for so long he'd forgotten its weight had suddenly been lifted.
He had been prepared to kill his own father. Had been ready to carry that stain on his soul forever, believing it necessary for the greater good. And instead, this impossible intervention had spared him that moral wound while still removing the threat.
The laughter faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a dawning realization of what needed to be done now. Pragmatic as ever, Hubert moved swiftly to his father's desk, gathering the incriminating documents and any other evidence of the conspiracy. The official story would be simple enough—Count Vestra had been called away on urgent Empire business. His son would manage House affairs in his absence.
As for the truth—who would believe it? Who would accept that the formidable Count Vestra had been transformed into party favors and carried off in a toy box by a white-haired youth with golden eyes who walked through walls? The other conspirators would assume murder, of course, but they would have no proof, and without their Vestra connections, their access to the Imperial family would be significantly reduced.
By the time dawn broke over Enbarr, Hubert had the situation under control. His father's private secretary had been informed that the Count had departed on a confidential mission for the Empire. The household staff had been given similar information, with the addition that young Lord Hubert would be assuming management of family affairs during his father's absence.
His mother, Countess Vestra, had received a somewhat different explanation—one closer to the truth, though still edited for plausibility. To Hubert's surprise, she had listened with remarkable calm, her eyes dry and her expression thoughtful rather than shocked.
"So your father will not be returning," she had said when he finished speaking. It was not a question.
"No, Mother. I do not believe so."
She had nodded once, a lifetime of practiced composure hiding whatever she truly felt. "Then House Vestra passes to you, as heir. You understand what this means?"
"I understand my duty," Hubert had confirmed, his voice steady. "To the Empire. To the Imperial family."
"To the girl." His mother's perceptiveness had always been unsettling. "To Edelgard."
Hubert had not denied it. His devotion to the Imperial princess—the seventh child of the Emperor, a girl with lilac eyes and a quiet determination that belied her youth—was not something he had ever attempted to hide from his mother.
"The girl will need you now, more than ever," his mother had said, surprising him with her approval. "Duke Aegir and the others will be rattled by your father's... departure. They will make mistakes. Become more aggressive. You must be vigilant."
And so he had been. In the days and weeks that followed, Hubert worked tirelessly to dismantle his father's network of spies and informants, redirecting their loyalties or removing them entirely when necessary. He cultivated his own sources, strengthened House Vestra's position, and kept careful watch over the Imperial family—particularly Princess Edelgard, who seemed to sense that something had shifted in the palace's power dynamics without fully understanding what or why.
Through it all, he waited for someone to challenge his story, for Duke Aegir or Lord Arundel to confront him about his father's true fate. But the challenges never came. The conspirators watched him warily, tested his defenses with minor provocations, but never directly accused him of anything. Without Count Vestra's expertise, they seemed uncertain how to proceed against his son.
Hubert's mother, meanwhile, emerged from her husband's shadow with surprising grace and authority. As the weeks passed, she assumed more public duties, representing House Vestra at court functions and council meetings. Her composed demeanor and sharp intelligence quickly established her as a force to be reckoned with in her own right, and Hubert found in her an unexpected ally in his efforts to protect the Imperial family.
And then, nearly two months after the incident in his father's study, Hubert received a visitor in the middle of the night.
He had been working late, reviewing reports from his newly established network of informants, when a familiar pressure built in the air of his study—the same sensation he had felt just before Joy Boy's appearance. Moonlight streamed through the windows, taking on that now-recognizable golden hue. Hubert set down his pen and waited, his heart beating a touch faster despite his composed exterior.
Joy Boy appeared not in a dramatic entrance but simply... was there, standing before Hubert's desk with his customary smile, the cloud-like mantle around his shoulders drifting gently in an unfelt breeze. His golden eyes surveyed the room—so different from Count Vestra's dark, oppressive study. Hubert had redesigned the space since taking over his father's duties, replacing heavy velvet curtains with lighter fabrics, removing the most ostentatious displays of wealth, creating a functional workspace rather than a shrine to power.
"You've returned," Hubert observed, refusing to show how genuinely surprised he was. "I had begun to think that night was our final encounter."
Joy Boy's smile widened, and he gestured around the room with an approving nod. Then he reached into his white garments and withdrew something that made Hubert's breath catch—the toy box that had imprisoned his father.
"You've brought him back," Hubert said, tension immediately returning to his frame. "Why? Has he somehow earned freedom? Or is this some test?"
Joy Boy shook his head at these questions, then placed the toy box on the desk between them. With theatrical care, he opened the lid and peered inside. His expression turned comically puzzled, and he turned the box upside down, shaking it.
Nothing fell out. The box was empty.
Hubert frowned. "I don't understand. Where is he?"
Joy Boy made a vague gesture with his hands, suggesting distance, and pointed in a direction that Hubert thought might be east. Then he made a walking motion with his fingers, followed by a gesture that seemed to indicate a new beginning.
"He's... gone? Started a new life elsewhere?" Hubert guessed, trying to interpret the silent communication.
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, then touched his own chest and made a "safe" gesture, followed by another touch to his heart and a pointing motion at Hubert.
Hubert understood this message clearly enough: I've kept him safely away from you . And perhaps, more importantly: I've kept you safe from what killing him would have done to your heart .
"I see," Hubert said, uncertain how he felt about this information. Relief? Disappointment? Both seemed inappropriate, yet both lingered at the edges of his consciousness. "And you came to tell me this... why? So I would not waste resources searching for him?"
Joy Boy's expression turned thoughtful. He made a series of gestures that Hubert couldn't quite interpret, then seemed to reconsider his approach. Moving around the desk, he came to stand directly beside Hubert's chair, then bent down slightly to meet his gaze at eye level.
Up close, those golden eyes were even more unsettling—not human, certainly, yet filled with an intelligence and empathy that transcended ordinary understanding. Joy Boy pointed to Hubert's chest, directly over his heart, then made a cupping gesture with his hands, as if holding something fragile.
"My heart?" Hubert ventured, feeling uncomfortably exposed under that golden gaze. "What about it?"
Joy Boy tapped his own chest, then smiled—a genuine expression of joy that seemed to illuminate his entire being. Then he tapped Hubert's chest again, his expression questioning.
The meaning slowly dawned on Hubert. "You're asking if I'm happy," he said, the concept so foreign it took him a moment to recognize it. "If I'm... at peace with what happened."
Joy Boy nodded, waiting patiently for an answer.
Hubert looked away, uncomfortable with the direct inquiry into his emotional state. "I'm satisfied with the outcome," he said carefully. "The immediate threat to the Imperial family has been neutralized. House Vestra continues to serve its proper function. My mother is... more content than I've seen her in years."
He paused, then admitted quietly, "And I did not have to become a murderer at fifteen. That is... not insignificant."
Joy Boy nodded again, his expression softer now. He made another gesture—starting with his hands close together, then slowly spreading them apart, as if illustrating growth or expansion.
"Time," Hubert guessed. "You're saying I need time."
Joy Boy confirmed this with a nod, then touched Hubert's shoulder briefly—a gesture of reassurance that felt strangely comforting from this otherworldly being. Then he stepped back, his visit apparently concluded.
Before he could depart as mysteriously as he had arrived, Hubert found himself asking, "Will I see you again?"
Joy Boy paused, considering the question. Then he smiled—that warm, genuine expression that had puzzled a much younger Hubert, who had known only cold calculation and stern discipline. He nodded once, definitively, then made a gesture that seemed to encompass a great span of time.
"Not soon," Hubert interpreted. "But someday."
Joy Boy confirmed this with another nod, then turned to leave. As he reached the wall, he paused for a final backward glance. The smile he offered then was different—not the broad, toothy grin of before, but something smaller, more knowing. He raised his hand in a simple farewell, then stepped through the solid wall and was gone.
Hubert sat motionless for several minutes, processing the encounter. The empty toy box remained on his desk, a tangible reminder that he had not imagined the visit. Eventually, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It appeared to be an ordinary child's plaything—painted wood with simple hinges, the kind that might hold toy soldiers or marbles. Nothing to suggest it had once contained a transformed Count Vestra.
With a decisive motion, Hubert opened the bottommost drawer of his desk and placed the box inside, then locked the drawer. Whatever had truly happened to his father—whether he was dead, transformed, or somehow establishing a new life far from Enbarr—the result was the same. Count Vestra was gone, and his son had assumed his mantle without bloodying his hands.
It was, Hubert reflected, a cleaner outcome than he had dared hope for when he had hidden behind those velvet curtains with murder in his heart. Whether he deserved such intervention was another question entirely—one he was not yet prepared to contemplate.
Five years passed. Five years of vigilant service to the Empire, of subtle power struggles with the remaining conspirators, of watching Princess Edelgard grow from a serious child into a formidable young woman. Five years in which Hubert rarely thought of Joy Boy, except occasionally in quiet moments when guard duty stretched long into the night, or when playing reluctantly with his younger siblings reminded him of a white-haired visitor who had once done the same.
House Vestra flourished under joint leadership—Hubert handling the more secretive aspects of their duties, his mother maintaining their public face at court. His younger brothers and sister grew up in a household notably less oppressive than the one Hubert had known, though no less devoted to the Imperial family's service.
And then, in the late spring of the Imperial Year 1175, a message arrived from Garreg Mach Monastery. Princess Edelgard, now sixteen, had been selected to attend the Officers Academy, representing the Adrestian Empire as a student in the Black Eagles house. As her dedicated retainer, Hubert would naturally accompany her.
The journey from Enbarr to Garreg Mach was long but uneventful. Edelgard traveled with a small retinue befitting her status—nothing ostentatious, but sufficient to ensure her safety and comfort. Hubert remained constantly vigilant, aware that the journey presented opportunities for their enemies, yet no threats materialized.
As their carriage approached the mountain pass that would lead them to the monastery, they were joined by another noble family traveling in the same direction—the Hevrings, whose son, Linhardt, was also to be a student in the Black Eagles. Though Hubert found the boy's perpetual lethargy irritating, Edelgard seemed to appreciate his straightforward manner and genuine intellectual curiosity.
"It will be good to see Caspar again," Linhardt remarked as they shared a meal at an inn on their final night before reaching Garreg Mach. "Though I suspect he'll be just as exhaustingly energetic as ever."
"Caspar von Bergliez?" Edelgard clarified, sipping her tea with perfect poise. "I wasn't aware you were acquainted."
"Oh yes," Linhardt replied, stifling a yawn. "Our fathers have done business together for years. Caspar and I spent several summers together as children. He's a good sort, if rather loud. No filter between his brain and his mouth."
"A dangerous quality in the Empire's current political climate," Hubert observed drily.
Linhardt fixed him with a surprisingly perceptive gaze. "Not everyone views the world through the lens of political advantage, Vestra. Some of us simply appreciate honesty when we encounter it."
Before Hubert could formulate a suitably cutting response, Edelgard intervened. "I'm looking forward to meeting all our classmates," she said diplomatically. "Ferdinand von Aegir will be there as well, I understand."
"Oh, joy," Hubert muttered, unable to keep the distaste from his voice. As the son of Duke Aegir—the leading figure in the conspiracy that had nearly destroyed the Imperial family—Ferdinand represented everything Hubert despised about the current political order in Adrestia.
"Ferdinand is not his father," Edelgard reminded him quietly. "Just as you are not yours."
The comment struck closer to home than she could have known. Hubert fell silent, memories of that night in his father's study suddenly vivid in his mind. He had never told Edelgard the full truth of Count Vestra's disappearance, sharing only that his father had been discovered conspiring against the Emperor and had fled rather than face the consequences. She had accepted this explanation without pressing for details, respecting his evident discomfort with the subject.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, perfect weather for the final stretch of their journey. As their small convoy wound its way up the mountain path toward Garreg Mach, Hubert found himself studying the impressive structure that came into view. The monastery dominated the landscape, stone towers reaching toward the sky, its walls formidable barriers against any who might threaten the Church of Seiros or its precious Officers Academy.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Edelgard commented, noting his attention. "Though I confess, I find there's something almost oppressive about such grand religious architecture. It's designed to make the individual feel small, insignificant beneath the weight of divine authority."
"A perceptive observation, Lady Edelgard," Hubert agreed, pleased as always by her sharp mind. "The Church prefers its followers humble and obedient."
They passed through the monastery gates shortly after midday, joining a stream of other arriving students and their escorts. The central courtyard buzzed with activity—servants carrying luggage, Church officials directing newcomers, current students observing the fresh arrivals with curious eyes.
As they dismounted from their carriage, a distinctive voice called out above the general din. "Linhardt! Hey, Linhardt! Over here!"
Hubert turned to see a boy with spiky blue hair waving enthusiastically from across the courtyard. This, presumably, was Caspar von Bergliez—as loud and energetic as Linhardt had suggested.
"Ah, there he is," Linhardt said with a resigned sigh. "I suppose I should go say hello before he causes a scene." He gave Edelgard a respectful nod. "Your Highness, if you'll excuse me?"
"Of course," Edelgard replied with a small smile. "We'll see you at the welcome feast this evening."
As Linhardt ambled away toward his boisterous friend, Hubert supervised the unloading of their luggage, issuing precise instructions to the servants regarding Edelgard's accommodations. The princess herself was engaged in conversation with a Church official who had approached to welcome her formally to the Academy.
Hubert had just finished ensuring that Edelgard's personal effects would be delivered directly to her assigned quarters when he heard something that made him freeze mid-sentence—a sound he had not heard in five years, but which was instantly recognizable. A rhythmic pulsing, like a heartbeat: doom, doom, doom.
He turned slowly, scanning the crowded courtyard for a flash of white garments, for impossibly golden eyes. But the sound faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Hubert wondering if he had imagined it—a product of stress and fatigue from the journey.
Before he could dwell on it further, a commotion erupted near the main hall. Caspar von Bergliez's voice rose above the general noise, followed by peals of laughter from several students who had gathered around him.
"...and then I said, 'That's not a training dummy, that's the Imperial tax collector!'" Caspar concluded what was apparently the punchline of an anecdote.
The surrounding students erupted in renewed laughter, and even the normally somnolent Linhardt cracked a smile. Curious despite himself, Hubert moved closer to the group, maintaining a position slightly behind Edelgard, who had also been drawn to the cheerful gathering.
As the laughter swept through the gathered students, Hubert found himself studying their faces with detached interest. Such easy camaraderie was foreign to him—a language he had never bothered to learn, preoccupied as he had always been with weightier matters. Yet there was something compelling about their genuine mirth, untempered by calculation or guile.
"You should have seen the tax collector's face!" Caspar continued, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. "All red and puffed up like a tomato that's about to burst! And Father just standing there trying to look dignified while his entire hunting party is dying of laughter behind him!"
Another wave of amusement rolled through the group. Even Edelgard's lips curved upward in a restrained smile, a rare sight that Hubert noted with quiet approval. Since the Insurrection and the events that followed—events she spoke of only in oblique references and nightmares that sometimes woke her screaming—such moments of unguarded pleasure had become increasingly scarce.
"Some of us," came a new voice, polished and self-assured, "would not find such disrespect toward Imperial officials quite so amusing."
Hubert's shoulders tensed reflexively as Ferdinand von Aegir approached the gathering, his orange hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. The son of Duke Aegir walked with the confident stride of one who had never questioned his place in the world—never had to claw and scheme and sacrifice to maintain his position.
"Oh, come on, Ferdinand," Caspar replied, unfazed by the criticism. "It was just a joke. Even my father laughed about it afterward."
"Besides," Linhardt added with a languid wave of his hand, "most Imperial tax collectors deserve far worse than momentary embarrassment. The corruption in the regional revenue offices is hardly a state secret."
Ferdinand frowned, clearly preparing a self-righteous rebuttal, when his gaze settled on Edelgard. His expression shifted immediately, straightening his posture and offering a formal bow. "Your Imperial Highness. I didn't realize you had arrived. Allow me to welcome you to Garreg Mach on behalf of House Aegir."
Hubert watched as Edelgard acknowledged the greeting with cool politeness, her mask of imperial dignity settling firmly into place. The easy atmosphere among the students dissipated like morning mist under a harsh sun. Caspar's joke was forgotten as formalities and protocol reasserted themselves in the princess's presence.
And yet—something lingered in Hubert's mind. Not the joke itself, which had been mediocre at best, but the openness with which it had been shared. The unselfconscious joy in Caspar's telling. The way Linhardt, for all his affected boredom, had smiled at his friend's animated storytelling.
As the group dispersed to attend to their various duties, Hubert found himself unexpectedly revisiting that moment of shared laughter. It reminded him, oddly enough, of his few encounters with Joy Boy—that sense of something genuine breaking through the careful artifice of his controlled existence.
The memory triggered another—the rhythmic pulsing he had heard moments earlier: doom, doom, doom . Hubert surveyed the courtyard again, more carefully this time. No white-garbed figure met his searching gaze, no golden eyes reflected the afternoon sunlight.
"Hubert?" Edelgard's voice drew him back to the present. "Is something wrong?"
"No, Lady Edelgard," he replied smoothly. "Merely assessing potential security concerns. The monastery is... less controlled than I would prefer."
Edelgard studied him for a moment, her lilac eyes piercing in their intensity. "You've been unusually distracted since we arrived. It's not like you."
"My apologies," he said with a slight bow. "The journey was taxing. I assure you I am fully focused on your safety and our objectives here."
She nodded, accepting his explanation without further comment, though Hubert suspected she remained unconvinced. They had known each other too long for such transparent deflections to be truly effective.
As they made their way toward the dormitories, passing through the monastery's extensive gardens, Hubert caught a flash of movement at the edge of his vision—something white disappearing behind a meticulously trimmed hedge. His steps faltered momentarily.
"Hubert?" Edelgard questioned again, this time with an edge of concern.
"It's nothing," he assured her, though his eyes remained fixed on the spot where he had glimpsed the movement. "Simply a cat, I believe."
The explanation seemed to satisfy her, and they continued their progress through the gardens. Yet Hubert could not shake the sensation of being watched—not with hostility or threat, but with something like amused interest.
That evening, after ensuring Edelgard was safely settled in her quarters and the necessary security precautions had been implemented, Hubert found himself restless. Sleep eluded him, his mind preoccupied with the day's events and the strange sensations that had accompanied their arrival at Garreg Mach.
Deciding that fresh air might clear his thoughts, he slipped silently from his room and made his way to one of the monastery's many secluded balconies. The night was clear, stars scattered across the black expanse of sky like diamonds on velvet. Far below, the lights of the small town at the monastery's base twinkled warmly.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice commented behind him.
Hubert turned sharply, hand moving instinctively to the concealed knife at his belt. A young woman with delicate green hair stood several paces away, her hands clasped demurely before her. She wore the distinctive white and gold robes of the Church hierarchy.
"I didn't intend to startle you," she continued, her voice gentle. "I am Flayn. My brother works closely with the Archbishop."
Hubert relaxed his posture slightly, though his suspicion remained. "You have the advantage of me, Lady Flayn. I did not hear your approach."
"Few do," she replied with a smile that seemed oddly knowing. "You're one of the new students, yes? The one who shadows the Imperial princess like her very name suggests."
"I am Hubert von Vestra," he confirmed, studying her with renewed interest. There was something unusual about this young woman—a quality he couldn't quite place. "House Vestra has served the Imperial family for generations. It is both my duty and privilege to ensure Lady Edelgard's safety."
"Ah, yes. The shadow that protects." Flayn moved to stand beside him at the balcony railing, gazing out at the starlit landscape. "Tell me, Lord Vestra, have you ever considered that light and shadow are not opposites, but companions? That neither can exist without the other?"
The philosophical tone of her question caught him off guard. "I'm afraid I have little time for such abstract contemplations, Lady Flayn. My duties are quite practical in nature."
"Of course." She nodded as if his answer confirmed something she had already suspected. "Yet even the most devoted shadow might occasionally benefit from moments in the light, don't you think? Joy has its own kind of strength."
Hubert stiffened at her choice of words. "Joy," he repeated carefully. "An interesting concept to raise with someone you've just met."
Flayn's smile widened, her eyes reflecting the starlight with an unusual clarity. "Some would say joy is not a concept at all, but a necessity—like air or water. Its absence creates a void that must, eventually, be filled."
Before Hubert could formulate a response to this peculiar statement, Flayn stepped back from the railing. "I should return to my quarters. My brother worries excessively when I wander after dark." She gave him a small, formal curtsy. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Vestra. I suspect our paths will cross again during your time here."
As she turned to leave, Hubert called after her, "Lady Flayn." She paused, glancing back at him with that same enigmatic smile. "Do you often engage strangers in philosophical discussions about joy and shadow?"
"Only the ones who look like they might benefit from such conversations," she replied lightly. "Good night, Lord Vestra. May your shadows be kind."
With that puzzling farewell, she disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, leaving Hubert alone with his thoughts once more. The encounter had been strange, unsettling in ways he couldn't quite articulate. There had been something in Flayn's manner—a hint of awareness beyond what her youthful appearance suggested.
As he made his way back to his quarters some time later, Hubert found himself revisiting Caspar's joke from earlier that day—not the words themselves, but the unrestrained laughter it had prompted. The genuine pleasure on his classmates' faces. The brief, precious smile it had coaxed from Edelgard.
In the darkness of his room, lit only by slivers of moonlight through the narrow window, Hubert allowed himself to consider a disquieting possibility: that perhaps Joy Boy's intervention five years ago had saved more than just his hands from bloodstains. Perhaps it had preserved something within him that might otherwise have been extinguished forever—a capacity for lightness that, while rarely indulged, remained stubbornly intact.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, heralding the official commencement of the academic year at Garreg Mach Monastery. As Hubert took his place among the other Black Eagles students for the Archbishop's welcoming address, he noted Edelgard's perfect posture, her expression composed and attentive despite the tedium of the ceremony.
Caspar fidgeted restlessly beside Linhardt, who appeared to be fighting a losing battle against sleep. Ferdinand stood unnaturally straight, his attention fixed on the Archbishop with earnest devotion. Behind them, a purple-haired girl—Bernadetta, if Hubert recalled correctly—trembled slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the public gathering.
"...and as you embark on this year of learning and growth," Archbishop Rhea intoned, her serene voice carrying effortlessly through the audience hall, "I encourage each of you to seek not only knowledge and skill, but also joy in your studies and in the bonds you will forge with your fellow students."
At the word "joy," Hubert felt a peculiar sensation—as if someone had walked directly over his shadow. He glanced around surreptitiously, seeking any sign of white garments or golden eyes among the assembled crowd. Nothing. Yet the feeling persisted, a gentle pressure against his consciousness, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
When the ceremony concluded and the students began to disperse, Caspar immediately launched into another animated story, gesturing wildly as he described some improbable adventure to anyone within earshot. His enthusiasm was so genuine, so utterly lacking in pretense or calculation, that several students who had intended to walk away found themselves drawn into his orbit, smiling despite themselves.
"That boy," Edelgard observed quietly as she and Hubert made their way toward the Black Eagles classroom, "has a remarkable talent for making others forget themselves, however briefly."
"A dubious skill at best," Hubert replied automatically, though without his usual conviction.
Edelgard glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. "Perhaps. Or perhaps such moments of shared lightness serve a purpose we have not properly considered." She paused, then added, "Even the most steadfast shadow occasionally benefits from glimpses of light, wouldn't you agree?"
The echo of Flayn's words from the previous night was too precise to be coincidental. Hubert studied Edelgard's face, searching for any sign that she was aware of the significance of her question. But her expression revealed nothing beyond mild curiosity.
"I... would not be qualified to judge such matters, Lady Edelgard," he answered carefully.
"No?" She smiled then—a real smile, small but genuine, that reached her eyes and softened the determined set of her jaw. "Then perhaps that is something we both might learn here, alongside our more formal studies."
As they entered the classroom, Hubert felt it again—that rhythmic pulsing, so faint it might have been imagined: doom, doom, doom . And for the first time in many years, he permitted himself a small, private smile in response.
The shadow remained, steadfast in its duty. But perhaps, just perhaps, it might occasionally allow itself to be touched by light.
Chapter 15: The Girl Who Sighed
Summary:
Eleven-year-old Hapi endures life as a test subject under the royal mage Cornelia until an unexpected visitor changes everything. As strange powers manifest and her captivity ends, Hapi discovers that freedom comes in many forms, including eight unusual puppies and a merchant family that welcomes her with open arms. Through the Joyist community, she begins to understand both her curse and the mysterious white-haired figure who refused to leave her behind.
Chapter Text
The chains rattled gently against the stone wall as Hapi shifted position, trying to find a comfortable spot on the hard cot. It wasn't the worst bed she'd ever slept on—that honor belonged to a moldy pile of straw in a bandit camp when she'd first left her village—but after two years of confinement, even the sturdy frame and woolen blanket felt like instruments of torture.
"Stop fidgeting," Cornelia called from her workbench without looking up. "You'll disturb the balance of the formula."
Hapi stilled immediately, though her crimson eyes burned with quiet defiance. The royal mage of Faerghus couldn't see her expression from across the laboratory, and Hapi had learned early that small rebellions were the only kind she could afford. A curl of her lip. A subtle eye roll. The mental recitation of every curse word she'd overheard from the palace guards, directed at the elegant woman with the calculating smile.
And when all else failed, the carefully controlled breathing that prevented any hint of a sigh from escaping her lips.
Two years had taught Hapi exactly what happened when she sighed. The first time had been an accident—a small, exasperated sound that had seemed harmless enough until the laboratory windows had shattered inward and a flock of wyverns had descended, their wings creating hurricane winds in the confined space. Cornelia had been delighted. Hapi had been terrified. And the wyverns had been banished with a complex spell that had left the royal mage drained but triumphant.
"Fascinating," Cornelia had murmured, brushing glass shards from her elaborate robes as she approached Hapi's trembling form. "The Crest of Timotheos manifesting in such a unique way... I had hoped for something special when I found you, but this exceeds all expectations."
After that, the experiments had intensified. Blood drawn daily. Strange concoctions forced down her throat. Arcane symbols painted onto her skin in inks that burned like fire and faded only after days of scrubbing. And always, always, the careful monitoring of her sighs—sometimes induced deliberately with painful stimuli, sometimes occurring naturally when Hapi's guard dropped in exhaustion or despair.
Each sigh brought monsters. Wolves with eyes like burning coals. Demonic beasts that shouldn't exist outside of children's nightmares. Giant birds with talons that could shred armor. And each time, Cornelia documented the results with clinical precision before banishing the creatures back to whatever realm they'd been summoned from.
"I've adjusted the composition," Cornelia announced, interrupting Hapi's bitter reflections. The mage approached with a vial of viscous purple liquid that seemed to move with unnatural slowness when she tilted it toward the light. "This should allow greater specificity in the type of creature summoned."
Hapi pressed her lips together tightly, but Cornelia merely smiled. "Come now, child. You know resistance only makes things less pleasant for both of us."
A slim hand reached out to grasp Hapi's chin, fingers digging into the soft flesh with practiced precision—enough pressure to cause pain without leaving marks that might raise questions from the rare visitor to the laboratory. Hapi briefly considered biting those perfectly manicured fingers but dismissed the idea. Last time she'd tried, Cornelia had withheld food for three days.
"Open," Cornelia commanded, and when Hapi reluctantly complied, the mage poured the viscous liquid into her mouth. It tasted of metal and rotting fruit, coating her tongue and throat as it went down. "Very good. Now we wait for the formula to take effect before proceeding with the test."
Hapi swallowed repeatedly, trying to rid her mouth of the foul taste as Cornelia returned to her workbench, making notations in a leather-bound journal. The chains at her wrists allowed her enough movement to wipe her mouth on her sleeve, though the rough fabric did little to help.
From beyond the laboratory's thick walls came the faint sounds of palace life—servants calling to one another, the clatter of dishes being transported to the dining hall, the distant laughter of nobles enjoying the spring afternoon in the gardens. Sounds of freedom that seemed to belong to another world entirely.
What would it be like, Hapi wondered, to walk those gardens? To feel grass beneath her feet instead of cold stone? It had been so long since she'd seen the sky without iron bars framing the view that she sometimes struggled to remember the exact shade of blue.
"Thinking of escape again?" Cornelia asked without looking up from her work. "I can always tell. You get that distant look, like a bird eyeing an open window." The mage glanced up, her smile coldly amused. "But we both know there's nowhere for you to go. The monsters would follow, child. They would destroy everything in their path, including you, without my magic to control them."
It was a familiar threat, one that had kept Hapi compliant even when opportunities to flee presented themselves. The thought of unintentionally unleashing destruction on innocent people—of being responsible for deaths and suffering simply because she couldn't control her own breath—was more effective than any physical restraint.
Though her village had been hidden and isolated, the people of Timotheos had taught their children compassion as fiercely as they'd taught them caution. Hapi might have rejected their isolationist ways when she'd run away at nine years old, eager to see the world beyond their sheltered valley, but she hadn't abandoned their core values.
"I wasn't thinking about escape," she lied, her voice raspy from disuse. Cornelia rarely bothered to speak with her beyond issuing instructions, and there were no other regular visitors except—
The laboratory door swung inward, admitting a woman whose elegant bearing and finery marked her as nobility even before one recognized her face. Queen Consort Anselma von Arundel, wife to Emperor Ionius IX, swept into the room with a rustle of silk and a subtle cloud of floral perfume that momentarily banished the laboratory's acrid chemical scents.
"Cornelia," Anselma greeted, her tone pleasant but underlaid with steel. "I came to check on our young friend." Her gaze landed on Hapi, softening immediately. "How are you today, little one?"
Before Hapi could answer, Cornelia stepped forward smoothly, positioning herself between the queen consort and her test subject. "Your Majesty honors us with her presence," she said with a formal bow. "I fear you've caught us at an inconvenient moment. We're in the midst of a delicate procedure that requires—"
"That requires chaining a child to a wall and force-feeding her suspicious concoctions?" Anselma interrupted, one elegantly shaped eyebrow rising in challenge. "How fascinating. Do explain the scientific necessity."
Cornelia's smile remained fixed, but Hapi, who had spent years studying the mage's every expression for signs of impending cruelty, saw the momentary flash of annoyance in her eyes. "The restraints are for the child's own safety, Your Majesty. The Crest manifestations can be unpredictable."
"I see." Anselma's tone made it clear she saw far more than Cornelia wished. She moved past the mage with the casual authority of one who had spent a lifetime navigating royal courts, approaching Hapi directly. "And does her safety also require such poor living conditions? I note she's thinner than during my last visit, and there are dark circles beneath her eyes."
"The experimental regimen—"
"Can surely accommodate proper nutrition and rest," Anselma finished firmly. She reached out, brushing a strand of dark red hair from Hapi's forehead with gentle fingers. "What have they been feeding you, child?"
Hapi hesitated, glancing toward Cornelia, whose expression had hardened into a mask of professional concern that didn't reach her eyes. The girl had learned early that complaining brought consequences once the queen consort departed.
"It's alright," Anselma assured her, correctly interpreting her hesitation. "You may speak freely."
"Porridge," Hapi said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "And bread. Sometimes meat if... if the tests go well."
Anselma's expression darkened. "Food as reward for compliance. How inventive." She turned to Cornelia, all pretense of pleasantry vanishing. "This will stop immediately. The girl will receive proper meals three times daily, regardless of experimental outcomes. She will have clean clothing, regular baths, and at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep each night."
"Your Majesty," Cornelia began, a hint of desperation creeping into her carefully modulated voice, "the research is at a critical stage—"
"The research will proceed according to basic standards of human dignity, or it will not proceed at all," Anselma stated flatly. "Need I remind you that while you answer to the Kingdom of Faerghus, this laboratory exists within Imperial territory by my husband's grace? A grace that can be withdrawn."
The threat hung in the air between them. Hapi watched the silent battle of wills with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Anselma's visits were the brightest points in her otherwise miserable existence, bringing temporary relief from the worst of Cornelia's excesses. But they also inevitably led to increased severity once the queen consort departed, as if Cornelia needed to reassert her absolute control.
Finally, Cornelia inclined her head in a gesture of submission that fooled neither woman nor child. "Of course, Your Majesty. The welfare of the subject is paramount."
"The welfare of the child ," Anselma corrected sharply. "Her name is Hapi, and she deserves to be addressed as such." She turned back to Hapi, her expression softening once more. "I've brought you something."
From a concealed pocket in her elegant gown, Anselma produced a small book bound in worn leather. "Poetry from across Fódlan," she explained, placing it in Hapi's chained hands. "To keep your mind occupied between these... procedures."
The gesture nearly undid Hapi's careful composure. In her village, books had been rare treasures, carefully preserved and shared among all. During her brief time wandering freely, she had sometimes convinced merchants to let her peek at their ledgers just to see written words. And in her two years of captivity, she had been given nothing to read, nothing to stimulate her mind between painful experiments.
"Thank you," she whispered, clutching the small volume as if it might disappear if she loosened her grasp even slightly.
Anselma smiled, a genuine expression that transformed her aristocratic features into something warm and approachable. "You're most welcome. Now, shall we read a bit together before I must attend to other duties?"
Without waiting for Cornelia's permission, the queen consort seated herself on the edge of Hapi's cot and opened the book to the first page. For the next half hour, her melodious voice filled the laboratory with tales of brave knights, clever commoners, and the occasional intervention of benevolent deities.
Cornelia retreated to her workbench, ostensibly absorbed in her research but watching the pair with narrowed eyes. Hapi, for her part, allowed herself to be transported by the words, imagining herself as the protagonist of each adventure—free to roam forests and mountains, to test her courage against worthy challenges, to experience the world as she had dreamed of doing when she'd first left her village.
All too soon, Anselma closed the book with a regretful sigh. "I must go now, little one. The Emperor expects me at dinner, and there are diplomats from Brigid whose customs demand the presence of the entire imperial family."
She rose gracefully, smoothing her skirts before leaning down to press a kiss to Hapi's forehead—a gesture so motherly that it made the girl's throat tighten painfully. Her own mother had done the same each night before bed, though those memories had grown increasingly indistinct with the passage of time.
"I shall return soon," Anselma promised. "And I expect to find you in better condition, with the improvements I've specified fully implemented." This last was directed at Cornelia, who offered another of her insincere bows.
"Of course, Your Majesty. The child's welfare is our highest priority."
Anselma's expression suggested she found this claim dubious at best, but she merely nodded before departing, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air like a promise.
When the door closed behind the queen consort, silence fell over the laboratory. Hapi clutched her new book, waiting for the inevitable. Cornelia did not disappoint.
"Such troublesome interference," the mage murmured, approaching with measured steps. "The nobility never understand the necessities of scientific progress." She reached out, plucking the book from Hapi's grasp despite the girl's attempt to hold onto it. "This will be returned when you've earned it."
"She gave it to me," Hapi protested, a rare act of verbal defiance that surprised them both.
Cornelia's eyebrows rose. "Indeed she did. And now I am taking it away. That is how power works, child—a lesson you would do well to learn." She placed the book on a high shelf, well out of Hapi's reach even if she hadn't been chained. "Now, let us proceed with testing the new formula. I believe it should have taken effect by now."
She produced a small silver needle from her robes. "A small stimulus to induce the response," she explained, as if Hapi hadn't experienced this particular torment dozens of times before. "Try to focus on wolves specifically as you react. I'm curious to see if the formula allows for such direction."
The needle pricked Hapi's arm, a sharp pain that would have made anyone flinch. But Hapi had endured far worse. She merely stared at Cornelia with empty eyes, refusing to give the mage the satisfaction of seeing her reaction.
"Come now," Cornelia chided, increasing the pressure until a bead of blood welled up around the needle's point. "We both know you can't hold it in forever."
Hapi kept her lips pressed tightly together, focusing on the book now sitting on the distant shelf. She would earn it back. She would endure whatever was necessary to have those precious words returned to her—a window into other worlds, other lives, other possibilities.
The needle dug deeper. Pain lanced up her arm. And despite her best efforts, a small, involuntary sigh escaped her lips.
The effect was immediate. The laboratory windows darkened as if something massive had blocked the sun. A low growling vibrated through the stone walls. Cornelia stepped back, a gleam of excitement in her eyes as she prepared the banishment spell that would be necessary once the summoned creatures fully manifested.
But before the spell could be completed, the laboratory door burst inward with such force that it tore completely free from its hinges, crashing into Cornelia's workbench and sending vials and instruments shattering to the floor.
In the doorway stood a figure that couldn't possibly be real. Tall and lithe, dressed in flowing white garments that seemed to capture and reflect light from sources that didn't exist within the dimly lit laboratory. Hair like white flame rose from his head, defying gravity and shifting as if blown by winds unfelt by anyone else. Around his shoulders floated what appeared to be actual clouds, forming a collar of vapor that trailed behind him like a living cape.
Most striking of all were his eyes—massive golden irises that glowed with inner light, seeming to take in everything at once while focusing with laser intensity on specific details.
"Impossible," Cornelia breathed, her usual composure shattered by genuine shock. "You can't be here. You're just a peasant myth, a collective hallucination..."
The figure—Joy Boy, Hapi realized with sudden clarity, recognizing the description from whispered conversations she'd overheard between palace servants—tilted his head slightly, regarding Cornelia with an expression that might have been curiosity or might have been judgment. He made no sound, offered no response to her disbelief.
Instead, he simply pointed a finger at her.
The gesture contained no visible magic, no obvious threat. But Cornelia reacted as if struck, stumbling backward with a strangled gasp. "Stay away from me," she hissed, gathering her skirts with trembling hands. "Whatever you are, whatever power you think you possess, you have no authority here."
Joy Boy's expression didn't change. He merely pointed again, this time toward the laboratory door—or rather, the empty space where it had been.
The message was unmistakable: Leave.
And to Hapi's astonishment, Cornelia obeyed. The royal mage of Faerghus, who had subjected a child to two years of torturous experimentation without a flicker of remorse, fled like a frightened rabbit before a predator's gaze. She squeezed past Joy Boy without looking directly at him, as if afraid that meeting those golden eyes might turn her to stone, and disappeared down the corridor beyond.
Now alone with the impossible figure, Hapi felt something very close to true terror for the first time since her initial capture. Cornelia had been cruel but predictable. This being—this legend suddenly made flesh—was anything but.
The growling intensified as whatever monsters her sigh had summoned drew nearer. Cornelia had fled without completing the banishment spell, leaving Hapi chained and defenseless against creatures that would show no mercy, no recognition that she was in some way their summoner.
"I'm going to die," she thought with strange clarity.
Unable to help herself, she let out another small, frightened sigh—and immediately regretted it as the growls transformed into howls of hunger and rage. The laboratory windows shattered inward, admitting not the wolves she had half-expected but something far worse: giant birds with razor-sharp beaks and talons, their eyes glowing red with unnatural malice.
Eight of them circled the ceiling, their massive wingspans barely clearing the laboratory's stone walls. One dove toward Hapi, its talons extended to rip and tear.
Joy Boy moved.
One moment he stood in the doorway, observing; the next he was directly between Hapi and the attacking creature, having crossed the laboratory so quickly that she hadn't seen him move at all. He didn't flinch as the monster bore down on him. Instead, he simply... stared at it.
Those golden eyes fixed on the diving bird, which pulled up short as if it had hit an invisible barrier. It hovered in midair, wings beating frantically as it tried to maintain position while simultaneously attempting to retreat from that steady gaze.
Joy Boy raised one hand, index finger extended, and shook his head slowly from side to side. A clear negative. A clear command.
No.
The monstrous bird shrieked in what sounded like frustration or perhaps even fear. Its companions circled lower, as if debating whether to attack as a group, but they too seemed reluctant to meet Joy Boy's gaze directly.
And then, impossibly, Joy Boy smiled.
It wasn't a threatening expression. If anything, it contained a sort of gentle amusement, as if the entire situation—deadly monsters, imprisoned child, shattered laboratory—was nothing more than a minor misunderstanding that could be easily resolved.
He pointed at each bird in turn, his finger leaving trails of golden light in the air that lingered for several seconds before fading. The birds followed the movement with their crimson eyes, seemingly mesmerized. When all eight had been indicated, Joy Boy clapped his hands together once.
The sound echoed with impossible volume, reverberating through the laboratory like thunder in a closed room. Hapi instinctively tried to cover her ears, though the chains limited her movement.
When she looked up again, the monstrous birds were gone.
In their place, tumbling through the air in clear confusion before landing with undignified yelps on the stone floor, were eight puppies. Actual puppies, with soft fur and floppy ears and tails that immediately began wagging as they took in their surroundings with bright, curious eyes.
Hapi's mouth fell open in speechless shock.
Joy Boy turned to her, his impossible smile widening to reveal teeth as white as his flowing garments. He gave her a thumbs-up gesture that was so incongruously normal compared to everything else about him that Hapi nearly laughed despite her fear and confusion.
Then he moved toward her with that same impossible speed, appearing directly before her cot without seeming to cross the intervening space. Hapi tensed, unsure what to expect, but Joy Boy merely reached out and touched the chains binding her wrists.
They fell away as if they'd never been locked at all, the metal links spilling across the stone floor with a musical clatter that startled the puppies into a chorus of yipping barks.
Joy Boy stepped back, allowing Hapi space to stand on legs that trembled from disuse and shock. When she managed to get to her feet, swaying slightly, he nodded in obvious approval before gesturing toward the door.
The message was clear: We're leaving.
Hapi hesitated, glancing around the laboratory that had been her prison for two long years. There was nothing here she wanted to take with her—nothing except...
"My book," she said, pointing to the shelf where Cornelia had placed Anselma's gift. "Please."
Joy Boy followed her gaze, then nodded. Instead of retrieving the book himself, however, he whistled a short, bright note. One of the puppies—a fluffy creature with mottled brown and white fur—immediately perked up its ears and bounded toward the shelf.
What happened next defied all natural laws. The puppy simply continued its trajectory upward, as if gravity had suddenly ceased to apply to it specifically. It ran up the air itself, little paws moving as if climbing invisible stairs, until it reached the shelf. There it grasped the book carefully in its mouth before running back down to deliver it to Hapi.
She accepted the volume with numb fingers, staring at the puppy in fascination. It wagged its tail expectantly, as if awaiting praise for completing its task.
"Thank you," she managed, and was rewarded with a happy bark before the puppy rejoined its companions, who were exploring the laboratory with typical canine curiosity.
Joy Boy gestured toward the door again, more insistently this time. Hapi nodded, clutching her book to her chest as she took her first steps toward freedom. Her legs were weak from confinement, but determination carried her forward, past the shattered remains of Cornelia's workbench, through the doorway, and into the corridor beyond.
Joy Boy followed, and behind him, to Hapi's surprise, came all eight puppies, forming an orderly procession as if they'd been trained for this specific purpose.
The corridor was eerily empty. No guards, no servants, no sign of Cornelia or anyone else who might attempt to stop their strange procession. It was as if the entire area had been evacuated, though Hapi heard distant sounds suggesting that the rest of the palace continued to function normally.
They encountered no one as Joy Boy led her through a series of increasingly narrow passages that Hapi had never seen before—servants' routes, perhaps, or secret pathways known only to a few. Eventually, they emerged through a small door concealed behind a tapestry, finding themselves in a quiet courtyard dusted with the last remnants of winter snow.
The sun was setting, painting the western sky in shades of gold and crimson that reminded Hapi painfully of home. How long had it been since she'd seen an unobstructed sunset? Since she'd felt fresh air on her face without metal bars filtering the experience?
Joy Boy didn't allow her much time for contemplation. He crossed the courtyard with purposeful strides, pausing occasionally to ensure she was keeping up. The puppies frolicked around them, seemingly delighted by the snow despite having been large predatory birds mere minutes earlier.
At the courtyard's edge, a small postern gate stood slightly ajar. Joy Boy pushed it open fully, revealing a narrow alley that presumably led to the city beyond. He motioned for Hapi to go through, following close behind with their canine entourage.
Fhirdiad spread before them as they emerged from the alley—a sprawling city of stone and timber, its streets still busy with evening traffic despite the lingering chill of late winter. Merchants were closing their stalls for the day, apprentices ran errands for their masters, and citizens hurried home to their evening meals, none paying particular attention to the strange group that had just left the palace grounds.
Joy Boy set a brisk pace through the city streets, navigating with the confidence of one intimately familiar with every twist and turn. Hapi struggled to keep up, her body weak from confinement and her senses overwhelmed by the sudden immersion in noise, movement, and the countless smells of a bustling city at dusk.
The puppies stayed close, occasionally nipping playfully at her heels as if encouraging her to continue despite her fatigue. One in particular—the same brown and white creature that had retrieved her book—seemed to have appointed itself her personal guardian, growling softly whenever a passerby came too close.
They had nearly reached the city gates when a voice called out from behind them.
"There! The escaped test subject! Detain her immediately!"
Hapi's heart lurched painfully as she recognized Cornelia's voice. She turned to see the royal mage approaching rapidly, accompanied by a squad of soldiers in Kingdom livery. The sight froze her in place, old terrors resurfacing despite her brief taste of freedom.
But Joy Boy merely sighed—a sound so ordinary from such an extraordinary being that it momentarily distracted Hapi from her fear. He turned to face the approaching group, placing himself between them and the girl.
What happened next would later become blurred in Hapi's memory, as if her mind simply couldn't process the impossibility of it. Joy Boy made no aggressive moves, cast no obvious spells. He simply stood his ground as Cornelia and her soldiers advanced.
And then, abruptly, they stopped.
Cornelia's face contorted in an expression Hapi had never seen before—not anger or frustration, but something closer to genuine fear. The soldiers beside her seemed similarly affected, their professional discipline crumbling as they took involuntary steps backward.
"This isn't over," Cornelia hissed, though she made no move to approach further. "The girl belongs to the Empire. Whatever power you possess, whatever you think you're accomplishing here, you cannot change that fact."
Joy Boy tilted his head, regarding her with that same inscrutable expression he'd worn in the laboratory. Then, deliberately, he smiled—but this smile contained nothing of the gentle amusement he'd shown earlier. This was something sharper, something that made even Hapi shiver despite knowing it wasn't directed at her.
Without a word, without a gesture, Joy Boy turned his back on Cornelia and her soldiers. He placed a gentle hand on Hapi's shoulder, guiding her toward the city gates once more. The puppies followed, though the brown and white one glanced back occasionally, hackles raised in warning.
And remarkably, impossibly, Cornelia and her soldiers let them go.
Beyond the city walls, the landscape was still caught in winter's grip, though signs of the approaching spring were visible in patches of exposed earth where the snow had begun to melt. Joy Boy led them eastward along a well-traveled road, his bare feet leaving no prints in the snow—another impossibility that Hapi had given up trying to understand.
As they walked, the snow beneath Joy Boy's steps began to melt faster than natural, creating a clear path that quickly sprouted tiny green shoots despite the season. Where his feet touched, spring arrived in miniature, flowers blooming and withering in the space of seconds as if an entire season was compressed into a single moment.
The puppies romped through this ephemeral garden, seeming to delight in the phenomenon despite—or perhaps because of—its strangeness. Hapi found herself smiling at their antics despite her exhaustion and confusion. There was something profoundly soothing about their uncomplicated joy, their acceptance of the impossible as simply another aspect of existence.
They traveled until well after sunset, the road illuminated by a combination of moonlight and the strange golden glow that seemed to emanate from Joy Boy himself. Hapi had no idea where they were going or what awaited her at their destination, but the alternative—returning to Cornelia's laboratory—was unthinkable.
So she walked, one foot in front of the other, clutching her precious book and occasionally reaching down to pat one of the puppies when they brushed against her legs in passing. She didn't ask questions—partly because she was too tired for conversation, but mostly because she sensed that Joy Boy wouldn't answer verbally regardless of what she asked.
Eventually, as the moon reached its zenith, a small village appeared on the horizon. A cluster of sturdy houses surrounded by fields still dormant under winter's blanket, with smoke rising from chimneys to create a hazy canopy above the settlement.
Joy Boy pointed toward the village, looking at Hapi questioningly. She understood that he was asking if she could continue that far, and nodded despite the ache in her legs and the exhaustion that made each step more difficult than the last.
"I can make it," she said aloud, though the words were unnecessary.
The village was quiet when they reached it, most inhabitants presumably asleep at this late hour. Joy Boy led them unerringly toward a house at the settlement's edge—larger than most, with a small warehouse attached that suggested its owner was a merchant of some kind.
Without hesitation, he approached the front door and knocked firmly.
Long moments passed before a light appeared in one of the windows. Hapi heard movement inside, then a man's voice calling out cautiously: "Who's there? State your business at this hour."
Joy Boy knocked again, more insistently.
The door opened a crack, revealing a middle-aged man with sleep-tousled hair and a wary expression that transformed into utter shock as he took in the white-garbed figure standing on his doorstep.
"Blessed sun," the man breathed, the door falling open further as his grip on it slackened. "It's you. It's really you." His gaze shifted to Hapi, then to the puppies clustered around her feet, confusion mingling with his awe. "What... who..."
Joy Boy pointed directly at Hapi, then gave the man an enthusiastic thumbs-up gesture before reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. Something passed between them in that moment—some understanding that Hapi couldn't interpret but which left the merchant nodding slowly, as if in response to words only he could hear.
"I understand," he said finally, though Joy Boy had spoken no audible words. "She will be safe here."
Joy Boy nodded once, decisively, then turned to Hapi. He crouched down to her eye level, those impossible golden irises meeting her crimson ones directly for the first time since their strange journey began.
What Hapi saw in those eyes defied description—ancient wisdom and childlike wonder coexisting without contradiction, power beyond mortal comprehension tempered by genuine compassion, joy so pure it transcended language. For a moment, she forgot her exhaustion, her confusion, even her name. There was only the golden light and the truth it revealed: that she was seen, truly seen, perhaps for the first time in her life.
Joy Boy smiled—not the sharp expression he'd shown Cornelia, but something infinitely gentler—and placed his hand briefly atop Hapi's head. A blessing, a farewell, a promise. Then he straightened and turned away, walking back the way they had come without a backward glance.
"Wait," Hapi called, finding her voice too late. "Who are you? Why did you help me?"
But Joy Boy was already gone, seeming to fade into the night with each step until there was nothing left to see but the normal darkness of a village street at midnight.
The merchant placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Come inside, child. You look dead on your feet, and the night grows cold."
Hapi hesitated, suddenly afraid despite everything she had already endured. This man was a stranger. The village was unknown to her. And despite Joy Boy's apparent trust in him, she had learned the hard way that adults could not always be relied upon.
As if sensing her thoughts, the merchant stepped back, giving her space. "I am Tobias," he said simply. "My wife Eliza and I have lived here for fifteen years, trading goods between Faerghus and the Alliance territories. We..." His voice caught briefly. "We had children once. They were taken by fever some years ago."
The raw grief in his voice was unmistakably genuine. Hapi found herself believing him despite her caution.
"You don't have to stay," Tobias continued. "But at least come in for a hot meal and a proper night's rest. In the morning, if you wish to continue on your way, I will provide provisions and directions."
It was a fair offer—more than fair, given that he knew nothing about her. The merchant was clearly a Joyist, given his recognition of and reverence toward her strange rescuer, but that didn't obligate him to shelter an unknown child.
Before Hapi could respond, the brown and white puppy pressed against her legs, looking up at her with surprising intelligence in its dark eyes. One by one, the other seven joined it, forming a protective circle around her as if declaring their intention to remain regardless of her decision.
The sight brought unexpected tears to her eyes. In all her eleven years—in her hidden village, during her brief freedom, throughout her captivity—she had never experienced such unconditional loyalty.
"My name is Hapi," she said finally, meeting Tobias's kind eyes directly. "And I think... I think I'd like to stay. At least for tonight."
"Then welcome, Hapi," Tobias replied with a warm smile, stepping aside to allow her entry. "You and your... unusual companions."
As she crossed the threshold into the merchant's home, the puppies following close behind, Hapi felt something unfamiliar unfurling within her chest—a cautious, fragile hope that perhaps, just perhaps, her long nightmare was truly over. That freedom, once merely a distant dream, might become a daily reality.
And that somewhere out there, a white-haired youth with golden eyes and a smile like sunlight was continuing his mysterious journey, changing lives and destinies with each silent step.
The morning after her rescue brought Hapi her first true awakening in years—not the reluctant surfacing to consciousness that had marked her days in Cornelia's laboratory, but a genuine renewal. Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar curtains, casting warm patterns across a real bed with clean sheets that smelled of lavender and fresh air. For several minutes, she simply lay there, fingers clutching the woolen blanket as if to confirm its reality.
A wet nose nudged her hand, and Hapi looked down to find the brown and white puppy—her puppy, she was beginning to think—watching her with intelligent eyes. The creature wagged its tail enthusiastically when their gazes met, as if congratulating her for surviving her first night of freedom.
"Good morning to you too," Hapi murmured, her voice still rusty from disuse. She glanced around the small but comfortable bedroom, taking in details she'd been too exhausted to notice the night before—a hand-carved dresser with brass handles, a cheerful braided rug beside the bed, and most notably, a window without bars that looked out upon an actual garden rather than a palace courtyard.
The door creaked open, and Hapi tensed instinctively before remembering where she was. Eliza, Tobias's wife, entered carrying a tray laden with food that sent Hapi's stomach rumbling in immediate response. The woman was plump and rosy-cheeked, with laughter lines around her eyes and silver threading through her dark brown hair.
"Good morning, little one," she greeted, setting the tray on a small table near the bed. "I thought you might prefer to break your fast in privacy today, after everything you've been through."
The kindness in the gesture—recognizing Hapi's need for space without making her ask for it—brought an unexpected lump to the girl's throat. She managed a nod of thanks, not trusting her voice.
"Eat as much as you like," Eliza continued, seemingly untroubled by Hapi's silence. "There's fresh bread with honey, porridge with dried fruit, and eggs from our own hens. The tea is willow bark—good for healing and strength." She paused, her expression softening further. "Tobias told me what happened. Not everything, I suspect, but enough to understand that you've endured what no child should."
Hapi glanced down at her arms, where faint scars from Cornelia's needles mapped a constellation of pain across her skin. "It wasn't so bad," she lied, an automatic defense against pity.
Eliza's eyes were knowing but not intrusive. "Well, it's over now. And you're welcome here for as long as you wish to stay—a night, a season, or a lifetime. The choice is yours."
The woman departed before Hapi could formulate a response, leaving her alone with the food, the sunlight, and the realization that for the first time in years, she truly had choices to make.
The puppy whined softly, eyeing the food with obvious interest.
"Fine," Hapi sighed, then froze in momentary panic. But no monsters came—only seven more puppies tumbling through the bedroom door as if summoned, their paws skittering on the wooden floor as they rushed to join their companion.
This new reality—sighing without catastrophic consequences—was perhaps the strangest freedom of all.
The merchant's house quickly became home in a way Hapi had never anticipated. Tobias and Eliza moved with the careful consideration of those who had known profound loss, never pushing but always including, creating space for Hapi to exist however she needed to on any given day.
Some days, that meant silence and solitude, hiding in the small bedroom or the attic space Tobias had converted into a reading nook when he discovered her love of books. Other days, it meant helping in the garden, digging her fingers into actual soil and watching things grow through her own nurturing rather than some arcane experiment.
The puppies remained, defying all natural laws of what had presumably once been demonic beasts. They grew, but not to monstrous proportions—instead developing into handsome dogs of varying sizes and temperaments, though all maintaining an unnatural intelligence that sometimes drew curious glances from visitors to the merchant's home.
Hapi named each one, starting with the brown and white puppy who had retrieved her book and appointed itself her guardian. "Keeper," she called him, and he responded to the name as if he'd always had it, sitting straighter and taking his duties even more seriously. The others became Flicker, Shadow, Tumble, Breeze, Scholar, Whisper, and Storm—each name reflecting some quality that had emerged during their first weeks together.
Three months after her arrival, when the worst memories had begun to lose their sharp edges and her body had filled out from regular meals, Tobias approached Hapi as she sat in the garden braiding flower stems into crowns for her canine companions.
"There's a gathering tonight," he said casually, though something in his tone suggested the event was anything but ordinary. "Eliza and I attend whenever we can. We thought you might like to join us."
Hapi tensed slightly. "What kind of gathering?"
"A community of like-minded people," Tobias replied, his weathered face crinkling with a gentle smile. "People who believe in freedom and joy as birthright rather than privilege. People who have seen him."
There was no need to specify who "him" referred to. Hapi's fingers stilled on the flower stems, her mind returning to golden eyes and that impossible smile.
"Joyists," she said, the word familiar from whispered conversations overheard in the palace. Cornelia had spoken of them with disdain, calling them deluded peasants clinging to superstition rather than embracing reason and science.
Tobias nodded. "Yes, though we don't always use that name for ourselves. Some call us Dreamers or Striders or simply The Liberated. The noble houses have other names for us, most of them less flattering." His expression grew more serious. "I won't pretend there's no risk in association with us, Hapi. The Kingdom church views our practices with suspicion at best, and there are nobles who would gladly see us disbanded or worse."
"But you go anyway," Hapi observed, studying the merchant's face.
"We go anyway," he confirmed. "Because freedom matters, even when—especially when—exercising it comes with consequences."
Hapi considered this, winding a final stem into the flower crown she was making. The concept resonated deep within her, touching something that had existed even before her captivity—the impulse that had led her to leave her sheltered village at nine years old, seeking connection with the wider world despite her elders' warnings.
"I'll come," she decided, placing the finished crown atop Keeper's head. The dog sat regally, accepting the decoration with grave dignity while the others whined in apparent jealousy. "But I don't know anything about being a Joyist."
Tobias smiled, the creases around his eyes deepening. "None of us did, at first. That's rather the point."
The gathering took place in a clearing several miles from the village, accessible only by a winding path through dense forest that would have been difficult to follow without guidance. Tobias led the way, carrying a small lantern, while Eliza walked beside Hapi, occasionally pointing out interesting plants or signs of wildlife in the gathering dusk.
The dogs accompanied them, naturally, ranging ahead and circling back as if conducting reconnaissance. Their behavior was peculiar enough that Eliza finally commented on it.
"They're not ordinary animals, are they?" she asked without judgment, watching as Keeper scaled a nearly vertical rock face that should have been impossible for a dog his size to climb.
Hapi hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. Her experiences had taught her caution, especially regarding her unusual abilities. But there was something about Eliza's straightforward question that invited honesty.
"No," she admitted. "They were... something else before. Monsters. When I sigh, I summon monsters, but Joy Boy changed them somehow."
She expected shock, perhaps even fear. Instead, Eliza nodded thoughtfully. "That tracks with other stories we've heard. Transformation rather than destruction. Creation rather than elimination." She smiled down at Hapi. "You're not the only one with an unusual connection to him, though yours seems particularly special."
Before Hapi could ask what she meant, they emerged into the clearing where the gathering was already underway. Dozens of people—perhaps as many as a hundred—had assembled in a rough circle around a central fire. They were diverse in age and apparent social status, some dressed in simple homespun clothes like those Tobias and Eliza wore, others in garments that suggested greater wealth or even nobility.
What united them was not appearance but atmosphere—an undercurrent of quiet joy and relaxed alertness that Hapi could feel even from the edge of the gathering. These people were fully present, fully alive in a way that was almost painful to witness after years of existing in suspended animation.
"Come," Tobias said, guiding them toward an open space in the circle. "We're just in time."
As they settled onto blankets spread on the ground, the gathering fell into a natural silence. No one had called for order or made any obvious signal, yet the conversations ceased as if a conductor had lowered an invisible baton. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the soft rustling of the forest around them.
A woman rose from the far side of the circle—tall and graceful, with deep brown skin and tightly coiled silver hair that caught the firelight. When she spoke, her voice carried easily across the clearing without seeming raised.
"We gather in freedom and joy," she began, the words clearly ritual but delivered with genuine feeling. "In remembrance of the one who walks among us, even when unseen."
"In freedom and joy," the assembly responded in unison, the phrase rippling around the circle like a wave.
The woman smiled, her eyes scanning the gathering until they found Hapi. There was recognition there, though Hapi was certain they had never met.
"We have a newcomer tonight," she announced. "One who has known the touch of liberation directly."
All eyes turned toward Hapi, who fought the urge to shrink behind Eliza or call her dogs to create a protective barrier. There was no malice in the gazes—only interest and perhaps a hint of reverence that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
"Would you share your story with us, child?" the silver-haired woman asked. "Only what you wish, of course. There is no obligation."
Hapi swallowed hard, looking to Tobias for guidance. He nodded encouragingly but made no move to speak for her.
"I—" Her voice caught. How could she possibly explain what had happened? The years of captivity, the experiments, the constant fear, and then that impossible rescue... It was too much, too personal to share with strangers, no matter how kind their expressions.
As if sensing her distress, Keeper pressed against her side, his warm bulk anchoring her to the present moment. The other dogs moved closer as well, forming a loose semicircle of protective presence.
"I was a prisoner," Hapi began finally, the words emerging slowly. "For two years. A royal mage was... experimenting on me because of my Crest. And then one day, he came. Joy Boy. He didn't say anything, not with words. But he freed me and changed my monsters into these." She gestured at the dogs surrounding her.
It was a bare-bones account, stripped of emotional detail and the worst of the horrors, but it was all she could manage. To her surprise, it seemed to be enough. Murmurs of understanding and affirmation circled the gathering.
The silver-haired woman nodded solemnly. "Liberation takes many forms. For some, it is a gradual awakening—a shift in perspective that allows us to see beyond the boundaries we once accepted as immutable. For others, like you, it comes as a physical deliverance from bondage." She smiled then, the expression transforming her dignified features into something warm and approachable. "But always, always, it involves choice. The freedom to determine one's own path, to say 'yes' or 'no' according to one's own truth."
Others began to speak then, sharing their own encounters with Joy Boy or the changes that had come upon them after such meetings. An elderly farmer described fields that had suddenly flourished after years of poor yields. A young woman spoke of chronic pain that had vanished overnight. A middle-aged man with a nobleman's accent told of leaving a lucrative but corrupt position to work with orphaned children, finding fulfillment he had never known in wealth and status.
As the stories continued, Hapi found herself relaxing by degrees. There was no pressure here to perform or conform. No one demanded she speak again or questioned the details of her account. She was simply allowed to be—to listen, to absorb, to decide for herself what resonated as truth.
When the formal sharing concluded, the gathering transitioned into something more celebratory. Musicians produced instruments—drums and pipes, a stringed instrument Hapi didn't recognize, and even a small harp that glinted gold in the firelight. Food emerged from baskets and satchels, shared freely among all present regardless of who had brought what.
"This is the practice," Eliza explained, passing Hapi a small honey cake. "We come together to remember, to share, to support one another in living freely. Sometimes he joins us, though not often. But his spirit is always present in the sharing."
As the night deepened, several children around Hapi's age approached cautiously, clearly intrigued by her unusual companions. The dogs, surprisingly sociable for creatures that had once been monstrous predators, accepted the attention with good grace, though they never strayed far from Hapi herself.
"Can they do tricks?" a small boy asked, watching as Tumble rolled over to have his belly scratched.
Hapi hadn't considered this. In the laboratory, her summoned monsters had been dangerous weapons, not performers. But these creatures were something else entirely now.
"I don't know," she admitted. "We can try."
To her astonishment, the dogs seemed to understand perfectly what was being asked of them. At simple verbal commands, they sat, stayed, retrieved objects, and even performed more complex behaviors like forming pyramid structures with the smaller dogs climbing atop the larger ones. Scholar, the most intellectually inclined of the group (as his name suggested), demonstrated an ability to identify specific objects by name from a collection of items, while Whisper proved capable of moving with such stealth that she could circle the entire gathering without being noticed by anyone but Hapi.
The children were delighted, and soon a small crowd had gathered to watch the impromptu performance. Hapi found herself smiling—genuinely smiling—for what felt like the first time in years. The sensation was foreign enough that she raised a hand to her lips in surprise, feeling the unfamiliar curve.
"It suits you," said a voice beside her—male, cultured, with the accent of northern Faerghus.
Hapi turned to find a man in his late twenties or early thirties observing her with thoughtful blue eyes. His clothing was simple but of obvious quality, and though he wore no insignia or identifying marks, there was something in his bearing that suggested nobility.
"What suits me?" she asked, automatically wary of strangers, especially those who might have connections to the royal court.
"Happiness," the man replied with a small smile. "I apologize for the intrusion. I merely wished to express my admiration for your companions." He gestured toward the dogs, who had concluded their performance to enthusiastic applause from the children. "They are... extraordinary."
There was something in his careful choice of words that suggested he understood more than he was saying. Hapi studied him more closely, noting the calluses on his hands that didn't match a nobleman's typical pursuits and the observant way his gaze tracked movement throughout the gathering.
"You've seen him too," she stated rather than asked.
The man inclined his head slightly. "Yes. Though under very different circumstances than yours, I suspect." He extended a hand in formal greeting. "Rufus."
Just Rufus, with no family name or title attached. Hapi accepted the handshake cautiously. "Hapi."
"A fitting name," Rufus observed, "especially now."
Before she could respond, Keeper inserted himself between them, regarding the newcomer with careful assessment. To his credit, Rufus didn't flinch or back away. He simply held out his hand, palm up, allowing the dog to investigate at his own pace.
"Your guardian is thorough," Rufus commented as Keeper finally sniffed his hand and stepped back, apparently satisfied.
"He takes his job seriously," Hapi agreed, relaxing slightly now that her companion had approved the interaction. "The others try, but they get distracted."
As if to illustrate her point, Tumble and Breeze were currently engaging in an increasingly rambunctious game of chase with several of the younger children, while Scholar had somehow acquired a small book and appeared to be intently studying its pages despite lacking opposable thumbs to turn them.
Rufus chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. "They each have their own path, it seems. Not unlike us."
The observation struck Hapi as profound in its simplicity. She'd never considered that the dogs—former monsters transformed by divine intervention—might be on journeys of their own, discovering their natures just as she was.
Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Tobias, who approached with a respectful nod to Rufus that bordered on deference. "Your Highness," he greeted softly, confirming Hapi's suspicions about the man's status. "I see you've met our young friend."
"Indeed," Rufus replied. "She has a remarkable story, from the little I've heard."
Tobias smiled. "As do we all who gather here." He turned to Hapi. "When you're ready to depart, we'll be leaving soon. The hour grows late, and we have responsibilities tomorrow."
After he had moved away to speak with Eliza, Hapi regarded Rufus with new wariness. "You're royalty?"
"By birth, not achievement," Rufus acknowledged. "First Prince of Faerghus, though my younger brother Lambert is the one with true leadership qualities. I serve where I can." He studied her with renewed interest. "You came from the palace, didn't you? That's where you were held?"
Hapi nodded reluctantly. The royal family had never featured in her daily existence in Cornelia's laboratory—the mage answered to Kingdom authority but operated with considerable independence—but they were ultimately responsible for permitting her captivity.
"I'm sorry," Rufus said quietly. "Truly. There is much that occurs within those walls that never reaches royal ears, but that doesn't absolve us of responsibility." He paused, seeming to debate whether to continue. "If I may ask—who was your captor?"
"Cornelia," Hapi replied, watching carefully for his reaction. "The royal mage."
A shadow crossed Rufus's face—recognition, certainly, but also something like concern. "I see. And she knows of your... abilities? The connection to monsters?"
"Yes. That's why she wanted me. To study how my Crest manifests." Hapi's hand moved unconsciously to her arm, where the fading marks of Cornelia's needles remained. "She made me sigh on purpose, to see what would happen."
Rufus's expression hardened. "Such treatment of a child is unconscionable, regardless of the potential knowledge to be gained." He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. "Know this—you are safe now. Should she or anyone else attempt to reclaim you, there are those among us with the power and means to prevent it."
The strength of this declaration—a royal promise, essentially—was so unexpected that Hapi found herself momentarily speechless. Eventually, she managed a nod of acknowledgment, unsure how else to respond to such a powerful commitment from a virtual stranger.
Rufus smiled again, the severity leaving his features. "Now, I believe your adoptive parents are ready to depart. But perhaps we shall meet again at future gatherings. I would very much like to hear more of your experiences, if you're ever willing to share them."
As they said their goodbyes and Hapi rejoined Tobias and Eliza for the journey home, her mind buzzed with the implications of this new connection. A prince of Faerghus—one who had also encountered Joy Boy—had just guaranteed her safety. The world, it seemed, contained possibilities far beyond what her years in captivity had led her to believe.
The seasons turned, and Hapi's life fell into patterns she had never dared hope for during her imprisonment. Mornings in the garden or helping Eliza with household tasks. Afternoons dedicated to education—Tobias discovered her quick mind and aptitude for learning and arranged for tutors to visit, filling the gaps in her knowledge with instruction in mathematics, literature, history, and even basic magical theory that approached her Crest abilities from a perspective entirely different from Cornelia's clinical experimentation.
Evenings brought simple pleasures—shared meals, stories by the hearth, occasional visits from neighbors or fellow merchants passing through the village. And once a month, when the moon was full, there were the Joyist gatherings in the forest clearing, where Hapi gradually found her voice, sharing more of her experiences as the painful memories lost their sharp edges.
She saw Rufus at many of these gatherings, sometimes accompanied by fellow nobles who clearly shared his philosophical leanings, if not his royal status. Occasionally, he brought news from the capital—policy changes, subtle shifts in alliance structures, movements toward greater freedom for territories like Duscur that had long been marginalized within the Kingdom's power structure.
It was at one such gathering, nearly a year after her rescue, that Rufus arrived with an unexpected companion—a small blond boy of perhaps three years, whose bright blue eyes took in the assembly with undisguised curiosity.
"My nephew, Dimitri," Rufus explained when Hapi approached, drawn by the novelty of a child so young at the typically adult-oriented gathering. "The Crown Prince, though he doesn't understand what that means yet. His parents are occupied with plague containment measures in the western regions, so I've assumed guardianship temporarily."
The boy regarded Hapi solemnly, clearly trying to emulate his uncle's dignified bearing but betrayed by the inherent bounciness of childhood. "Hello," he greeted with careful formality. "Are you a friend of Uncle Rufus?"
"I suppose I am," Hapi replied, somewhat bemused by the child's gravity. At thirteen, she occupied an awkward middle ground between childhood and adolescence, too old to fully relate to Dimitri's innocent perspective but too young to assume the authority of an adult.
Before either could say more, Keeper appeared from wherever he had been patrolling the gathering's perimeter, followed closely by the other seven dogs. The entire pack focused immediately on the small prince, their behavior shifting from alert watchfulness to something closer to playful interest.
"Dogs!" Dimitri exclaimed, his princely composure evaporating instantly as he reached toward Keeper with undisguised delight.
"They're special dogs," Hapi warned, uncertain how her transformed companions would react to the child. They had been gentle with the village children they encountered regularly, but Dimitri carried the Blaiddyd Crest—one of the most powerful in Fódlan's history. Would they sense it? Would it trigger some memory of their former monstrous nature?
Her concerns proved groundless. Keeper approached Dimitri with dignified restraint, sniffing the boy's outstretched hand before allowing himself to be petted. The others were less reserved. Tumble, always the most exuberant, launched himself at the prince in a full-body greeting that sent both child and dog tumbling to the ground.
"Tumble!" Hapi admonished, but it was too late. The remaining dogs, seeing their packmate's success, descended upon the prince in a wave of wagging tails and enthusiastic affection.
For a heart-stopping moment, Hapi feared disaster—a royal child injured at a Joyist gathering would have catastrophic consequences—but then Dimitri's laughter rang out, bright and uninhibited as the dogs licked his face and nuzzled his small body.
"They like me!" he announced triumphantly from beneath the pile of furry bodies.
Beside her, Rufus chuckled. "So they do. Though perhaps with slightly less physical enthusiasm, if you could manage it?"
Hapi nodded, whistling the sharp pattern that usually brought the dogs to immediate attention. They responded instantly, backing away from Dimitri to sit in a neat semicircle around him, tails still wagging but behavior now properly restrained.
The prince sat up, his fine clothes rumpled and smudged but his expression radiant. "They listen to you," he observed with clear admiration. "Like the knights listen to Father."
The comparison startled Hapi—her relationship with the dogs had never struck her as one of authority so much as partnership—but she supposed it might appear that way to a child raised in a strict hierarchical environment.
"Not exactly," she tried to explain. "We understand each other. They choose to listen."
Dimitri considered this, his small forehead furrowing in concentration. "Like how Uncle Rufus says freedom is choosing, not being forced?"
Rufus laid a hand on his nephew's shoulder, his expression softening with obvious affection. "Precisely like that. You were listening during our bedtime conversations after all."
"I always listen," Dimitri assured him seriously. "Even when I look asleep."
This startled a laugh from both Hapi and Rufus, breaking the momentary tension. As the gathering progressed, Dimitri remained close to the dogs, clearly enchanted by their unusual intelligence and abilities. By the evening's end, even the dignified Keeper had succumbed to the prince's charm, allowing the boy to clamber onto his back for short rides around the clearing.
"He'll talk of nothing else for weeks," Rufus predicted as they prepared to depart, watching his nephew bid reluctant farewell to each dog individually. "I don't suppose... No, it would be an imposition."
"What?" Hapi asked, curious despite herself.
Rufus seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. "I was wondering if you might consider visiting the royal hunting lodge where we're staying during the plague quarantine. It's isolated enough to be safe, and Dimitri has few companions his age due to the precautions." He smiled ruefully. "I fear I'm a poor substitute for playmates, despite my best efforts."
The invitation was unexpected—a royal summons, essentially, though framed as a casual suggestion. Hapi glanced at Tobias, who had overheard the conversation.
"That would be the lady's decision," the merchant said carefully. "Though if she wishes to go, we would of course make arrangements."
Lady. The term still felt foreign when applied to her, though both Tobias and Eliza had begun using it in recent months, particularly when speaking of her to others. It was part of their gradual campaign to help Hapi reclaim her identity beyond "test subject" or "experiment"—to establish her as a person of worth and autonomy.
"I..." Hapi hesitated, weighing the pros and cons. On one hand, returning to proximity with royal authority figures triggered all her carefully suppressed anxieties about recapture. On the other hand, the lodge would be far from Cornelia's laboratory, and Rufus had proven himself a genuine ally over the past year. "I'll come. For a day visit."
Dimitri, overhearing the last part of the conversation, let out a whoop of delight that startled several nearby adults. "The dogs too?" he asked hopefully, blue eyes wide with anticipation.
Hapi couldn't help but smile at his transparent excitement. "Yes, the dogs too."
The visit to the royal hunting lodge proved less intimidating than Hapi had feared. Set deep in the forests northeast of Fhirdiad, the structure was rustic by royal standards—built of solid timber with stone foundations, designed for function rather than ostentation. Guards were present but discreet, maintaining a watchful perimeter without intruding on the day's activities.
Dimitri had planned their time with the seriousness of a military campaign, presenting Hapi with a carefully drawn (if somewhat uneven) schedule of activities the moment she arrived with her canine companions.
"First we will explore the stream for interesting rocks," he announced, pointing to a crude drawing of what might have been water with figures beside it. "Then we will have a picnic lunch in the meadow. Then we will play Knights and Dragons, and the dogs can be the dragons because there are eight of them and that's a good number for dragons."
Rufus, watching from the lodge's wide porch with barely concealed amusement, caught Hapi's eye over his nephew's head. "His Royal Highness has been preparing for this visit since dawn," he explained. "I recommend complying with the itinerary to avoid diplomatic incidents."
Hapi nodded solemnly, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "As you command, Your Highness," she told Dimitri, executing a playful bow that made the prince giggle.
What followed was perhaps the most carefree day Hapi had experienced since before her captivity. Dimitri's enthusiasm was infectious, his joy in simple pleasures untainted by the knowledge of suffering that had matured Hapi far beyond her thirteen years. They splashed in the stream, collecting smooth stones and unusual pebbles. They picnicked in a sun-dappled meadow, sharing treats with the dogs who accepted their portions with surprising delicacy from the prince's small hands.
And they played—truly played, with the abandoned energy of children who have temporarily forgotten the constraints of their circumstances. Knights and Dragons became a complex game involving elaborate rules that evolved by the minute, with alliances forming and dissolving as quickly as they were established.
Through it all, the dogs participated with what seemed like genuine enjoyment, allowing themselves to be "defeated" by Dimitri's stick sword with dramatic death throes that had the prince helpless with laughter. Even Keeper, usually so dignified, entered into the spirit of the game, playing the Dragon King with such convincing majesty that Hapi found herself applauding his performance.
It was during a quiet moment, when Dimitri had finally exhausted himself and dozed off beneath a tree with Scholar curled protectively beside him, that Rufus engaged Hapi in more serious conversation.
"He saw you, didn't he?" the prince asked, his voice pitched low to avoid waking his nephew. "Joy Boy. Not just an encounter like most of us have, but a direct intervention."
Hapi nodded slowly. After a year of Joyist gatherings, she had come to understand that her experience was unusual—most followers spoke of brief glimpses, momentary sensations of presence, or dreams that left lingering certainty. Direct, prolonged interaction like her rescue was apparently rare.
"He came into the laboratory," she confirmed. "Cornelia ran away—she was afraid of him. And then he changed my monsters into the dogs and helped me escape."
Rufus's expression was thoughtful. "And your sighing—the thing that summoned monsters before—what happens now?"
It was a question Hapi had asked herself many times over the past year, gradually testing the boundaries of her altered ability in the safety of Tobias and Eliza's home.
"It depends," she answered honestly. "If I'm calm and happy, my sighs just bring the dogs, even if they're far away. But if I'm scared or angry..." She trailed off, remembering the incident last winter when local boys had taunted her for her unusual appearance. Her instinctive sigh of frustration had summoned not only the dogs but a pair of wolves that had charged into the village square, sending people screaming for shelter before the canine pack had somehow herded the predators back into the forest.
"Monsters still come," she finished. "But less often, and the dogs usually handle them."
"Fascinating," Rufus murmured, his gaze distant with contemplation. "A transformation rather than elimination of your ability. A new kind of freedom—not from the power itself, but from its worst consequences."
The observation resonated deeply. Hapi had never thought of it in precisely those terms, but Rufus had articulated exactly what had changed. Joy Boy hadn't removed the connection to monsters that made her unique; he had simply given her greater agency within that connection, more choice about how it manifested.
"Yes," she agreed. "That's exactly it."
Rufus smiled, something like admiration warming his blue eyes. "You carry a great gift, Lady Hapi, though I imagine it has rarely felt like one. To bond with creatures across the boundaries that separate realms—to bridge worlds that should be irreconcilable—that is extraordinary power."
The use of her name with the honorific made Hapi slightly uncomfortable, though she recognized it as the prince's attempt to acknowledge her worth. "I didn't ask for it," she said quietly.
"Few of us ask for our particular challenges," Rufus replied. "The nobility of Crest bearers certainly don't choose their inherited powers, despite the privileges they bestow. The question is what we do with what we're given." He glanced toward his sleeping nephew, his expression softening. "How we use our strength to protect what matters."
It was the beginning of an unexpected friendship—unusual given their age difference and vastly different social positions, but genuine nonetheless. As the seasons passed and Hapi grew into adolescence, she found herself visiting the royal family with increasing frequency, usually accompanied by Tobias or Eliza who had business in the capital.
Dimitri, who had initially been enchanted primarily by the dogs, gradually came to see Hapi herself as a kind of elder sister figure—someone who listened to his increasingly complex thoughts about responsibility and leadership, who treated him as a person first and a prince second. The dogs remained a point of connection between them, always ready to knock the young prince off his feet in enthusiastic greeting regardless of how tall he grew or how seriously he tried to comport himself during official functions.
Seven years later, Hapi leaned against the cool stone wall of the Abyss library, watching dust motes dance in the faint beams of light that managed to penetrate this far underground. Her crimson hair, longer now and loosely tied at the nape of her neck, caught the light as she tilted her head back, eyes closed in momentary contemplation. At twenty, she had grown into a young woman whose quiet confidence belied her difficult past.
"There you are," came Constance's imperious voice, breaking the silence. "I've been searching all over! Don't you remember we have seminar this afternoon?"
Hapi opened one eye lazily. "I remember. I'm just choosing not to go."
Constance von Nuvelle—noble-born, ambitious, and perpetually exasperated by her friend's casual approach to education—planted her hands on her hips. "You're enrolled at the Officers Academy, Hapi. That means attending classes, not just hiding in Abyss reading ancient texts while the professors mark you absent."
"I learn more down here," Hapi replied, gesturing to the stack of books beside her—treatises on magical theory, historical accounts of monster sightings across Fódlan, and a slim volume of poetry not unlike the one Queen Consort Anselma had given her years ago. "Besides, it's not like I need formal certification. Not everyone's planning to “restore” a noble house."
Constance sighed dramatically but didn't press the issue. After two years of friendship, she understood that Hapi's resistance to institutional structures ran bone-deep. "At least tell me you'll come to the mock battle next week. Yuri's wagered a significant sum on our class's performance, and we need every capable fighter."
Hapi considered this, a slight smile playing at her lips. "Maybe. If only to see the look on Professor Hanneman's face when I show up after missing three weeks of tactical lectures."
Above them, footsteps echoed—heavy paws padding across the stone ceiling that was the monastery floor. Seconds later, a rhythmic scratching began at one of the hidden entrances to Abyss.
"Your entourage arrives," Constance observed dryly.
Hapi pushed herself away from the wall and crossed to a seemingly solid section of bookcase. With practiced ease, she triggered a hidden mechanism that caused the shelves to swing outward, revealing a narrow passage barely visible in the gloom.
Keeper, now a massive beast that bore little resemblance to the puppy he had once been, entered first. His brown and white fur had darkened with age, and a network of silver scars across his muzzle testified to years spent defending his mistress. He approached Hapi with the dignified reserve that had been his hallmark since transformation, pressing his great head briefly against her hip in greeting.
Behind him came not just the original seven companions but nearly a dozen younger dogs—the offspring of those first miraculous transformations. The puppies, ranging from gangly adolescents to playful youngsters just past weaning, tumbled into the library with considerably less decorum than their elders.
"Control your beasts, please," Constance requested, though there was affection beneath her haughty tone. "Some of these manuscripts are irreplaceable."
"They know," Hapi assured her, watching as the dogs arranged themselves around the library with surprising care, the puppies naturally deferring to the guidance of their parents. Scholar, true to his name, settled beside her abandoned books, nose twitching with what appeared to be genuine interest in the open page.
Their presence brought a subtle change to Hapi's demeanor—a softening around the eyes, a relaxation of the vigilance she maintained even among friends. These creatures were her security and her comfort, living reminders of the day freedom had returned to her life in a burst of golden light and impossible transformation.
"Message from Topside," Keeper communicated in the silent language they had developed over years of companionship—not speech exactly, but a complex system of gestures, expressions and intuitive understanding that functioned just as effectively. "The princeling wants to see you."
Hapi raised an eyebrow. "Dimitri's looking for me? Did he say why?"
Keeper merely blinked those intelligent eyes, conveying that the message had been delivered as received. Beside him, Flicker—smaller but quicker, with the ability to move so fast she sometimes seemed to disappear between moments—wagged her tail in confirmation.
"Duty calls, it seems," Hapi said to Constance, gathering her books into a neat stack. "Tell Yuri I'll think about his mock battle, but no promises."
As she navigated the labyrinthine passages of Abyss, her canine family flowing around her like water around stone, Hapi reflected on the strange paths that had led her to this underground sanctuary. After five years with Tobias and Eliza—years of healing, learning, and gradual empowerment—she had made the decision to accompany them on a supply run to Garreg Mach. The Church of Seiros officially condemned Joyist practices, but the merchant couple had long maintained discreet trading relationships with Abyss, providing necessities to those who dwelled beneath the monastery's foundations.
What had begun as a brief visit became permanent when Hapi discovered the freedom Abyss offered—a place where outcasts and misfits could exist without judgment, where her unusual connection to monsters was seen as an asset rather than an abomination. Tobias and Eliza had understood, helping her establish living quarters in the underground community while maintaining their role as her adoptive parents and regular visitors.
The Ashen Wolves had welcomed her into their makeshift family with surprisingly little resistance. Yuri, their self-appointed leader, had immediately recognized the strategic value of someone who could summon battle-ready allies with a mere sigh. Balthus had declared her "a fellow wild card" and treated her with the casual affection of a brother from the start. And Constance, after an initial period of aristocratic suspicion, had become a steadfast friend whose infectious determination sometimes managed to penetrate even Hapi's carefully maintained detachment.
When Hapi emerged from Abyss into the monastery grounds, she reflexively shielded her eyes against the afternoon sunlight. Despite years of freedom, she still preferred enclosed spaces and dimmer lighting—comfortable reminders of the safety she'd found underground rather than traumatic echoes of her captivity.
She found Dimitri in the training grounds, methodically reducing a training dummy to splinters with precise lance strikes. At seventeen, the crown prince of Faerghus had grown into his formidable Blaiddyd strength, towering over most of his classmates with a physical presence that commanded attention.
But Hapi had known him since he was small enough to ride on Keeper's back, had watched him navigate the agonizing loss of his many and the weight of a kingdom's expectations settling on too-young shoulders. To her, he would always be partially that earnest child who had declared her dogs "the very best dragons in all of Fódlan."
"Still playing with sticks, Little Prince?" she called, using the nickname that never failed to produce a reaction.
Dimitri turned, lance automatically shifting to ready position before he registered who had spoken. His serious expression melted into genuine pleasure as he saw her. "Hapi! It's been weeks."
Before he could approach, the younger puppies broke ranks and charged toward him with joyful abandon. Years of experience had taught Dimitri there was no dignified defense against such an assault. He braced himself and allowed the canine tide to knock him backward onto the training ground sand, lance carefully set aside to avoid accidents.
"Every time," he laughed as puppies scrambled over his prone form, licking his face and tugging playfully at his uniform. "No matter how much I prepare."
"They remember you as you were," Hapi observed, settling cross-legged on a nearby bench while the older dogs arranged themselves around her in a loose protective formation. "I think they're determined to keep you humble."
When Dimitri had finally extracted himself from the pile of puppies and joined her on the bench, his expression grew more serious. "Uncle Rufus asked me to send for you. He's arriving tomorrow for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and specifically requested your presence at the Kingdom encampment afterward."
Hapi's eyes narrowed slightly. While she maintained a cordial relationship with the Duke, their interactions had grown more complicated as political realities intruded on the philosophical connection they'd once shared. Rufus had gradually distanced himself from the more radical Joyist elements, embracing a pragmatic approach to governance that sometimes clashed with the movement's ideals of absolute freedom.
"Did he say why?"
Dimitri shook his head. "Only that it concerned a mutual acquaintance."
There was only one "mutual acquaintance" significant enough to warrant such a cryptic message. Hapi felt her chest tighten with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Outside of Joyist gatherings, she rarely spoke of Joy Boy—the white-haired youth with golden eyes who had transformed her life with a single intervention. The memory remained sacred, protected by her silence from those who would diminish or exploit it.
"I'll be there," she agreed finally, rubbing Keeper's ear as the dog pressed reassuringly against her leg, sensing her disquiet.
As afternoon shadows lengthened across the training grounds, Hapi and Dimitri fell into the comfortable conversation of old friends, her quiet cynicism a natural counterbalance to his earnest idealism. They spoke of classes and comrades, of political tensions brewing across Fódlan, and of the simple pleasure of watching puppies play in the last golden light of day.
When they parted ways at dusk, Dimitri returned to his duties as house leader while Hapi descended once more into the welcoming darkness of Abyss, her canine family flowing around her like shadows given form. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—a royal summons, memories of golden eyes and transformation, the ever-present negotiation between the life she'd built and the forces that had shaped her.
But tonight, in the quiet sanctuary beneath the monastery, surrounded by companions who had once been monsters and had chosen to remain her protectors, Hapi allowed herself a small, controlled sigh—one of contentment rather than frustration. In response, Keeper nuzzled her hand, a gentle reminder that some transformations, once begun, continued evolving long after their catalyst had passed from view.
Freedom, she had learned, was not a single moment of liberation but a daily choice—to remember without being consumed, to connect without being controlled, to harbor the quiet joy of being exactly who and where she was meant to be.
Chapter 16: The Smile Behind the Clouds
Summary:
A young Sylvain, struggling with the burden of his Crest and the recent banishment of his brother, encounters a mysterious figure known as Joy Boy. Through this meeting, Sylvain begins to understand that there may be more to strength than Crests and nobility, and that perhaps his brother's path wasn't as simple as he once believed.
Chapter Text
Sylvain José Gautier was supposed to be practicing his lance forms.
Instead, the nine-year-old heir of House Gautier sat perched on the stone wall surrounding the training yard, legs swinging aimlessly as he watched knights and soldiers drill in precise formations below. His instructor had stepped away to deal with some urgent matter, leaving Sylvain with strict instructions to run through the basic stances twenty times before his return.
He'd managed three before boredom took hold.
"Lift the point. Balance your weight. Remember your footwork, young master," Sylvain muttered, mimicking his instructor's gruff voice. He plucked a small stone from the wall and tossed it down, watching it bounce across the packed dirt of the training ground.
Six weeks had passed since Miklan's banishment. Six weeks since Sylvain had last seen his brother's face, twisted with that familiar mixture of hatred and resentment that had defined their relationship for as long as he could remember.
Six weeks of silence from his father about the entire affair, as though Miklan had never existed at all.
The stone wall felt cold beneath him despite the warm spring sun. That was House Gautier for you—cold stone and colder hearts, where even the sunlight seemed to touch without warming. Sylvain kicked his heels against the wall, earning a glare from one of the training knights below.
"Young master," called a stern voice from behind him. "I believe you were assigned exercises, not wall-sitting duty."
Sylvain turned to see his instructor returning, arms folded across his broad chest. The man's expression was severe but not unkind—Sir Reman had been training House Gautier children for three generations and had long since learned that noble blood didn't guarantee good behavior.
"My apologies, Sir Reman," Sylvain offered with a practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I was merely observing proper technique before continuing."
The old knight snorted. "Save your silver tongue for the ladies when you're older, boy. It won't work on me." He gestured toward the training lance leaning against the wall. "Ten more minutes, then your father wishes to see you in his study."
Sylvain's smile faltered. "My father? Did he say why?"
"It's not a knight's place to question a Margrave's reasons," Sir Reman replied, though something in his eyes softened slightly. "But I suggest you make good use of these ten minutes. Your form was sloppy this morning."
As the knight walked away, Sylvain's shoulders slumped. Meetings with his father were rarely pleasant affairs. Ever since Miklan's banishment—no, if he was honest, long before that—Margrave Gautier had viewed his younger son less as a child and more as an investment. A vessel for the precious Gautier Crest and all the responsibilities that came with it.
Sylvain picked up the training lance with a sigh. It felt too heavy in his small hands, a weight that extended beyond the physical. Ten minutes. He could endure ten minutes of practice, then whatever lecture his father had prepared.
The wooden lance cut through air as Sylvain half-heartedly worked through the forms. Thrust. Parry. Sidestep. The movements were becoming second nature, though lacking the precision his instructors demanded. He could almost hear Miklan's voice, mocking from the sidelines as he had so often done.
"Playing soldier, little brother? Don't strain yourself—wouldn't want to damage that precious Crest of yours."
Sylvain faltered mid-thrust, the memory catching him off guard. It wasn't that he missed Miklan—how could you miss someone who had tried to hurt you at every opportunity? But there was a strange emptiness in the manor since his departure, a void that the Margrave seemed determined to fill with increased expectations for his remaining son.
The ten minutes passed too quickly. Sylvain returned the training lance to its rack and made his way through the corridors of Gautier Manor, his footsteps echoing on the stone floors. Servants nodded respectfully as he passed, but none spoke to him. His father demanded formality from the household staff, especially around his heir.
Outside the study door, Sylvain paused to straighten his training clothes and smooth back his tousled red hair. Appearances mattered in House Gautier. Weakness, his father often reminded him, was never to be displayed.
He knocked twice, then entered at his father's command.
Margrave Matthias Raoul Gautier stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the northern territories of Faerghus. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, his once-red hair now streaked with gray, though he was not yet old. The responsibilities of holding the border against Sreng had aged him prematurely, carving deep lines around his mouth and eyes.
"You wanted to see me, Father?" Sylvain asked, keeping his voice steady.
The Margrave turned, his eyes—the same warm brown as Sylvain's own—assessing his son with the critical gaze of a man inspecting a weapon.
"Your instructor tells me your lance work is improving," he said without preamble. "Though your concentration needs work."
"Yes, Father. I'll try harder."
"See that you do." The Margrave moved to his desk, a massive oak piece that had belonged to Gautier lords for generations. "You begin strategic studies next week. Professor Kemen arrives from Fhirdiad on Tuesday."
Sylvain's heart sank. More studies, more expectations. "But Sir Reman said I wouldn't begin tactics until I was twelve."
"Circumstances have changed," his father replied, the words clipped. "With your brother's... departure, your education must be accelerated. House Gautier cannot afford any delays in preparing you for your duties."
The casual reference to Miklan's banishment—the first his father had made in Sylvain's presence since it happened—sparked something rebellious in the boy.
"You mean since you threw Miklan out," he said, the words escaping before he could consider them.
The study fell silent. The Margrave's expression didn't change, but a dangerous stillness came over him. When he spoke, his voice was measured.
"Your brother made his choices, Sylvain. He endangered the heir of House Gautier. The incident at the well was merely the final transgression."
Sylvain's hand unconsciously rose to his shoulder, where a thin scar remained from that day—Miklan's attempt to silence his cries for help as he clung to the well's edge, fingers slipping on wet stone. If a Felix hadn't heard him...
"I understand why you did it," Sylvain said quietly. And he did, in some rational corner of his mind. But understanding didn't stop the confused mixture of relief and guilt that had plagued him since Miklan's departure.
"Then you understand why your education cannot wait," the Margrave continued, as if discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. "The border with Sreng grows more restless. The Lance of Ruin may be required in your lifetime. You must be ready."
Sylvain nodded, knowing further argument would be futile. This was how conversations with his father always went—less discussions than pronouncements of what would be done.
"You may go," the Margrave said, already turning his attention to papers on his desk. "Tell Sir Reman I expect daily progress reports on your training."
"Yes, Father." Sylvain bowed slightly, though his father wasn't looking, and retreated from the study.
Outside in the corridor, he leaned against the cold stone wall and exhaled slowly. Ten years old next month, and already the weight of House Gautier pressed down on his narrow shoulders. Sometimes he wondered if Miklan had been the lucky one, despite everything—free from the expectations, the responsibilities, the constant scrutiny.
But then he remembered the desperation in his brother's eyes that day at the well, the raw hatred directed at a child half his size whose only crime had been to be born with something Miklan lacked. No, freedom purchased at such a price couldn't be enviable.
Sylvain pushed himself away from the wall and headed for the manor's east wing. He wasn't due for his next lesson for an hour, which meant a rare moment of freedom. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go.
The small wooded area behind Gautier Manor wasn't truly a forest—more a carefully maintained grove that provided a scenic backdrop for the estate. But to a child of nine, it offered something invaluable: space away from watchful eyes.
Sylvain moved through the trees with practiced ease, following a narrow game trail that wound deeper into the grove. Spring had arrived in full force, painting the understory with wildflowers and fresh green shoots. The air smelled of earth and growing things, a pleasant change from the stone and polish of the manor.
The trail opened onto a small clearing where an ancient oak spread massive branches overhead. This was Sylvain's refuge, his secret place—though not quite so secret as he would have liked. Miklan had discovered it years ago, transforming the space from sanctuary to battleground more than once.
But Miklan was gone now.
Sylvain settled at the base of the oak, pulling his knees to his chest as he gazed up through the branches. Dappled sunlight played across his face, but he found no joy in it today. His father's words echoed in his mind.
The incident at the well was merely the final transgression.
Final, as though there had been countless before it—which there had been. The time Miklan had left him on the mountain during a snowstorm. The "accidental" fall down the stairs that had broken Sylvain's arm. The spoiled food that had made him violently ill the night before an important ceremony.
Why, then, did he feel this hollow ache when he thought of his brother? Why did part of him wish Miklan would come crashing through the trees, even if it meant another confrontation?
"Because he's still my brother," Sylvain whispered to the empty clearing. "And I'm all alone now."
His mother, the Margrave's second wife, offered little comfort. A noblewoman from former Alliance territory, she had fulfilled her primary duty by producing a Crest-bearing heir and now spent her days maintaining appropriate social connections on behalf of House Gautier. She was not cruel to Sylvain, but neither was she particularly warm—a distant figure who existed in his life without actively participating in it.
A sudden rustle from the far side of the clearing snapped Sylvain from his thoughts. He tensed, old instincts kicking in—was it Miklan, somehow returned despite his banishment? But no, the figure that emerged between two young birches was unlike anyone Sylvain had ever seen.
The stranger was tall and slender, dressed in garments of purest white that seemed to glow in the dappled forest light. His hair, startlingly white, rose from his head in a shape reminiscent of a flame and appeared to move slightly despite the still air. Most striking, however, were his eyes—large golden irises that literally glowed, casting faint light on his perpetually smiling face.
Around his shoulders floated what looked like decorative clouds or gas, draping like an ethereal scarf that occasionally shifted form.
Sylvain scrambled to his feet, pressing his back against the oak tree. He had heard whispers among the servants of a mysterious figure who wandered the lands of Fódlan—a silent helper, a strange visitor, a being not quite human. Joy Boy, they called him.
"Y-you're him, aren't you?" Sylvain managed, his voice higher than he would have liked. "The one they talk about. Joy Boy."
The figure gave no verbal response. Instead, his smile widened slightly, and he offered a small, elegant bow that somehow managed to be both respectful and slightly playful.
Sylvain's initial fear began to recede, replaced by curiosity. The stories about Joy Boy were varied and often contradictory, but one consistent thread ran through them all: he helped people. He wasn't dangerous—at least, not to those who meant no harm.
"What are you doing here?" Sylvain asked, taking a tentative step forward.
Joy Boy tilted his head, considering the question. Then, with a flourish of his white-gloved hands, he produced a small wooden block from seemingly nowhere. He placed it carefully on the ground, then produced another, stacking it atop the first. A third followed, then a fourth.
Sylvain watched, fascinated, as Joy Boy began building a tower in the middle of the clearing, each block appearing in his hands as if by magic. The tower grew taller, wobbling slightly as it reached toward the canopy above.
When it was about as tall as Sylvain himself, Joy Boy stepped back, admiring his handiwork with his hands on his hips. He gave Sylvain a look that seemed to invite comment or appreciation.
"It's impressive," Sylvain offered uncertainly. "But why—"
Before he could finish the question, Joy Boy reached out and, with a single finger, tapped the base of the tower. The entire structure collapsed in an instant, wooden blocks scattering across the clearing floor with a series of hollow clacks.
Sylvain flinched at the destruction, but Joy Boy's smile never faltered. Instead, he began gathering the blocks again, rebuilding with the same careful patience as before.
"You're just going to build it again?" Sylvain asked, bewildered. "But it fell down."
Joy Boy nodded cheerfully, continuing his reconstruction. When the tower was half its previous height, he paused and gestured to Sylvain, clearly inviting him to help.
Hesitantly, Sylvain stepped forward and picked up one of the blocks. It felt ordinary in his hand—just wood, nothing magical about it. He placed it carefully on top of Joy Boy's growing structure, then reached for another.
They worked in silence, building the tower higher than before. When it was complete, Joy Boy stepped back, admiring their joint effort. Then, to Sylvain's surprise, he once again reached out and tapped the base, sending the entire tower crashing down.
"Why would you do that?" Sylvain exclaimed, genuinely confused. "We just built it!"
Joy Boy's expression didn't change, but his golden eyes seemed to twinkle with some private amusement. He bent down, picked up a block, and held it out to Sylvain expectantly.
With a sigh that belied his years, Sylvain accepted the block and once again joined in the rebuilding process. This time, as they worked, he found himself watching Joy Boy's face more than the tower itself—that perpetual smile, those strange glowing eyes that somehow conveyed more emotion than most people managed with their entire faces.
"You enjoy this, don't you?" Sylvain realized aloud. "Building something just to watch it fall, then building again."
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, adding another block to their growing tower.
"But what's the point?" Sylvain pressed. "If it's just going to fall down again?"
Joy Boy paused, seeming to consider how to answer without words. He placed a hand on Sylvain's shoulder—a touch so light it felt almost like a breeze—and pointed to his own smile, then to the tower, then made a circular motion with his finger.
"The... fun is in doing it? In building it, even if it doesn't last?"
A vigorous nod confirmed Sylvain's interpretation.
Something about this simple exchange struck Sylvain deeply. All his life, he had been taught the importance of permanence, of legacy, of maintaining what generations before had built. House Gautier, the border, the Crest—everything was about preservation and continuation.
The idea that something could have value simply in its creation, regardless of how long it lasted, had never occurred to him.
When the tower was complete again, Joy Boy didn't immediately knock it down. Instead, he stepped back and gestured for Sylvain to do the honors.
"Me? But..."
Joy Boy nodded encouragingly.
Sylvain approached the tower, extending his hand hesitantly. It felt wrong somehow, destroying what they had built together. But Joy Boy's golden gaze was expectant, his smile reassuring.
With a deep breath, Sylvain pushed against the tower's base. The blocks tumbled down, scattering across the clearing in a chaotic pattern. To his own surprise, Sylvain felt a small laugh escape his lips at the sight.
Joy Boy clapped his hands in delight, his smile somehow even wider than before. The cloudy scarf around his shoulders shifted, briefly taking the shape of tiny applauding hands before resuming its amorphous state.
"That was... fun," Sylvain admitted. And it had been—a simple, uncomplicated pleasure with no expectations attached.
Joy Boy nodded as if to say "of course it was," then began collecting blocks once more. But instead of rebuilding the tower, he began arranging them in a circle on the ground. Curious, Sylvain watched as the circle grew larger, until it was big enough for a person to stand inside.
When it was complete, Joy Boy stepped into the center of the circle and beckoned for Sylvain to join him.
Sylvain hesitated only briefly before stepping over the wooden boundary. Once inside, Joy Boy raised his hands dramatically. Nothing happened for a moment, then suddenly, the cloudy substance around his shoulders expanded, engulfing both of them in a gentle, swirling mist.
Within the cloud, tiny sparks of light appeared, like stars in a miniature night sky. They danced and spun around Sylvain, tickling where they touched his skin and leaving tiny trails of light that faded after a few seconds.
"What is this?" Sylvain whispered, reaching out to touch one of the lights. It bounced away from his finger, then returned to hover near his ear.
Joy Boy's only response was a broader smile and a playful shrug that seemed to say, "Magic, maybe, or something else entirely—does it matter?"
The lights began to move in more coordinated patterns, forming shapes around them—a prancing horse, a soaring bird, a leaping fish. Each shape held for a moment before dissolving back into individual sparks that quickly reformed into something new.
Sylvain found himself laughing—genuinely laughing—for what felt like the first time in weeks. He spun in place, watching the lights swirl around him, feeling lighter than he had since before Miklan's banishment. For these precious moments, he wasn't the heir of House Gautier, bearer of the Crest and all its responsibilities. He was just a child, playing in a magical cloud with a strange, silent friend.
When the mist finally retreated, condensing back into the scarf-like form around Joy Boy's shoulders, Sylvain felt oddly refreshed, as though some invisible weight had been lifted from him.
"That was amazing," he said earnestly. "Can you do other tricks?"
Joy Boy's eyes twinkled in response. For the next hour—though Sylvain lost all track of time—the strange visitor entertained him with an array of inexplicable abilities. He pulled impossible objects from behind Sylvain's ears, walked up an invisible staircase, and at one point appeared to remove his own head and balance it on his finger like a ball, all the while maintaining that serene smile.
None of it made logical sense, but Sylvain found he didn't care. The delight of witnessing the impossible unfold before his eyes overshadowed any need for explanation.
Eventually, Joy Boy's antics slowed, and he settled cross-legged on the ground, patting the space beside him in invitation. Sylvain joined him, suddenly aware that the afternoon had advanced considerably—the angle of sunlight through the trees had shifted significantly.
"I should probably go back soon," he said reluctantly. "They'll be looking for me for my next lesson."
Joy Boy nodded in understanding but made no move to leave. Instead, he studied Sylvain with those golden eyes, his expression thoughtful despite the ever-present smile.
Sylvain fidgeted under the scrutiny. "What? Is there something on my face?"
Joy Boy shook his head, then placed a hand over his own heart before pointing to Sylvain's chest with a questioning tilt of his head.
The gesture was so direct, so unexpectedly personal, that Sylvain found himself answering honestly before he could think better of it.
"My heart? It's... not great," he admitted. "My brother was banished six weeks ago. He tried to hurt me—not for the first time—and my father finally had enough. Now everyone acts like Miklan never existed, and I'm just supposed to carry on training and studying and being the perfect heir."
The words tumbled out faster than he intended, a dam breaking after weeks of enforced silence on the subject. "The worst part is, I don't even know how to feel about it. Miklan was awful to me—he hated me because I have a Crest and he doesn't. But he's still my brother, and now he's gone, and I'm all alone with all these expectations, and—"
Sylvain cut himself off, suddenly embarrassed by the outburst. "Sorry. That's... a lot to dump on someone I just met."
Joy Boy's smile softened, becoming something gentler, more empathetic. He reached out and lightly tapped Sylvain's chest, directly over his heart, then made a wavy motion with his hand.
"Yeah, it's complicated," Sylvain agreed, somehow understanding the gesture perfectly. "I'm sad and relieved at the same time, which makes me feel guilty, which makes me angry at Miklan for putting me in this position, which makes me feel guilty all over again."
Joy Boy nodded sagely, as if this circular emotional reasoning made perfect sense to him.
"Do you know what happened to him?" Sylvain asked suddenly. "To Miklan? People say you travel all over Fódlan. Have you seen him?"
For a long moment, Joy Boy was perfectly still. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Sylvain's breath caught. "You have? Is he—is he okay?"
Joy Boy considered the question, head tilting slightly. Then he extended his hand, palm down, and wobbled it in a "so-so" gesture.
"But he's alive? Not starving or anything?"
A nod.
"Where is he? Is he still in Faerghus?"
Another nod, but followed by a finger raised to Joy Boy's smiling lips—a gentle suggestion that perhaps this wasn't information he should share.
Sylvain slumped slightly but didn't press further. "I guess that's fair. Dad would probably send knights if he knew where to find him." He picked at the grass beside him, avoiding those golden eyes. "I just... I hope he's okay. Despite everything."
Joy Boy's expression turned thoughtful. He reached out and gently ruffled Sylvain's red hair, the touch impossibly light yet somehow deeply comforting. Then he rose to his feet in one fluid motion and offered Sylvain his hand.
Taking it, Sylvain was surprised by the strength with which Joy Boy pulled him up. For someone who appeared so ethereal, his grip was solid and real.
"Are you leaving?" Sylvain asked, surprised by his own disappointment.
Joy Boy nodded, then pointed toward the manor, visible through the trees, before tapping an imaginary timepiece on his wrist.
"Right, I'm probably late," Sylvain sighed. "Just what I need—another lecture about responsibilities."
Joy Boy's eyes crinkled with sympathy. He placed a hand on Sylvain's shoulder and squeezed gently, then pointed to himself, made a walking motion with his fingers, and concluded by drawing a circle in the air.
"You'll... come back around?" Sylvain interpreted hopefully.
A confirming nod, accompanied by a broader smile.
"I'd like that," Sylvain admitted. "This was... I needed this. Thank you."
Joy Boy bowed slightly, one hand over his heart, then straightened and began walking backward toward the edge of the clearing. As he moved, the cloudy substance around his shoulders expanded slightly, gradually engulfing more of his form. By the time he reached the birch trees, only his smiling face and golden eyes remained visible within a man-shaped cloud.
Then, between one blink and the next, he was simply gone—not with a dramatic puff or magical sparkle, but as though he had stepped through an invisible door into somewhere else.
Sylvain stared at the empty space for a long moment, half-convinced he had imagined the entire encounter. But the scattered wooden blocks across the clearing floor provided tangible evidence of Joy Boy's visit.
With a small smile of his own, Sylvain gathered the blocks into a neat pile at the base of the oak tree. Perhaps they would still be there when Joy Boy returned. Perhaps they could build another tower together, knowing it would fall, enjoying it anyway.
As he made his way back toward the manor, Sylvain felt lighter somehow. The burden of being House Gautier's sole heir hadn't diminished, but it felt less crushing for having been shared, however briefly, with someone who asked nothing of him in return.
He was still Sylvain José Gautier, bearer of the Crest, future Margrave and defender of the border. Those responsibilities hadn't changed. But for one afternoon, he had also been just Sylvain—a boy playing in the woods with a strange, silent friend who built towers knowing they would fall, and smiled anyway.
"Where have you been?" Sir Reman demanded when Sylvain finally reached the training yard. "Your mathematics tutor has been waiting for nearly half an hour!"
"I'm sorry," Sylvain replied, instinctively falling back on charm to deflect the criticism. "I lost track of time in the woods. The spring flowers were too beautiful to leave—rather like Lady Reman when you first courted her, I imagine."
The old knight's severe expression cracked slightly. "Save your honeyed words, young master. They'll serve you better with ladies your own age in a few years." He gestured toward the manor's west wing. "Your tutor awaits in the library. Best not keep him waiting any longer."
As Sylvain hurried toward his lesson, he couldn't help but glance back toward the grove, half-expecting to see a white-clad figure watching from the tree line. There was nothing there, of course—just the gentle sway of branches in the afternoon breeze.
But for the first time since Miklan's banishment, Sylvain felt something like hope stirring in his chest. Not just for himself, but for his brother too. If Joy Boy had found Miklan, perhaps things weren't as dire as he had feared. Perhaps, somewhere in Faerghus, his brother was finding his own path—one that didn't depend on Crests or inheritance or the approval of the Margrave.
It was a small comfort, but Sylvain held it close as he squared his shoulders and prepared to face his tutor's displeasure. After all, as Joy Boy had shown him, sometimes the value was in the building itself, not in how long the tower stood.
In the weeks that followed, Joy Boy returned to the grove three more times. Each visit brought new games, new impossible tricks, and most precious of all to Sylvain, moments of simple companionship that asked nothing of him beyond his presence.
They built towers that fell and rebuilt them. They chased the dancing lights within Joy Boy's cloudy mist. Once, Joy Boy brought a small wooden horse that galloped around the clearing on its own, whinnying softly before returning to his palm and becoming simply wood again.
Sylvain never mentioned these visits to anyone at the manor. Partly because he doubted anyone would believe him, but mostly because he wanted something in his life that belonged solely to him—not to House Gautier, not to his father's ambitions, not to the legacy of his Crest.
On what would prove to be Joy Boy's final visit that spring, they sat beneath the oak as afternoon faded toward evening. Sylvain had grown comfortable enough with his silent companion to share more of his thoughts—about his training, his studies, the weight of expectations that sometimes made it hard to breathe.
"Do you ever wish you were someone else?" he asked, leaning back against the trunk. "Someone without all the... baggage that comes with being you?"
Joy Boy considered the question with his usual thoughtfulness, then slowly shook his head. He pointed to himself, then made a series of gestures that Sylvain had learned to interpret as describing Joy Boy's travels and the people he helped.
"You like being who you are because you can help people," Sylvain translated. "That makes sense for you. You're literally named Joy Boy . But what about those of us who were born into roles we didn't choose?"
Joy Boy's golden eyes studied him for a long moment. Then he reached out and gently tapped Sylvain's chest, right over his heart, before pointing to his own head and then making a choice gesture with his hands.
"My heart... and my mind... get to choose?" Sylvain interpreted hesitantly.
An enthusiastic nod confirmed he'd understood correctly.
"But that's just it—I don't get to choose," Sylvain argued. "I was born with a Crest. I'm the heir of House Gautier. Those things are decided."
Joy Boy shook his head firmly. He repeated the gestures, tapping Sylvain's chest and head, then made a new motion—pointing to the circumstances around them before bringing his hands together as if holding something, then opening them to release it.
"My circumstances don't define me," Sylvain said slowly, understanding dawning. "I can acknowledge them without being controlled by them."
Joy Boy clapped softly in approval.
"But how? My whole life is mapped out because of this Crest. It's why Miklan hated me. It's why my father sees me as nothing but the next Margrave. How do I separate myself from that?"
Joy Boy's eternal smile took on a hint of sadness. He pointed to the scattered blocks from their latest fallen tower, then to the sky with its emerging stars, then finally to the distant manor where lights were beginning to glow in windows.
"One block at a time?" Sylvain guessed. "One day at a time?"
A nod, accompanied by a gentle pat on Sylvain's head—not condescending, but reassuring. The kind of touch Sylvain had rarely experienced from adults in his life, who tended to see him as either an heir to be molded or a child to be disciplined, rarely as simply a boy who might need comfort.
"Will I see you again?" Sylvain asked as Joy Boy rose to his feet, clearly preparing to depart.
The silent figure nodded, though something in his expression suggested it might not be soon. He pointed to Sylvain, then to himself, then made a circle with his finger—a complete revolution that Sylvain interpreted as the passing of a year.
"Next spring?" he clarified.
Joy Boy tilted his head noncommittally, as if to say "perhaps, or perhaps not—time has its own ways."
Then, with a final bow, he began his now-familiar backward walk toward the edge of the clearing. This time, however, before the cloudy mist could fully engulf him, he paused and reached into his white garments, retrieving something small which he tossed toward Sylvain.
Catching it reflexively, Sylvain opened his palm to find a tiny wooden block, smaller than the others they had played with—small enough to fit in a pocket or be concealed in a closed hand. Carved into one side was a simple smiling face, reminiscent of Joy Boy's own perpetual expression.
When Sylvain looked up to thank him, Joy Boy was already gone, vanished between one heartbeat and the next.
Sylvain closed his fingers around the small token, feeling its solid reality against his palm. A reminder that this strange friendship wasn't something he had imagined—and perhaps, a reminder of the lesson Joy Boy had tried to impart.
The circumstances of his birth—his Crest, his family, his position—might be beyond his control. But what he built with them, block by block, day by day, choice by choice... that could still be his own.
He slipped the small wooden block into his pocket and headed back toward the manor, where duties and expectations awaited. But the weight in his pocket reminded him that somewhere out there, wandering the lands of Fódlan, was a friend who saw him as just Sylvain—not the heir, not the Crest-bearer, just a boy who enjoyed building towers even knowing they would fall.
And somehow, that made the weight of everything else a little easier to bear.
Seven years later, a sixteen-year-old Sylvain stood at the window of his chamber in Gautier Manor, absently rolling a small wooden block between his fingers as he watched rain lash against the glass. The carved smile had worn smooth with years of handling, but he could still make out its faint outline when he held it to the light.
Seven years since his strange encounters with Joy Boy in the grove. He had returned to the clearing many times in the seasons that followed, but the silent figure had never reappeared—at least, not there. Occasionally, Sylvain heard rumors among travelers and merchants of a white-clad helper appearing where most needed, offering assistance without words before vanishing as mysteriously as he had arrived.
Sylvain had never told anyone about his own experiences with Joy Boy. The memories felt too personal, too precious to share, especially in a household where anything of value was immediately assessed for its political or strategic advantage.
Besides, who would believe that the heir of House Gautier had built block towers and chased magic lights with a legendary figure straight from common folk tales?
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. "Young master," called a servant's voice, "your father requests your presence in his study immediately."
"Tell him I'll be right there," Sylvain replied, tucking the wooden block into his pocket where it had lived for seven years.
As he made his way through the manor's corridors, Sylvain puzzled over his father's summons. The Margrave rarely called for him unless it concerned his studies or training—or to deliver yet another lecture on responsibility. At sixteen, Sylvain had grown adept at navigating these conversations, offering the perfect blend of contrition and charm to defuse his father's disappointment.
Outside the study door, he straightened his shoulders and knocked firmly.
"Enter," called the Margrave's voice, sounding unusually strained.
Sylvain found his father not at his desk but standing by the hearth, a letter clutched in his hand. The flames cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines around his mouth. For the first time, Sylvain noticed how much his father had aged in recent years—the gray now dominated the red in his hair, and his shoulders, while still broad, carried a subtle stoop.
"You wanted to see me, Father?" Sylvain asked, closing the door behind him.
The Margrave turned, his expression unreadable. "I've received information," he said without preamble, "about your brother."
Sylvain's hand instinctively moved to his pocket, fingers brushing against the small wooden block hidden there. "Miklan? What about him?"
"It seems he's established himself near the northern border. A trading company of sorts, with a band of mercenaries." The Margrave's tone was carefully neutral, but Sylvain detected something beneath it—uncertainty, perhaps, or reluctant curiosity. "They call themselves 'The Liberator's Hand.'"
Sylvain's mind raced. Seven years had passed since Miklan's banishment, with only scattered rumors reaching Gautier territory—most painting him as a common bandit terrorizing travelers in the northern regions. But this... this sounded different.
"A trading company?" he repeated. "That doesn't sound like Miklan."
The Margrave's mouth tightened. "People change, Sylvain. Or they show different faces to different audiences." He tapped the letter against his palm. "According to this report, he's built quite a reputation. Fair dealings. Protection for vulnerable villages. Even some diplomatic successes with Sreng tribes."
Sylvain struggled to reconcile this image with his memories of Miklan—the bitter, angry brother who had tormented him throughout childhood. The brother who had tried to kill him more than once. "Are you sure it's him? There must be other redheaded men in northern Fódlan."
"The description is... specific." The Margrave hesitated. "The man in question bears a particular scar on his forehead. And he was seen carrying a distinctive pendant—your mother's pendant."
A pendant Miklan had stolen before leaving, Sylvain remembered. One of the few treasures he'd managed to take with him into exile.
"What do you want me to do with this information?" Sylvain asked carefully.
The Margrave folded the letter and placed it on the mantelpiece. "You're traveling north next month to visit House Fraldarius before the winter sets in. This settlement—Kestrel's Roost, they call it—lies not far from your route." He turned to face Sylvain fully. "I want you to verify these reports. Determine if this is indeed Miklan, and assess what... threat he might pose to House Gautier."
Sylvain frowned. "Threat? If he's running an honest trading company—"
"Your brother left here with nothing but hatred for this family," the Margrave cut in sharply. "Seven years may have changed his circumstances, but I doubt they've changed his heart. If he's gathering influence in the north, I need to know why."
There it was—the familiar suspicion, the inability to see Miklan as anything but a threat. Sylvain felt a strange impulse to defend his brother, despite everything Miklan had done to him. "And if he's not plotting against us? If he's just... living his life?"
Something flickered across the Margrave's face—an emotion Sylvain couldn't quite identify. "Then you will report that as well." He waved a hand dismissively. "That's all. You may go."
Sylvain bowed slightly and retreated from the study, his mind whirling with questions. After all these years, news of Miklan—and not as a desperate bandit or frozen corpse in the snow, but as a successful trader with apparent respect in the borderlands.
Could people truly change that much? Sylvain's hand slipped into his pocket again, fingers closing around the small wooden block with its faded smile. Joy Boy had seemed to think so—had implied that Sylvain himself could choose who he became, regardless of the circumstances of his birth.
Perhaps Miklan had learned the same lesson, in his own way.
Sylvain found himself walking not toward his chambers but to the manor's east wing and out into the gardens. The night air was crisp with early autumn, the stars brilliant overhead. His feet carried him without conscious thought to the small grove behind the manor, to the clearing where he had once built towers of wooden blocks with a silent, smiling friend.
The old oak still stood sentinel at the center of the clearing, its massive trunk unchanged by the years. Sylvain settled at its base, just as he had done countless times before, and gazed up through the branches at the scattered stars beyond.
"Seven years," he murmured to the empty air. "And now I find out he might be okay after all."
The conflicting emotions tumbled through him—relief that Miklan hadn't met a violent end, confusion at the apparent transformation, and beneath it all, a tiny spark of hope that perhaps, somehow, his brother had found a better path than the one that had led him to the well that day.
Sylvain pulled the wooden block from his pocket, running his thumb over the worn smile. "I think I'll go see him," he decided aloud. "Not because Father asked, but because... I need to know if it's true. If people really can change that much."
The oak offered no response beyond the gentle rustle of its leaves in the night breeze. But somehow, Sylvain felt as though his decision had been heard and approved. In the darkness of the clearing, he imagined golden eyes watching with that perpetual smile, nodding in silent encouragement.
The journey north took longer than anticipated. Early snowfall in the Fraldarius territory delayed Sylvain's departure, and by the time he set out for Kestrel's Roost, the mountain paths were already treacherous with ice. His escort—a handful of Gautier knights whom Sylvain had convinced to make a "slight detour" from their planned route—grew increasingly uneasy as they left familiar territory behind.
"Young master," the lead knight ventured as they crested a ridge overlooking a verdant valley, "are you certain of these directions? This region is known for bandits, and we're far from Gautier lands."
Sylvain squinted into the distance, where wisps of smoke rose from what appeared to be a substantial settlement nestled against the foothills. Not a temporary camp or struggling outpost, but a proper village.
"That must be it," he said, ignoring the knight's concerns. "Kestrel's Roost."
As they descended into the valley, Sylvain was struck by how established the settlement appeared. Well-built stone houses lined organized streets, gardens flourished despite the approaching winter, and the sound of industry—hammers on anvils, saws through wood—filled the air. At the village center rose a distinctive circular building with a domed roof, painted with vibrant sunflowers that stood out against the gray stone walls.
Sylvain's party drew curious glances as they rode through the main street, but not the fearful or hostile looks one might expect in a remote border settlement. These people seemed...secure. Unafraid.
They had just reached the village square when a commotion erupted from a side street—a group of children bursting forth in a game of chase, laughing and shouting as they weaved between the adults going about their business. One child, a little girl with wild auburn curls and skin a rich copper tone, broke from the pack and careened directly into Sylvain's path.
His mount reared slightly in surprise, and Sylvain quickly steadied the beast, alarmed at how close he'd come to trampling the child. "Careful there!" he called, dismounting to ensure the girl was unharmed.
She showed no fear, merely stared up at him with wide, curious eyes—eyes that were a familiar warm brown, set in a face that bore the distinctive high cheekbones of the Gautier line, softened by features that hinted at Sreng ancestry.
"Your hair is like mine," she announced, pointing to his red locks. "But lighter."
Before Sylvain could respond, a woman's voice called out sharply, "Freya! What have I told you about running into the square without looking?"
A tall woman strode toward them, her dark skin adorned with intricate Sreng tattoos, her bearing unmistakably that of a warrior. She scooped up the child—Freya—with practiced ease, then assessed Sylvain and his party with a calculating gaze.
"Gautier knights," she observed, noting their colors. "You're far from home."
Sylvain offered his most charming smile. "Just passing through. Looking for someone, actually—a man called Miklan? I'm told he's established a trading company here."
The woman's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted—a subtle tensing, a readiness that hadn't been there before. "And who asks for him?"
Sylvain hesitated. He had rehearsed this moment many times during the journey, but now that it was here, the words caught in his throat. The little girl—Freya—continued to stare at him, her head tilted in curiosity.
"His brother," he said finally. "I'm Sylvain."
The woman's eyes widened fractionally—the only break in her composed demeanor. She shifted Freya to her hip and extended her free hand. "Kylva," she said simply. "Miklan's wife. And this," she added, nodding to the child, "is your niece, Freya."
The world seemed to tilt beneath Sylvain's feet. Wife? Niece? Not only had Miklan built a trading company and a reputation in the borderlands, but he had established a family as well?
"He never mentioned a brother," Freya piped up, oblivious to Sylvain's shock.
Kylva smoothed a hand over her daughter's wild curls. "That's not true, little one. Your father speaks of his brother sometimes." Her gaze returned to Sylvain, assessing. "Though not often."
Of course not. Why would Miklan speak fondly of the brother who had replaced him, whose birth had led to his eventual banishment? Sylvain swallowed hard, suddenly uncertain of his decision to come here.
"Is he... is Miklan here?" he managed to ask.
"Not at the moment." Kylva's tone gave nothing away. "He's leading a convoy to the eastern settlements. Due back tomorrow." She seemed to come to a decision. "You and your men can stay at the wayhouse tonight. It has proper stables for your horses."
Sylvain glanced back at his escort, who looked visibly relieved at the prospect of proper lodging. "That's very kind. We wouldn't want to impose."
"It's no imposition." Kylva set Freya down and took her hand. "The wayhouse belongs to The Liberator's Hand. Your brother built it himself." There was a subtle pride in her voice that caught Sylvain off guard. "Come. I'll show you."
As they followed Kylva through the village, Freya kept glancing back at Sylvain with undisguised curiosity. Once, she broke away from her mother to dart back to him.
"Are you really my uncle?" she asked bluntly.
Sylvain managed a smile. "It seems I am."
"I'm one," she declared proudly, holding up a single finger. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," Sylvain replied, charmed despite himself.
Freya's eyes widened. "That's a lot." She scampered back to her mother, apparently satisfied with this exchange.
The wayhouse proved to be a substantial building at the village's edge—two stories of solid construction with a stone foundation and well-thatched roof. Inside, a spacious common room centered around a massive hearth, with stairs leading to sleeping quarters above and a door to what appeared to be an attached stable.
"Your men can bunk upstairs," Kylva told the lead knight, who bowed respectfully before directing the others to settle in. When they had gone, she turned to Sylvain. "You'll stay with us."
It wasn't a question. Sylvain found himself following Kylva and Freya back through the village to a sturdy two-story home set slightly apart from the others. Unlike the uniform gray stone of most buildings, this one had been thoughtfully constructed with decorative elements—carved wooden beams, colorful window boxes, a covered porch that wrapped around the front.
Inside, the home was warm and lived-in—a stark contrast to the formal, austere rooms of Gautier Manor. Children's toys were scattered across the floor of the main room, books and maps covered a large table, and cooking smells wafted from what appeared to be the kitchen.
"Make yourself comfortable," Kylva said, finally releasing some of the tension in her shoulders. "Freya, help your uncle settle in while I prepare dinner."
As Kylva disappeared into the kitchen, Sylvain found himself alone with his one-year-old niece, who regarded him with that same direct curiosity.
"Do you want to see my toys?" she asked after a moment.
"I'd like that," Sylvain replied, allowing himself to be led to a corner where wooden animals and dolls were arranged in some complex scenario comprehensible only to a one-year-old mind.
As Freya chattered about her toys, Sylvain found himself studying her features more closely. The Gautier red hair was unmistakable, though hers had a wilder curl to it than his own. Her skin tone was a beautiful blend of her parents', and her expressions—particularly the skeptical tilt of her head when she thought he wasn't paying attention—were pure Miklan.
A niece. He had a niece. And somewhere out there, the brother he had last seen consumed with hatred and resentment was apparently leading a merchant convoy, respected in the community, married to a formidable Sreng woman.
None of it aligned with the Miklan he remembered.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Kylva was polite but reserved, answering Sylvain's questions about the village and The Liberator's Hand in brief, factual terms. Yes, Miklan had founded the company nearly five years ago. Yes, they primarily traded with remote settlements that larger merchants ignored. Yes, they occasionally provided protection services for villages threatened by bandits or Sreng raiding parties.
No, she would not discuss Miklan's feelings about House Gautier or his banishment. That was for him to share, if he chose.
After putting Freya to bed, Kylva returned to the main room where Sylvain sat before the fire, turning the small wooden block over and over in his fingers.
"A keepsake?" she asked, nodding toward his hands as she settled in a chair opposite him.
Sylvain glanced down, not having realized he'd taken it out. "Something like that. A reminder of... a strange friendship, I suppose." He pocketed the block, reluctant to share its significance with a stranger, even one married to his brother. "May I ask... how did you and Miklan meet?"
A small smile curved Kylva's lips. "He tried to rob me."
Sylvain blinked. "That's... not the romantic story I expected."
"It wasn't romantic at first," she agreed, amusement briefly warming her reserved demeanor. "He was a terrible bandit. I disarmed him in seconds." Her expression softened fractionally. "But there was something in his eyes... not just hunger or fear, but a kind of...searching. As if he'd lost something more important than gold."
Sylvain leaned forward, captivated by this glimpse of his brother's life after banishment.
"I offered him a job instead of a beating," Kylva continued. "My father's trading caravan needed guards. Miklan knew the region, spoke the language. It was practical." Her voice took on a fond quality. "He worked harder than anyone. Never complained, never shirked. Within a year, he was leading expeditions of his own. Within three, he'd founded The Liberator's Hand."
"And somewhere in there, you fell in love?" Sylvain couldn't quite keep the wonder from his voice.
Kylva's smile deepened. "Somewhere in there, yes. It wasn't dramatic or sudden. Just a... recognition. Of worth. Of compatibility." She studied Sylvain with renewed intensity. "He never spoke much about his family. Only that he had a brother with a Crest, that his father had cast him out. He didn't speak your name."
"I'm not surprised," Sylvain admitted. "We weren't... close. By the end."
"And now? Why are you here after seven years?"
The directness of the question caught Sylvain off guard. "I... my father received reports about Miklan's success. He sent me to verify them."
"So you're here as the Margrave's spy, then." There was no accusation in Kylva's tone, merely a statement of fact.
"No," Sylvain protested, then sighed. "Well, yes, technically. But that's not... I wanted to see for myself. To know if he was alright." He met Kylva's gaze steadily. "To see if people really can change that much."
Something in his expression must have convinced her of his sincerity, for she nodded slowly. "People change when they choose to change," she said, echoing words Miklan himself had learned from Joy Boy long ago. "Your brother chose a different path than the one he started on. It wasn't easy. It isn't finished." She rose, signaling an end to the conversation. "You should rest. Miklan will return tomorrow, and that will be... complicated enough."
As Sylvain settled into the guest room that night, his mind raced with everything he had seen and learned. The well-established village. The thriving trading company. The warrior wife from Sreng. The niece with Gautier red hair and bright, curious eyes.
All created by a brother he had last seen consumed with hatred, cast out with nothing but the clothes on his back and a stolen pendant.
"People change when they choose to change," he murmured to himself, rolling the wooden block between his fingers. He drifted off to sleep wondering if Joy Boy had somehow found Miklan too—if that silent, smiling figure had offered his brother the same chance at reinvention that he had shown Sylvain in the grove behind Gautier Manor.
Miklan's trading convoy arrived midday. Sylvain heard the commotion from the central square—cheerful shouts of greeting, the clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones, children racing to welcome the returning traders. He remained on the porch of Miklan's home, suddenly uncertain of his decision to come.
Kylva had left earlier with Freya, presumably to meet her husband at the village entrance. Now the sounds of the returning party were growing closer, voices calling greetings to neighbors, footsteps approaching along the main street.
Then, there he was.
Sylvain's breath caught at the sight of his brother. Seven years had transformed the angry youth he remembered into a broad-shouldered man with purpose in his stride. Miklan's russet hair, a shade darker than Sylvain's own, was longer now and streaked with early gray at the temples. A prominent scar bisected his left cheek, but it somehow added character rather than menace to his features. He walked with Freya perched on his shoulders, her small hands tangled in his hair as she chattered excitedly about something.
Beside him, Kylva moved with the easy confidence of an equal partner, occasionally touching his arm to emphasize a point in their conversation. They looked... right together. Balanced. A team forged through mutual respect rather than obligation or circumstance.
Then Miklan looked up and saw Sylvain on the porch.
The transformation in his expression was immediate—shock, wariness, confusion chasing across features that had been relaxed and content moments before. He stopped abruptly in the middle of the street, causing Kylva to glance between the brothers with quiet concern.
"Sylvain?" Miklan's voice was deeper than Sylvain remembered, roughened by years and weather.
"Hello, brother," Sylvain managed, his own voice sounding strangely young to his ears. "It's been a while."
Miklan carefully lifted Freya from his shoulders and handed her to Kylva, murmuring something Sylvain couldn't hear. Then he approached the porch slowly, as if expecting Sylvain to vanish—or perhaps to attack.
Up close, the changes in his brother were even more apparent. The perpetual anger that had once tightened his features was gone, replaced by weathered lines that spoke of hard work and responsibility. His eyes—the same warm brown as Sylvain's own, as Freya's—held wariness but not the bitter hatred that had defined their last encounters.
"What are you doing here?" Miklan asked, stopping at the foot of the porch steps.
The question wasn't hostile, merely direct—much like his wife's manner. Sylvain realized with a start that Miklan had adopted the Sreng approach to conversation, dispensing with the polite indirectness that characterized Fódlan nobility.
"Father received reports about your... success," Sylvain answered truthfully. "He sent me to confirm them."
Miklan's expression hardened slightly. "So you're here on the Margrave's behalf."
"No," Sylvain said quickly, then corrected himself. "Well, yes, technically. But that's not why I came. Not really."
"Why, then?"
Sylvain glanced past Miklan to where Kylva stood with Freya, giving the brothers space while remaining close enough to intervene if needed. The little girl waved cheerfully at Sylvain, oblivious to the tension between her father and uncle.
"I wanted to see if it was true," Sylvain admitted, returning his gaze to his brother. "If you'd really built all this. If you were... okay."
Something flickered in Miklan's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or a shadow of the old suspicion. "Why would you care? After everything?"
The words weren't spoken with malice, but they struck Sylvain like a physical blow. Why would he care? Because despite everything, despite the wells and the mountains and the broken arms, Miklan was his brother. Because some part of him had never stopped wondering what had happened after the banishment. Because a silent, smiling friend had once suggested that people could change, could become more than what circumstances had made them.
"Because you're my brother," Sylvain said simply.
Miklan's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned to Kylva and nodded once. She approached with Freya, who immediately reached for her father.
"You've met my wife," Miklan said, taking his daughter. "And this is Freya." His voice softened when he spoke her name, in a way Sylvain had never heard from his brother before. "My daughter. Your niece."
"We met yesterday," Sylvain confirmed, smiling at the little girl. "She showed me her toys."
Freya beamed at this acknowledgment. "Papa, Uncle Syl is sixteen ," she announced, emphasizing the number as if it were impossibly ancient.
A corner of Miklan's mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but close. "Is he now? Almost a man." His gaze returned to Sylvain, assessing. "You've grown, little brother."
The familiar term—once a sneer, now merely a statement of fact—sent a strange pang through Sylvain's chest. "So have you."
An awkward silence fell, broken only when Kylva cleared her throat. "Dinner won't prepare itself," she said pointedly. "And I imagine you two have much to discuss."
Miklan nodded, setting Freya down. "Go help your mother, little one. I need to talk with your uncle."
"Are you going to fight?" Freya asked bluntly, looking between them with concern that suggested she understood more about their relationship than a one-year-old should.
"No," Miklan assured her, ruffling her hair. "Just talk. Long overdue talk."
As Kylva led Freya inside, Miklan finally mounted the porch steps, gesturing toward two chairs positioned to catch the afternoon sun. "Sit. If we're going to do this, we might as well be comfortable."
Sylvain settled into one of the chairs, watching as his brother lowered himself into the other with the careful movements of someone who has known physical hardship. For a long moment, neither spoke.
"The Liberator's Hand," Sylvain said finally, breaking the silence. "An unusual name for a trading company."
Something like amusement flickered across Miklan's face. "Named for a friend who helped me when I needed it most."
Friend? Miklan had never had friends that Sylvain knew of—only followers and victims. "After your banishment, you mean?"
"After, yes." Miklan's gaze drifted toward the distant mountains. "I was... not in a good place when I left Gautier territory. Angry. Bitter. Blaming everyone but myself for where I'd ended up." He glanced at Sylvain, a flash of the old darkness crossing his features. "Especially you."
Sylvain nodded, unsurprised. "And now?"
Miklan sighed, a deep exhalation that seemed to come from his very core. "Now I understand that my choices led me there. Not your birth. Not the Crest. My choices." He gestured toward the village spread out below them. "Just as my choices led me here."
"What happened?" Sylvain asked, genuinely curious. "How did you go from..."
"From a hateful exile to this?" Miklan finished when Sylvain faltered. "It's a long story. The short version is that someone showed me a different way to measure worth. Not by what you're born with, but by what you build. Not by what you take, but by what you give." His voice took on a strange, almost reverent quality. "He never spoke a word, but he changed everything."
Sylvain's hand moved unconsciously to his pocket, where the small wooden block with its carved smile pressed against his thigh through the fabric. "Someone showed me something similar once," he said carefully. "About choosing who to become, regardless of circumstances."
Miklan's eyes sharpened with sudden interest. "Did this someone happen to dress in white? With eyes that glow gold?"
Sylvain stared at his brother, shock rippling through him. "You met him too? Joy Boy?"
A slow smile spread across Miklan's face—a genuine smile, without bitterness or malice, something Sylvain had never seen from his brother before. "Joy Boy," he confirmed. "Found me half-dead in the northern forests about a month after my banishment. Flicked me on the forehead and completely changed the course of my life."
"He built towers with me," Sylvain said, still processing the revelation that Joy Boy had touched both their lives. "In the grove behind the manor. Towers that fell down, but we kept rebuilding them anyway."
"Of course he did," Miklan chuckled, the sound strange but not unpleasant to Sylvain's ears. "He has a way of giving each person exactly what they need." He studied Sylvain with renewed interest. "When was this?"
"Seven years ago. Not long after you... left."
Miklan nodded slowly. "The same time he found me, then. As if he knew we both needed guidance right at that moment." He leaned back in his chair, gaze returning to the mountains. "He traveled with me for a year. Never spoke a word, but taught me more than anyone ever had. How to build instead of destroy. How to give instead of take. How to find worth in myself beyond Crests and titles."
Sylvain pulled the wooden block from his pocket, holding it out for Miklan to see. "He gave me this. The last time I saw him."
Miklan reached out, hesitating briefly before taking the small token. He turned it over in his palm, tracing the worn smile with his thumb.
"He never gave me anything physical," he said quietly, returning the block. "But I see sunflowers sometimes, in places where they shouldn't grow. I always know it's him."
The conversation might have continued—two brothers comparing notes on a mysterious figure who had touched both their lives—but it was interrupted by a crash from inside the house, followed by Freya's wail and Kylva's exasperated call for Miklan.
"Duty calls," Miklan said, rising from his chair. He paused, looking down at Sylvain with an expression that mixed uncertainty with something almost like hope. "We should... continue this. Later."
Sylvain nodded, returning the block to his pocket. "I'd like that."
That night, after Freya had been put to bed, Sylvain sat with Miklan and Kylva before the fire, sharing stories of the years that had separated them. Miklan spoke of his journey from bitter exile to respected trader, of meeting Kylva and founding The Liberator's Hand, of building a community that valued people for their contributions rather than their bloodlines.
Sylvain, in turn, shared news of Gautier territory—the political maneuverings, the continuing tensions with Sreng, their father's declining health. He skirted around the Margrave's true reasons for sending him north, not wanting to disrupt the fragile rapport rebuilding between them.
As the night deepened, Kylva eventually excused herself, leaving the brothers alone before the dying fire.
"She's remarkable," Sylvain observed as Kylva's footsteps faded up the stairs. "You're a lucky man."
"Luckier than I deserve," Miklan agreed, refilling their cups with spiced wine. "Though she'd argue that luck had nothing to do with it—just choices, good and bad, that led us to each other."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then Sylvain asked the question that had been burning in him since he first saw his brother with Freya on his shoulders.
"Are you happy, Miklan? Truly?"
Miklan considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "I am," he said finally. "Not every day, not every moment. But in the ways that matter—yes. I've built something here, Sylvain. Something that's mine, not by birth or by right, but because I worked for it. Chose it. That brings a kind of contentment I never knew was possible."
Something in Sylvain snapped at those words. All the confusion, the resentment, the sheer unfairness of it all came rushing to the surface.
"How?" he demanded, setting his cup down with enough force that wine sloshed over the side. "How is it that you get to have this—a loving family, a purpose, happiness—when I'm still trapped in that cold manor with Father's expectations and Mother's indifference?" His voice rose despite his effort to control it. "Why does the brother who tried to kill me get the loving wife, the adorable daughter, the freedom to build his own life, while I'm still suffocating under the weight of the Gautier name?"
The words hung in the air between them, harsh and raw. Miklan didn't flinch from them, didn't grow defensive. He simply watched Sylvain with a steady gaze that somehow made the outburst even more infuriating.
"Where was this Miklan when we were children?" Sylvain continued, unable to stop now that the dam had broken. "Where was this patient, loving father when I was drowning in the pressures of nobility? Where were you when Father lashed out at me and Mother turned away? When I just needed a brother who didn't hate me for something I never asked for?"
His voice cracked on the last words, emotion overwhelming him. "I wanted this Miklan so badly when we were young. And now you have him, but it feels so late. Too late."
To Sylvain's shock, Miklan didn't respond with anger or defensive justification. Instead, he simply nodded, accepting every bitter word as his due.
"You're right," he said quietly when Sylvain's tirade finally exhausted itself. "I was a terrible brother to you. I blamed you for things beyond your control. I hurt you when I should have protected you." The firelight caught the scar on his cheek as he leaned forward. "I can't change that, Sylvain. I can only acknowledge it and try to be better now."
The simple admission, the lack of excuse-making or deflection, hit Sylvain harder than any defensive reaction would have. He felt tears welling in his eyes and turned away, ashamed of the emotion he couldn't control.
"It's not fair," he whispered, hating how childish the words sounded.
"No," Miklan agreed. "It's not. Life rarely is."
He rose and moved to Sylvain's side, hesitating before placing a hand on his brother's shoulder—not the casual brother would have had. Gentle. Uncertain.
"I can't give you back the brother you should have had," Miklan said, his voice rough with his own emotions. "But I can offer you the brother I'm trying to become. If you want that."
Sylvain looked up, suddenly struck by the vulnerability in his brother's expression. This was Miklan stripped of pretense, of bitterness, of the hardened shell that had protected him for so long. This was Miklan offering not excuses, but possibility.
"I don't even know what that looks like," Sylvain admitted, wiping roughly at his eyes. "A real brotherhood."
Miklan's hand tightened slightly on his shoulder. "I'm not sure I do either. But perhaps we can figure it out together."
The tears came again, but different this time—not the bitter tears of resentment, but something cleansing, something that washed away years of pain and confusion. Miklan didn't try to stop them or tell Sylvain to compose himself as their father would have. He simply remained there, his presence steady and accepting.
What Sylvain found even more disarming was Miklan's patience. He let Sylvain sort through his feelings without rushing or dismissing them, and it made Sylvain feel both seen and somehow unworthy of such understanding. The brother who had every right to harbor resentment was showing him more compassion than he'd ever experienced within the cold walls of Gautier Manor.
"I'm sorry," Sylvain managed eventually, his voice hoarse. "For everything that happened to you. For taking your place."
Miklan shook his head firmly. "You didn't take anything, Sylvain. You were born, that's all. A child with no more control over his circumstances than I had over mine." He sighed, his gaze drifting to the dying embers in the hearth. "It took me years to understand that. To see that my anger was misplaced."
"Joy Boy helped with that?" Sylvain asked, grateful for the slight shift in conversation.
A small smile crossed Miklan's face. "In his way. Never with words, just... presence. Perspective." He settled back in his chair, the tension gradually leaving his shoulders. "He showed me that I could build something of my own, something not defined by what I lacked but by what I chose to create with service."
Sylvain studied his brother, seeing him truly for perhaps the first time—not as the angry youth who had tormented him, not as the banished son, but as a man who had forged his own path through sheer determination and the courage to change.
"I think I'd like that," Sylvain said quietly. "To know the brother you're becoming."
Miklan nodded, the flicker of hope in his eyes unmistakable. "Then stay a while. Get to know Kylva properly. Spend time with Freya." His voice softened. "She should know her uncle."
"Father expects me back within the week," Sylvain began, then stopped himself. For once, the Margrave's expectations didn't seem the immovable force they had always been. "But I suppose I could send word that my investigation is taking longer than anticipated."
Miklan's smile widened slightly. "A diplomatic delay. I approve."
For the first time that evening, Sylvain laughed—a genuine sound, unburdened by the weight of their shared past. "You know, I think the old Miklan would have been horrified by how responsible you've become."
"The old Miklan was an idiot," his brother replied dryly, but there was no bitterness in his tone, only acceptance. "Now, get some rest. Tomorrow, I'll show you what we've built here."
As Sylvain settled into bed that night, the wooden block clutched in his palm, he wondered if Joy Boy somehow knew that both brothers would find their way back to each other after all these years. If perhaps that had been part of his silent plan all along.
The days that followed took on a rhythm unlike anything Sylvain had experienced at Gautier Manor. Mornings began early, with Freya's enthusiastic wake-up calls and breakfast shared around the table—a proper family meal, with conversation and laughter rather than the stilted formality he was accustomed to.
Miklan introduced him to the operations of The Liberator's Hand, showing him the warehouses where they stored goods for distribution, the smithy where they repaired tools for remote villages, the training yard where Kylva drilled their guards in both Fódlan and Sreng fighting techniques.
"We don't just trade goods," Miklan explained as they walked through the village. "We trade knowledge, skills, connection. The borderlands have been divided for too long by artificial boundaries. The people on both sides have more in common than they realize."
Sylvain noticed how the villagers greeted his brother—with respect but without the fear or toadying deference shown to nobility. It was clear that Miklan had earned his place here through action rather than birthright.
"And the name?" Sylvain asked. "The Liberator's Hand. You said it was named for a friend, but..."
Miklan glanced at him, understanding the unspoken question. "Joy Boy never spoke his name to me—never spoke at all. But once, when I was at my lowest point, he showed me a village devastated by bandits. Instead of offering sympathy or platitudes, he simply started rebuilding—one house, one life at a time. He extended his hand to me, inviting me to help." Miklan's expression was distant, remembering. "That hand liberated me from my own bitterness. Showed me a different path."
"So you're paying it forward," Sylvain observed, seeing his brother in a new light.
"Trying to." Miklan led him to the distinctive circular building with the painted sunflowers. "This is our meeting hall. Where we gather to make decisions that affect the community."
Inside, the space was open and airy, with benches arranged in concentric circles around a central hearth. No raised platform, no throne or seat of authority—a place where all voices could be heard equally.
"Not exactly how the Margrave runs things," Sylvain commented.
Miklan snorted. "No. But it works for us." He surveyed the space with quiet pride. "Everyone has a voice here, Sylvain. Even the Sreng refugees we've taken in. Even the former bandits who've chosen a different path."
"Even the disowned son of a Margrave," Sylvain added softly.
Something flickered across Miklan's face—a shadow of old pain, quickly mastered. "Especially him."
In the days that followed, Sylvain found himself drawn deeper into the rhythms of Kestrel's Roost. He spent mornings with Miklan, learning about the trading routes and protection strategies that had built The Liberator's Hand's reputation, and afternoons with Freya, who had decided that her uncle was an acceptable playmate despite his initial awkwardness with children.
"You're good with her," Kylva observed one evening, finding Sylvain seated on the floor of their home, helping Freya build a tower of wooden blocks. "Most nobles I've met barely acknowledge children exist."
Sylvain looked up, surprised by both the observation and the fact that Kylva was initiating conversation. She had been polite but reserved during his stay, watching him with the careful assessment of someone protecting their family.
"I'm not most nobles," he replied, steadying the tower as Freya added another block precariously to the top.
"No," Kylva agreed, settling on a nearby chair. "You're not. That's why I'm beginning to think Miklan might be right about you."
"Right about what?"
"That there's hope for reconciliation." Her directness was refreshing after years of navigating the veiled language of nobility. "He wants that, you know. Has for some time, though he'd never admit it."
Sylvain stared at her, then glanced down as Freya accidentally knocked over their tower. Instead of crying, she immediately began rebuilding, her small face set with determination.
"Again," she declared, offering Sylvain a block.
"Again," he agreed, accepting it with a smile before returning his attention to Kylva. "I didn't think he'd want anything to do with me after... everything."
Kylva's expression softened slightly. "Hatred is exhausting, Sylvain. After a while, it consumes more than it gives." She watched as Freya continued rebuilding. "Miklan learned that lesson the hard way. He doesn't want to carry that burden anymore."
"Neither do I," Sylvain admitted, surprised by how easily the words came. "I just don't know if Father will ever allow—"
"Your father," Kylva interrupted, "does not dictate who Miklan chooses to call family. Not anymore."
There was steel in her voice, a protective fierceness that made Sylvain suddenly, acutely aware of how fortunate his brother was to have found this woman.
"Tower!" Freya announced proudly, having successfully rebuilt their structure. Sylvain praised her, but his mind was elsewhere—contemplating a definition of family far different from the one he'd been raised with.
Before he knew it, a month had passed. Sylvain's initial message to the Margrave, citing "complicated diplomatic considerations" that required his extended presence, had been met with reluctant approval. His knights had returned to Gautier territory after the first week, carrying reports that confirmed Miklan's success while deliberately omitting details about his family.
In that month, something remarkable had happened: Sylvain and Miklan had begun forging a tentative brotherhood. Not without difficulties—there were moments when old patterns threatened to resurface, when a careless word or gesture reopened old wounds. But each time, they found their way back to understanding, helped along by Kylva's pragmatic wisdom and Freya's uncomplicated affection.
By the time Freya's second birthday arrived, celebrated with a village-wide feast that bore little resemblance to the austere formal events of Sylvain's childhood, the brothers had established a fragile but genuine connection. They were not the carefree siblings they might have been without the burdens of Crests and expectations, but they were something real—something built on choice rather than obligation.
It was shortly after this celebration that a messenger arrived from Gautier territory, carrying not just correspondence for Sylvain but a formal letter addressed to Miklan—the first communication from their father since the banishment seven years earlier.
Miklan stared at the sealed parchment, the Gautier crest pressed into the wax suddenly alien in this home he had built far from his father's influence.
"You don't have to read it," Sylvain offered, watching his brother's reaction carefully.
"Yes, I do." Miklan broke the seal, his expression carefully neutral as he unfolded the parchment. Sylvain gave him privacy, stepping onto the porch to read his own correspondence.
The Margrave's letter to Sylvain was brief and pointed: his presence was required at home immediately to address matters of succession and responsibility. It was, Sylvain noted with resignation, exactly the tone he had expected—all duty and expectation, no acknowledgment of the relationship he had been rebuilding with his brother.
When he returned inside, he found Miklan still seated at the table, the letter spread before him, his face unreadable.
"What does it say?" Sylvain asked hesitantly.
Miklan looked up, his eyes shadowed with emotions Sylvain couldn't quite decipher. "He wants to visit. To meet Kylva and Freya. To see what I've built here."
Sylvain stared at his brother, processing the unexpected development. "That's... good, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Miklan folded the letter carefully, his movements precise. "The father who cast me out with nothing now wants to play the role of doting grandfather? The man who declared me unworthy of the Gautier name now wishes to acknowledge my achievements?"
The bitterness in his voice was not the same as the old hatred—it was something more complex, tempered by time and understanding but no less real.
"People change," Sylvain offered tentatively. "You did."
Miklan's expression softened slightly. "You sound like Joy Boy now."
"Worse things to sound like," Sylvain replied with a hint of his usual levity. "Will you agree? To his visit?"
Miklan sighed, tapping the folded letter against the table. "I'll discuss it with Kylva. It's her home too, her daughter. She should have a say."
The discussion came that evening, after Freya had been put to bed. Kylva listened to Miklan's concerns with the same steady patience she brought to all challenges, then offered her perspective with characteristic directness.
"He is Freya's grandfather," she acknowledged. "And families are complicated. I think he should come—if for no other reason than to see that you've built a life worth respecting."
"And if he can't respect it?" Miklan asked, the question revealing vulnerabilities Sylvain had rarely seen his brother display. "If he comes only to judge or to assert his authority?"
"Then he will leave as he came," Kylva said simply. "This is our home, Miklan. Our community. He holds no power here unless we grant it to him."
Sylvain watched this exchange with growing admiration for the partnership his brother had found—equal, respectful, strong enough to face whatever complications the Margrave's visit might bring.
Three months later, the Margrave arrived at Kestrel's Roost with minimal ceremony—a small retinue of knights, no banners or trumpets announcing his presence. Sylvain, who had returned to Gautier territory only long enough to fulfill his most pressing duties before hurrying back to support his brother, stood beside Miklan as their father approached.
The Margrave had indeed aged in the years since Miklan's banishment. His once-imposing frame had diminished slightly, the red in his hair all but surrendered to gray. Yet his bearing remained proud, his gaze sharp as it moved from Miklan to Sylvain and back again.
"Father," Miklan greeted him, his tone neutral but not hostile. "Welcome to Kestrel's Roost."
The Margrave nodded stiffly, clearly uncomfortable outside the familiar grounds of his authority. "Miklan. You look... well."
It was an awkward beginning, made more so by the curious stares of the villagers who had gathered to witness this reunion. Sylvain found himself holding his breath, uncertain how this first meeting would unfold.
Then Freya, now nearly three and impossible to restrain, darted from behind Kylva's protective stance and ran directly to the Margrave, looking up at him with undisguised curiosity.
"Are you my grandfather?" she demanded, her hands on her hips in an unconscious mimicry of her mother's stance. "The one who lives in the big cold house?"
A ripple of nervous laughter passed through the crowd. The Margrave blinked, clearly unprepared for this direct approach from a child who bore the Gautier features but none of the Gautier reserve.
"I am," he confirmed, his voice softening slightly as he regarded his granddaughter.
"Uncle Syl says you have horses," Freya continued, undeterred by the tension surrounding her. "Can I ride one?"
For a moment, Sylvain feared his father would react with the cold dismissal he often showed to childish enthusiasm. Instead, to his astonishment, the Margrave knelt—awkwardly, with the stiffness of age—to meet Freya at eye level.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice gentler than Sylvain had heard in years. "If your parents permit it."
It was a small thing, this deference to Miklan and Kylva's authority over their child, but it signaled a shift—a recognition, however tentative, that something had changed in the dynamics between father and son.
What followed was an uneasy week of careful conversations, of the Margrave observing the community Miklan had built, of moments of genuine connection interspersed with painful reminders of old wounds. Sylvain, now nineteen and more aware than ever of the complexities of family, found himself playing the role of mediator, bridging the gap between his father's formal reserve and his brother's hard-won independence.
Matthias, as the Margrave was called by those who knew him well, proved to be a surprisingly attentive grandfather. He listened solemnly to Freya's endless stories, taught her simple riding skills on one of the horses brought from Gautier territory, and showed more patience than Sylvain had thought him capable of.
With Kylva, too, he found an unexpected rapport—respect developing between them as she demonstrated her knowledge of border politics and defensive strategies, areas where the Margrave could engage without the emotional complications of his relationship with Miklan.
But what truly saddened Sylvain was watching his father try—and repeatedly fail—to connect with Miklan himself. The Margrave would make overtures, acknowledging Miklan's achievements in building The Liberator's Hand, praising the organization of the settlement, even suggesting trade agreements that would benefit both Kestrel's Roost and Gautier territory.
Yet in all these conversations, there was a crucial element missing: accountability. Not once did the Margrave acknowledge his role in Miklan's banishment, the harshness of his judgment, the years of favoritism that had poisoned the relationship between his sons. He spoke as if the past were a closed book, its pages not worth revisiting.
And Miklan, Sylvain observed with growing understanding, could not—would not—allow his father back into his life without that acknowledgment. The boy who had once desperately sought his father's approval had become a man who understood his own worth too well to accept conditional recognition.
"You're trying," Sylvain told his father on the eve of the Margrave's departure, finding him alone on the porch of the guest house. "I can see that. But it's not enough for him, Father. Not without acknowledging what happened."
The Margrave's expression hardened. "What happened was necessary. The banishment was—"
"I'm not talking about the banishment," Sylvain interrupted, surprising himself with his boldness. "I'm talking about everything before it. The years of making him feel worthless because he didn't have a Crest. The way you taught him that his only value lay in what he was born with, not who he could become."
The Margrave stared at his younger son, shock evident in his features. "You've never spoken to me this way before."
"I've never had reason to," Sylvain replied quietly. "But I've seen what Miklan has built here—not just the company or the village, but himself. The man he's become despite everything. And I've seen how much I almost lost by accepting the rift between us as permanent."
For a moment, it seemed the Margrave might respond with anger, might remind Sylvain of his duty and position. Instead, he simply looked tired—an old man confronting the consequences of choices made decades ago.
"Some things cannot be undone, Sylvain," he said finally. "Some words cannot be unsaid."
"No," Sylvain agreed. "But they can be acknowledged. And new words can be spoken, if there's courage enough to speak them."
After the Margrave's departure, life in Kestrel's Roost gradually returned to its normal rhythms. Sylvain, with his father's reluctant blessing, divided his time between Gautier duties and extended stays with Miklan's family, becoming a true uncle to Freya and a bridge between the separate worlds his family now inhabited.
Through it all, he carried the small wooden block with him—a reminder of the silent friend who had shown both brothers that people could change, could become more than their circumstances, could rebuild what had been broken.
And sometimes, in the quietest moments, Sylvain thought he glimpsed a white-clad figure watching from the edge of the village, golden eyes gleaming with approval at the towers that had fallen and risen again, stronger than before.
Chapter 17: A Child's Promise
Summary:
In which nine-year-old Leonie Pinelli, a spirited child from Sauin Village in Leicester Alliance territory, experiences an extraordinary encounter that will shape her future. When a sudden earthquake traps her beneath collapsed debris while gathering herbs in the forest, an unexpected savior arrives. As Leonie witnesses Joy Boy's casual strength and kindness firsthand, she discovers what it means to be truly heroic, planting seeds of ambition that will guide her path for years to come.
Chapter Text
The rising sun painted the forest floor in dappled patterns, shafts of golden light filtering through the canopy above. Nine-year-old Leonie Pinelli moved with practiced quiet between the trees, her keen eyes scanning the undergrowth for the herbs her village needed. A small woven basket hung from the crook of her arm, already half-filled with various plants—feverfew for headaches, willow bark for pain, and the purple-flowered boneset that the village healer had specifically requested.
Leonie loved these early morning foraging trips. While other children her age might grumble about such chores, she savored the independence, the responsibility, and the opportunity to prove her growing skills. At nine, she was already known throughout Sauin Village as the quickest, strongest, and most reliable of the children—titles she wore with fierce pride.
"Just two more bunches of boneset," she muttered to herself, pushing a strand of her bright orange hair behind her ear. "Then I can try tracking that buck I spotted yesterday."
Her father had begun teaching her to hunt the previous winter, and though she wasn't yet allowed to handle the bow without supervision, tracking was a skill she could practice alone. The thought of returning to the village with both a full herb basket and news of a buck's location made her quicken her pace with anticipation.
The forest around Sauin was familiar territory to Leonie. Unlike some of the other village children who rarely ventured beyond the cultivated fields, she had explored these woods extensively, mentally mapping its streams, thickets, and clearings. Her current path took her toward a rocky outcropping where boneset grew in abundance, nourished by a small spring that trickled from between the stones.
As she approached the outcropping, Leonie noticed something unusual. The normally chattering birds had fallen silent, and the typical rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth was absent. The forest felt unnaturally still, as if holding its breath.
Leonie paused, her hunter's instincts—rudimentary but developing—alerting her that something was amiss. She stood motionless, listening intently, her small hand tightening on the handle of her gathering basket.
The first tremor was so subtle she almost dismissed it as imagination. The second, coming just moments later, was unmistakable. The ground beneath her feet shuddered like a nervous horse, and the trees around her creaked in protest.
"Earthquake," she whispered, her eyes widening.
They weren't common in Leicester territory, but her father had told her stories of the ground shaking violently enough to topple buildings and split open fields. He'd taught her what to do if one occurred—find open space, away from trees and structures that might fall.
Leonie turned, intending to dash toward a nearby clearing, but before she could take more than two steps, the third tremor hit. This one was no gentle shudder but a violent convulsion that knocked her off her feet. Her basket flew from her grasp, herbs scattering across the forest floor as she tumbled forward.
The world became chaos. Trees swayed dangerously, their roots visibly lifting from the soil in places. The rocky outcropping she had been approaching groaned ominously, stones shifting against each other with sounds like grinding teeth.
Leonie scrambled to her feet, but a fourth tremor, stronger than the others, sent her sprawling again. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of movement above her—the outcropping was collapsing, massive boulders breaking free and tumbling down.
She rolled desperately to one side, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the first boulder. A second missed her by mere inches. But the third—a massive slab of stone that must have weighed as much as three grown men—caught her at the edge, pinning her left leg and hip to the ground.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming. A cry tore from Leonie's throat, high and thin with shock and fear. When the tremors finally subsided, leaving the forest in eerie silence once more, she found herself trapped beneath the partial collapse, one leg immobilized and a tangle of smaller rocks scattered around her.
For several minutes, Leonie could only lie there, struggling to catch her breath as waves of pain radiated from her pinned leg. When she finally managed to push herself up on her elbows, she assessed her situation with a clarity surprising for a child her age.
The boulder trapping her wasn't crushingly heavy—it hadn't broken her leg, she could tell, because she could still wiggle her toes—but it was far too massive for her to shift alone. She was firmly pinned, the weight distributed in such a way that she couldn't slip free, though she tried repeatedly until sweat dampened her brow despite the morning chill.
"Help!" she called, her voice sounding small and insignificant among the towering trees. "Can anyone hear me? Help!"
Only the gradual return of birdsong answered her cries. Sauin Village was at least an hour's walk away, and few villagers ventured this deep into the forest, especially so early in the morning. The realization that no one knew exactly where she was, that no one would miss her until midday at the earliest, settled coldly in her stomach.
Leonie was not a child given to tears or panic. Her father often praised her level head in difficult situations, her practical approach to problems that sent other children running to their parents. But as the sun climbed higher, as her calls for help went unanswered, and as the pain in her leg transformed from sharp agony to a persistent, worrying numbness, she felt the first stirrings of real fear.
"Think," she told herself firmly, blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes. "There has to be something you can do."
She tried again to shift the boulder, bracing her free leg against the ground and pushing with all the strength her nine-year-old body could muster. The stone didn't budge. She tried digging at the earth beneath her trapped leg, hoping to create enough space to slide free, but the ground was too compacted, the weight of the boulder pressing her against it too firmly.
By midmorning, Leonie's throat was raw from calling for help, her free leg scraped and bruised from failed attempts to leverage herself out, and the numbness in her trapped limb had progressed to a degree that terrified her. Stories of trappers who lost limbs to prolonged pressure floated through her mind, tales her father had told to warn her about the dangers of the forest.
It was as her fear threatened to overwhelm her practical nature that Leonie became aware of a subtle change in the forest's atmosphere. The birds had fallen silent again, but not with the unnatural stillness that had preceded the earthquake. This silence felt watchful, expectant.
And then she heard it—footsteps approaching, light and purposeful. Not the heavy tread of a village hunter or the cautious steps of a foraging woman, but something different. Something she couldn't immediately identify.
"Hello?" she called, her voice cracking. "Is someone there? I'm trapped! Please, I need help!"
The footsteps paused briefly, then quickened. A moment later, a figure emerged from between the trees into the small clearing created by the rockfall. Leonie's breath caught in her throat.
He was unlike anyone she had ever seen in Sauin or the surrounding villages. Young—perhaps fifteen or sixteen, she guessed—with a slender build that nonetheless suggested surprising strength. But it was his appearance that rendered her momentarily speechless.
His clothing was pure white, seemingly unmarked by travel through the forest, as if dust and dirt simply refused to cling to him. His hair moved strangely, not just with the forest breeze but as if alive with its own energy, reminiscent of a dancing flame. Most striking were his eyes—large golden irises that seemed to glow with inner light, fixed upon her with an expression of gentle concern.
Most peculiar of all, a wispy substance like cloud or mist draped over his shoulders, flowing behind him like a living cape made of the sky itself.
Leonie had heard the whispers, of course. Everyone in Leicester territory had been talking about the appearances of a white-haired youth with golden eyes who emerged when people needed help most. Joy Boy, they called him. Some spoke of him reverently, as if he were some kind of divine messenger. Others described him more as a forest spirit or benevolent trickster. Her father dismissed such tales as exaggerated accounts of a traveling performer with unusual coloring, but here, seeing him with her own eyes, Leonie understood why people spoke of him with awe.
Joy Boy approached without hesitation, his bare feet making almost no sound on the forest floor. He knelt beside her, those golden eyes examining the boulder pinning her down, then meeting her gaze with a reassuring smile that immediately eased some of her fear.
"You're him, aren't you?" Leonie whispered. "Joy Boy. The one everyone's been talking about."
He didn't answer—at least not with words. Instead, his smile widened slightly, and he gave a small, almost playful shrug, as if to say, "That's what they call me."
"I'm trapped," Leonie explained unnecessarily, gesturing to the boulder. "My leg... I can't feel it much anymore. I've been trying to get free for hours."
Joy Boy nodded sympathetically. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, a gesture so reassuring that Leonie felt tears spring to her eyes again, this time from relief that help had arrived. Then he turned his attention to the boulder.
What happened next would remain vivid in Leonie's memory for years to come, a moment she would recount countless times despite the disbelief it often elicited.
Joy Boy circled the boulder once, studying it from all angles, his movements graceful and deliberate. Then, with no apparent effort, no bracing of feet or tensing of muscles, he simply bent down and lifted the massive stone as if it weighed no more than a loaf of bread.
Leonie stared in disbelief as the pressure on her leg vanished. The boulder that she, even in her adult years, would never have been able to budge was held aloft in Joy Boy's slender hands as casually as she might hold her gathering basket.
With the same easy grace, he set the boulder aside, placing it gently on the ground as if concerned about damaging the forest floor. Then he returned to Leonie, kneeling beside her once more to examine her injured leg.
The limb was alarmingly pale, with angry red marks where the boulder's edges had pressed against her skin. When Joy Boy touched it lightly, Leonie couldn't feel his fingers, which sent a fresh spike of fear through her.
Understanding flickered in his golden eyes. Without speaking, he began to massage her leg, his touch firm but gentle. At first, there was nothing—just the visual knowledge that he was touching her but no corresponding sensation. Then, gradually, painfully, feeling began to return.
"Ow!" Leonie gasped as pins and needles shot through her leg, the returning circulation bringing waves of discomfort.
Joy Boy's expression remained calm and encouraging. He continued his ministrations, occasionally pausing to check her reaction. When color had returned to her skin and Leonie could flex her foot, albeit with discomfort, he sat back on his heels, looking pleased.
"Thank you," Leonie said fervently. "I thought... I was afraid no one would find me until it was too late."
Joy Boy's response was a simple nod and another of those warm smiles that seemed to brighten the very air around them. Then, to her surprise, he extended his hand to her.
Leonie took it without hesitation, allowing him to help her to her feet. Her injured leg protested, threatening to buckle, but Joy Boy steadied her with a supportive arm around her shoulders.
"I should get back to my village," Leonie said, though she was reluctant to end this extraordinary encounter. "My father will be worried if I'm not back soon."
Joy Boy nodded in understanding. He bent down and, to Leonie's astonishment, began gathering the herbs that had spilled from her basket during the earthquake. His movements were quick and precise, and she noticed that he correctly identified which plants she had been collecting, separating them from the random forest debris.
"You know about herbs?" she asked, watching as he carefully placed the salvaged boneset in her dirtied but intact basket.
A light shrug was his only answer, but his eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement or affirmation. When the basket was refilled—not with everything she had lost, but enough that her trip wouldn't be counted a failure—he handed it to her with a small, ceremonious bow that made Leonie giggle despite the lingering pain in her leg.
"I can make it back on my own," she said, testing her weight on the injured limb. It hurt, but it would bear her. "It's not far to Sauin Village."
Joy Boy tilted his head, his expression making it clear that he had no intention of letting her make the journey alone. He gestured for her to lead the way, then fell into step beside her, adjusting his pace to accommodate her limping gait.
As they walked, Leonie found herself talking, filling the silence he maintained with her own chatter. She told him about Sauin Village, about her father who taught her to hunt and track, about her dreams of becoming the strongest person in the village.
"Dad says I'm already stronger than most of the boys my age," she told him proudly. "And faster too. I can shoot a bow pretty well, though I'm not allowed to hunt on my own yet. But one day, I'm going to be the best hunter in Sauin. Maybe in all of Leicester!"
Joy Boy listened attentively, his expressive face showing interest and occasional amusement at her youthful boasting. Though he never spoke, Leonie found his presence surprisingly comfortable, as if words were unnecessary for understanding to pass between them.
"How did you find me?" she asked as they crossed a small stream, Joy Boy's hand steadying her as she navigated the slippery stones. "No one knew where I was."
He pointed to his ear, then gestured around the forest.
"You heard me calling? From far away?" Leonie's eyes widened. "You must have amazing hearing."
A modest shrug was his response, though the small smile playing at his lips suggested there was more to it than exceptional hearing. Leonie remembered the stories—that Joy Boy appeared when people truly needed help, as if guided by some instinct or power beyond normal human capability.
"The stories about you," she ventured, curiosity overwhelming her. "Some people say you're magic. Or a spirit. Or even a god." She studied his face as they walked, seeking clues in his reaction. "What are you, really?"
Joy Boy's expression turned thoughtful. After a moment, he stopped walking and knelt down to be at eye level with her. He pointed to himself, then to her, then swept his arm in a wide arc that encompassed the forest around them.
"You're saying you're... like me? A person?" Leonie frowned, not quite satisfied with this answer given what she had witnessed. "But normal people can't lift boulders like you did. And your eyes, your hair..."
He smiled again, tapping her lightly on the chest, right over her heart, then doing the same to himself. The gesture was clear enough: regardless of appearances or abilities, something essential was the same between them.
They resumed walking, Leonie mulling over this interaction. As the pain in her leg gradually subsided to a dull ache, her thoughts turned from her own predicament to the mysterious figure beside her.
"Do you help everyone who needs it?" she asked. "There are lots of people in trouble all over. Do you find all of them?"
Joy Boy's expression sobered slightly. He shook his head, a hint of sadness passing over his features.
"I guess even you can't be everywhere," Leonie said thoughtfully. Then, struck by a sudden inspiration: "That's why there should be more people helping others! Not just you, but lots of people, all doing what they can."
This idea seemed to delight Joy Boy. His golden eyes brightened, and he nodded enthusiastically, gesturing for her to continue this line of thought.
"I could do it too," Leonie declared, warming to the concept. "I'm already strong for my age. Dad says I have good instincts. I could learn to fight properly, to defend people who can't defend themselves." Her pace quickened with excitement despite her injured leg. "I could be like you—well, not exactly like you with the glowing eyes and everything—but I could help people too!"
Joy Boy's smile was radiant now, his approval clear. He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a solemn nod that felt like a blessing or an investiture.
The gesture filled Leonie with a strange warmth, a certainty that transcended her childish enthusiasm. In that moment, it wasn't just a fleeting fancy but a true calling—the first clear glimpse of a path she could follow, a purpose larger than herself.
They walked in companionable silence after that, Leonie occasionally pointing out landmarks or sharing bits of woodcraft knowledge her father had taught her. Though her leg still ached, she found herself deliberately slowing their pace, reluctant for this extraordinary encounter to end.
As they neared the edge of the forest where the trees began to thin, revealing the first scattered outlying buildings of Sauin Village, Joy Boy stopped. When Leonie turned to him questioningly, he gestured ahead, then shook his head.
"You're not coming into the village?" she asked, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.
He shook his head again, then pointed to her, to the village, and mimicked someone calling out.
"You want me to get help from here?" Leonie interpreted. "I suppose that makes sense. If you came into the village, everyone would make such a fuss..."
The stories spoke of Joy Boy's appearances as brief, often solitary encounters. He rarely entered populated areas, preferring to vanish back into forest or mist once his assistance was complete. Some said he was shy of crowds; others believed he deliberately avoided the worship some tried to offer him.
"Will I see you again?" Leonie couldn't help asking, though she suspected the answer.
Joy Boy's response surprised her. Instead of the gentle dismissal or noncommittal gesture she expected, he considered her question seriously. Then he placed his hand over his heart, followed by touching her forehead lightly—a gesture she somehow understood meant "when the time is right."
Leonie nodded, accepting this cryptic answer. "I meant what I said," she told him earnestly. "About becoming strong enough to help others, like you do. I'm going to train hard, every day. I'll become someone who protects people."
Joy Boy's expression was warm with approval. Then, to her delight, he straightened his posture and offered her a formal salute—hand to brow, crisp and proper like the soldiers she had once seen escorting a noble through their village. The gesture was followed by a playful wink that transformed the formality into something personal and encouraging.
Leonie returned the salute with solemn precision, then broke into a grin that matched his own. Without further farewell, Joy Boy turned and began walking away, back toward the deeper forest. Within moments, the strange mist-like substance around his shoulders seemed to expand, enveloping his form until he was merely a white silhouette against the green backdrop. Then, between one blink and the next, he was gone.
Leonie stood at the forest's edge for several long moments, staring at the spot where he had vanished. Then, clutching her herb basket tightly, she turned and limped toward the village, already composing in her mind how she would describe this encounter to her disbelieving father.
By the time she reached the first proper building of Sauin—old Willem's smithy with its perpetually smoking chimney—her story had taken on the quality of practiced narrative. Yet as a village woman spotted her limping and rushed to help, exclaiming over her disheveled appearance and asking what had happened, Leonie found herself hesitating.
"I was caught in the earthquake," she said simply. "A rockslide. My leg was trapped, but... I got free."
Something told her that her encounter with Joy Boy was meant to be kept close, a private inspiration rather than a tale to be dissected by eager listeners. The salute, the wink, the silent encouragement—these felt like a personal exchange, a promise made between the two of them.
Later that evening, as her father applied a poultice to her bruised leg and lectured her gently about the dangers of wandering too far alone, Leonie's mind returned repeatedly to that moment in the forest when Joy Boy had lifted the boulder with such casual strength, such effortless kindness.
"Dad," she interrupted his well-meant warnings, "how does someone get really, really strong?"
Her father paused in his ministrations, studying her face with mild surprise. "That's an odd question. Why do you ask?"
"I want to be strong," she said firmly. "Strong enough to help people who are in trouble, who can't help themselves."
Something in her tone must have conveyed her seriousness, for her father didn't dismiss the question as childish fancy. He sat back on his heels, considering her thoughtfully.
"Strength comes in many forms, Leonie," he said at last. "There's the strength of body, which takes years of training and proper nourishment. There's the strength of mind, which comes from learning and experience. And there's the strength of heart, which is about courage and conviction." He touched her cheek gently. "You already have a good start on all three."
"But how do I get better?" she pressed. "How do I become someone who can really make a difference?"
Her father's expression softened. "Is this about the earthquake? Were you scared being trapped alone?"
"No—well, yes, I was scared," Leonie admitted. "But that's not why I'm asking. I just... I realized something today. About what I want to do with my life."
For a long moment, her father studied her face, seeming to recognize that something had shifted in his daughter, some childish quality replaced by a new determination. Finally, he nodded.
"If you truly want to grow stronger, it will take discipline," he told her. "Daily practice with weapons. Regular exercise to build your body. Study to sharpen your mind. And most importantly, opportunities to test yourself against worthy challenges."
Leonie nodded eagerly, already envisioning a training regimen for herself. "I'll do it. All of it. I'll become the strongest I can be."
Her father laughed lightly at her enthusiasm. "It's not something that happens overnight, you know. It takes years, decades even, to reach true mastery."
"I don't care how long it takes," Leonie declared. "I've made up my mind."
As her father finished bandaging her leg and moved away to prepare their evening meal, Leonie remained seated on her small cot, staring out the window at the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, Joy Boy was continuing his mysterious journeys, appearing to those who needed him most. One day, she promised herself, she would be doing the same in her own way—not as a mysterious figure of legend, but as a flesh-and-blood protector, using the strength she would build to safeguard those who couldn't protect themselves.
She raised her hand in the salute he had given her, a private gesture of commitment. As she did so, she could have sworn that for just an instant, the waning light through the window took on a golden hue reminiscent of his eyes.
"I promise," she whispered, too softly for her father to hear. "I'll make myself strong enough to help others, just like you. That's my path. That's who I'll become."
And in that moment of childish determination was born the core of what would define Leonie Pinelli for the rest of her life—a drive to excel, to strengthen herself not for personal glory but for the sake of others; a philosophy of protection and service that would eventually lead her from Sauin Village to the Officer's Academy and beyond, always chasing that ideal of selfless strength first glimpsed in a forest clearing when she was nine years old.
In the years that followed her encounter with Joy Boy, Leonie's promise transformed from a child's fleeting declaration into the foundation upon which she built her entire life. The villagers of Sauin noticed the change in her immediately—the already determined girl now approached every task with a singular focus that both impressed and occasionally concerned the adults around her.
Every morning before the rest of the village stirred, Leonie could be found running laps around the perimeter, her breaths forming small clouds in the dawn air. Her father had crafted her a small training bow, which she practiced with relentlessly until her fingers blistered and bled. When other children invited her to play, she would often decline, preferring instead to help the hunters track game or assist the village healer in gathering herbs—tasks that might strengthen her body or sharpen her mind.
"You're pushing yourself too hard," her father observed one evening, finding her attempting to lift a sack of grain nearly as heavy as herself. "There's no rush, Leonie. You have your whole life ahead of you."
Leonie shook her head, her orange hair damp with sweat. "I made a promise," she said simply, as if those four words explained everything.
Her father never asked what promise or to whom. Something had changed in his daughter that day in the forest—something profound that even he, who knew her better than anyone, couldn't fully comprehend. He could only support her, guiding her growing strength and teaching her the skills that would serve her ambitions.
By the time Leonie turned twelve, she had outpaced most of the village children in physical prowess. She could outrun the fastest boys, had developed an almost uncanny accuracy with her bow, and had begun learning the basics of spear work from the village's former militiaman. What she lacked in natural talent, she compensated for with sheer determination and methodical practice.
"The girl's got a fire in her belly," the old militiaman told her father over ale. "Never seen a child so driven. What's she training for, anyway? Planning to join the Knights of Seiros?"
Leonie's father shook his head. "Something about helping people who can't help themselves. Been her mission since she was nine."
The militiaman nodded approvingly. "Noble cause. Better than most have."
When Leonie turned thirteen, disaster struck Sauin Village. A particularly harsh winter depleted their food stores, followed by a spring drought that left their fields barren. By midsummer, the situation had grown desperate. Even with careful rationing, starvation loomed on the horizon.
The village council gathered to discuss sending representatives to the nearest noble house to request aid. Some argued against it, pride warring with necessity.
"Count Gloucester's taxes are already excessive," one farmer complained. "If we show weakness now, he'll squeeze us even harder next season."
"Pride won't feed our children," Leonie's father countered. "Better to swallow it than watch them starve."
In the end, they decided to send three representatives to petition the Count. Leonie's father, as one of the village's most respected hunters, was chosen to lead the delegation. The night before they were to depart, Leonie found him checking his weapons by lamplight.
"Take me with you," she said without preamble, standing straight-backed in the doorway of their small home.
Her father looked up, his weathered face solemn in the flickering light. "It's a three-day journey through difficult terrain, Leonie. And Count Gloucester's court is no place for a child."
"I'm not a child anymore," she insisted, her amber eyes reflecting the lamplight with stubborn intensity. "I'm stronger than half the men you're taking. And faster. I can help protect the delegation."
Her father studied her for a long moment. At thirteen, Leonie was still small for her age, but her limbs had developed the wiry strength of constant use. She had proven herself repeatedly in village hunts, displaying a focus and resilience that put many adults to shame.
"This isn't a game," he warned. "If bandits attack, there won't be time for lessons or second chances."
Leonie's hand instinctively went to the hunting knife at her belt—her most prized possession, gifted to her on her twelfth birthday. "I know the risks. I've been preparing for this. For helping when it matters most."
Something in her voice—an echo of the solemn promise she'd made four years earlier—seemed to sway him. With a sigh that held equal parts resignation and pride, he nodded.
"Pack light. One spare tunic, your bow, and enough arrows to make a difference if trouble finds us. We leave at first light."
The journey to Count Gloucester's estate was more arduous than even Leonie had anticipated. Summer heat baked the already drought-stricken land, turning streams to trickles and paths to dusty trails that offered little shade. Bandits, driven to desperation by the same conditions affecting Sauin, made travel increasingly dangerous.
On the second day, as they passed through a narrow canyon, they encountered such a group—six men armed with rusty weapons but dangerous determination. They emerged from behind boulders, blocking the path ahead while two more cut off retreat from behind.
"Toll for passage," growled their leader, a scarred man with a notched axe. "Everything you've got should cover it."
The delegation, consisting of Leonie's father, the village blacksmith, and an elderly council member, moved into defensive positions. Leonie's father subtly motioned for her to stay behind him, but she had already nocked an arrow, her eyes calculating distances and angles as he had taught her.
"We have nothing worth taking," her father said evenly. "We're petitioning Count Gloucester for aid. Our village is starving."
The bandit leader laughed harshly. "So is everyone. Makes no difference to us. Your weapons, your boots, whatever coin you're carrying—hand it over, and you can limp to the Count barefoot."
What happened next would later be recounted in Sauin Village as the moment Leonie Pinelli truly began to follow in Joy Boy's footsteps.
As the bandits advanced, clearly unconvinced by her father's words, Leonie stepped from behind the delegation. In one fluid motion—practiced thousands of times in the forest clearing behind their home—she drew and released her arrow. It whistled through the air and buried itself in the ground directly between the lead bandit's feet, missing him by such a precise margin that it could only have been intentional.
"The next one goes through your eye," she called, her young voice steady and clear in the canyon. "We don't want to hurt you. We know you're hungry too."
The bandits froze, taking in the sight of the small, orange-haired girl already nocking a second arrow with practiced efficiency. Something in her stance, in the unwavering steadiness of her aim, gave them pause.
"Lower your weapons," she continued, "and we'll share what food we have. There's not much, but enough that no one needs to die today."
For a tense moment, it seemed the bandits might charge anyway. The leader's face twisted with conflicting emotions—desperation, anger, and a flicker of shame at being addressed with such calm authority by a child who wasn't acting like one.
"She shoots well," the blacksmith murmured to Leonie's father. "But there are eight of them and four of us. If they rush—"
"They won't," her father replied, a note of wonder in his voice as he watched his daughter. "Look at her eyes."
Leonie's gaze never wavered from the bandit leader, but there was no fear in it—only a calm resolve and something else, something that seemed to reach past his desperation to the humanity beneath. It was a look that said: I see you. I understand your pain. Let me help.
After what felt like an eternity, the bandit leader lowered his axe.
"What food?" he asked gruffly, his voice trying to maintain menace but revealing exhaustion underneath.
The delegation shared their meager rations with the bandits, creating a strange fellowship in the canyon as they sat together, former adversaries united by common hunger. As they ate, Leonie listened to the bandits' stories—tales of farms lost to drought, of noble indifference, of desperate choices made to feed families.
"The Count takes the same taxes whether the harvest is good or failed," one bandit explained bitterly. "What choice do we have but this?"
By the time they parted ways, something remarkable had occurred. Not only had bloodshed been avoided, but the bandits had offered to escort them safely through the most dangerous part of the journey, protecting them from other, less reasonable groups.
"Why did you trust them?" the elderly council member asked Leonie as they resumed their journey. "They could have killed us all."
Leonie adjusted her bow across her shoulders, her expression thoughtful. "They weren't evil, just desperate. Sometimes people need to be reminded that there are other choices."
When they finally reached Count Gloucester's estate, they found the gates crowded with similar delegations from other villages, all seeking aid that seemed increasingly unlikely to come. Guards maintained order with casual brutality, occasionally beating villagers who protested too loudly or demanded to be heard.
For three days, they waited in increasingly squalid conditions outside the estate walls. The Count, they were told, was aware of their petitions but preoccupied with "more pressing matters"—reportedly a lavish birthday celebration for his young son.
On the fourth day, as tempers frayed and hunger gnawed at them all, the delegation from Sauin was finally granted an audience—not with the Count himself, but with his steward, a thin man with calculating eyes who barely looked up from his ledgers as they entered his office.
The blacksmith and council member made formal, eloquent pleas that the steward largely ignored. When it was her father's turn, he described their village's plight in simple, stark terms—children too weak to walk, elders passing in their sleep, stores completely depleted.
"Regrettable," the steward said without regret in his voice. "However, the Count's resources are already fully allocated. Perhaps next season, with proper planning—"
"There won't be a next season for Sauin if help doesn't come now," Leonie interrupted, stepping forward despite her father's warning hand on her shoulder. "People are dying while the Count celebrates birthdays."
The steward looked up, seeming to notice her for the first time. His eyebrows rose at the sight of a dirt-smudged girl addressing him with such forthright disrespect.
"You would do well to learn your place, child," he said coldly. "The Count owes you nothing. His taxes purchase his protection, not his charity."
"Protection from what?" Leonie challenged. "Not from hunger. Not from drought. The roads are filled with bandits who were farmers last year, driven to desperation while nobles feast."
Her father squeezed her shoulder hard. "Leonie, enough."
But something had shifted in the room. The door behind the steward's desk had opened silently, and a man now stood there—tall and imposing, with immaculately groomed violet hair and the imperious expression of one used to unquestioned authority. Count Gloucester himself, drawn perhaps by the unusual sound of raised voices in his steward's chamber.
"What have we here?" he asked, his refined voice carrying a dangerous edge. "A child lecturing my staff on governance?"
The delegation dropped to their knees immediately. Leonie, after a moment's hesitation and a hard look from her father, followed suit, though her eyes remained defiantly raised.
"Forgive my daughter, your lordship," her father said quickly. "The journey was difficult, and hunger has made her forget her manners."
The Count approached, studying Leonie with cold curiosity. "Stand, girl."
Leonie rose, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that clearly surprised him. At thirteen, with her small stature and freckled face, she should have been intimidated by his presence. Instead, she stood as if they were equals, her posture neither servile nor disrespectful—simply present and unafraid.
"You believe I should empty my storehouses for every struggling village in my territory?" the Count asked, his tone suggesting the absurdity of the notion.
"I believe a leader protects his people," Leonie replied simply. "All of them, not just those in fine houses."
A tense silence followed her words. The steward looked apoplectic, clearly expecting his lord to order punishment for such impertinence. But Count Gloucester's reaction was unexpected. He laughed—a short, dry sound with little humor but genuine surprise.
"Fascinating," he said, as if observing a curious specimen. "Tell me, bold child, if I were to grant aid to your village, what would prevent you from requiring the same assistance next season, and the next? Why should I reward poor planning and dependence?"
Leonie didn't hesitate. "We don't want charity. We want a loan—seed grain to plant now for a late harvest, to be repaid next season with interest. Sauin has always paid its taxes, even in hard years. We're offering a business arrangement, not begging for handouts."
The Count's eyebrows rose slightly. He turned to the steward. "Is this true? Has Sauin been reliable with its obligations?"
The steward reluctantly consulted his ledger. "Yes, my lord. Their village has a consistent payment record, even during the reduced harvest three years ago."
"Hmm." The Count turned back to Leonie, studying her with new interest. "And you are?"
"Leonie Pinelli, sir."
"Well, Leonie Pinelli of Sauin, you have more courage and sense than most who come seeking aid." He turned to the steward. "Arrange for seed grain and sufficient provisions for one month to be sent to Sauin. Document it as a loan at standard interest, to be repaid at next harvest."
The delegation's relief was palpable. As they were dismissed, bowing repeatedly in gratitude, the Count called after them.
"And Leonie Pinelli—I suggest you consider how that sharp mind of yours might be better employed than in a backwater village. There are opportunities for those who understand how the world truly works."
On the journey home, with wagons of provisions following behind them, her father finally asked the question that had been building since the confrontation with the bandits.
"Where did you learn to act like that, Leonie? Not the archery or the tracking—I taught you those—but the way you spoke to those bandits, to the Count himself. As if you knew exactly what to say."
Leonie was quiet for a long moment, her eyes on the horizon. "Do you remember when I was trapped under that boulder during the earthquake? When I was nine?"
Her father nodded cautiously. She had never shared the full story of that day, and something in her tone suggested that was about to change.
"I wasn't alone out there," she said softly. "Someone helped me. Someone who showed me what true strength looks like. Not just the strength to lift boulders, but the strength to see past fear to what people really need."
As they walked, she told him everything—about Joy Boy's appearance, his silent kindness, the ease with which he had lifted the boulder that would have killed her. About the salute they had exchanged and the promise she had made.
"I've spent every day since trying to be worthy of that promise," she concluded. "To become someone who protects others, who sees what needs to be done and does it without hesitation."
Her father was silent for a long time, processing her story. Finally, he said, "I've heard whispers about this Joy Boy. Never put much stock in them. But if what you're saying is true..."
"It is," Leonie said firmly. "Every word."
He studied her face, seeing the absolute conviction there. "Then I'm glad," he said simply. "Glad he found you that day. Glad you made that promise. Because I've watched you grow from a determined child into someone exceptional, Leonie. Someone who makes me proud every day."
The loan of seed grain and provisions saved Sauin Village. Under Leonie's unexpected organization—for she had become something of a local hero after the story of her confrontation with Count Gloucester spread—the villagers planted fast-growing crops that yielded a modest but sufficient late harvest. The following spring, they diversified their fields on her suggestion, creating redundancies that would protect against future droughts.
True to his word, the Count sent representatives to collect the repayment when harvest time came. To everyone's surprise, he himself arrived with them, ostensibly to inspect his territories but specifically requesting to see "the orange-haired girl with the uncommon sense."
"You've done well," he told Leonie after reviewing the village's recovery. "Most villages would have consumed the seed grain in desperation and sealed their fate. You understood the longer view."
Leonie accepted his praise with a respectful nod. "The people of Sauin are strong, Your Lordship. They just needed a bridge over troubled waters."
The Count studied her thoughtfully. "Have you considered what comes next for you? A mind like yours could serve greater purposes than village hunting and farming."
"I know exactly what my purpose is," Leonie replied with quiet certainty. "To become strong enough to help others who can't help themselves."
The Count seemed about to argue further but something in her expression stopped him. Instead, he merely nodded. "Well, should you ever change your mind, House Gloucester would find use for your... particular talents."
As the Count departed, Leonie found herself standing taller, her path clearer than ever. In the months and years that followed, her training intensified. Beyond physical skills, she began studying strategy, healing arts, and even the rudimentary magic taught by the village healer. Every skill, every bit of knowledge was evaluated through the lens of a single question: Will this help me keep my promise?
And then, a year later, when Leonie had recently turned fourteen, a group of mercenaries passed through Sauin. Their leader was a broad-shouldered man with stern features and world-weary eyes that had seen more battles than most soldiers twice his age. Jeralt Eisner, the Blade Breaker, former captain of the Knights of Seiros—though few in Sauin knew his illustrious history.
What they did know was that his company needed supplies, which they were willing to pay for fairly, and that they offered protection from bandits during their brief stay. What Leonie knew, from the moment she saw him demonstrating lance techniques to his men in the village clearing, was that here was someone who could teach her what she needed to learn.
"I want to train with you," she announced, approaching Jeralt directly as he inspected supplies the village had gathered for his company.
The mercenary captain looked down at the skinny village girl with mild surprise. "Not looking for apprentices, kid."
"I'm not asking to join your company," Leonie clarified. "Just to learn while you're here. I'll pay."
Jeralt raised an eyebrow. "Pay with what? No offense, but you don't look flush with coin."
"With work," she replied promptly. "I'll hunt for your company, gather herbs, mend equipment—whatever needs doing. In exchange for training."
Something in her determined expression seemed to intrigue him. "Why?"
"Because I made a promise to become someone who protects others," she said simply. "And you're the strongest person who's ever come through Sauin."
This assessment, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty, startled a brief laugh from the hardened mercenary. "Pretty confident in that evaluation, aren't you?"
"I have good eyes," Leonie said, unabashed. "I've been watching you. The way you move, the way your men respond to you. You're the real thing."
Jeralt studied her for a long moment, taking in her callused hands, her well-maintained hunting bow, and the unwavering determination in her amber eyes.
"Two weeks," he said finally. "That's how long we'll be in the area. Don't expect me to go easy on you because you're young or a girl."
Leonie's face broke into a rare, genuine smile. "I'd be insulted if you did."
For the next two weeks, Leonie rose before dawn each day to train with Jeralt before he attended to his company's business. The regimen he put her through was brutal—designed, she suspected, to break her resolve quickly if it was going to break at all. She returned home each evening exhausted, bruised, and sometimes bleeding from training injuries. But she never complained, never missed a session, and never failed to complete the tasks he assigned.
By the end of the first week, Jeralt had stopped testing her commitment and begun teaching in earnest. He corrected her bow stance, showed her how to maintain a lance properly, and drilled her in footwork until she could move with her eyes closed across uneven ground.
"You've got natural talent," he told her gruffly after she mastered a particularly challenging defensive maneuver faster than expected. "But more importantly, you've got the right kind of stubbornness. Can't teach that."
On their final day in Sauin, as Jeralt's company prepared to depart, he presented Leonie with a simple training lance—still too heavy for her to wield properly, but something to grow into.
"Keep at it," he said, roughly tousling her orange hair. "Maybe in a few years, if you're still interested in the mercenary life, I'll consider taking on an apprentice."
"I'll be ready," Leonie promised, clutching the lance with reverence. "Thank you, Captain Jeralt."
As she watched him ride away with his company, Leonie felt the path before her solidifying. Joy Boy had shown her what it meant to save someone with strength and kindness. Jeralt had begun to show her how to develop that strength methodically, professionally. The two influences merged in her mind, creating a template for the person she was determined to become.
Four more years passed, years of constant training and growth. Leonie became Sauin's primary hunter, capable of tracking and bringing down prey that even experienced men struggled with. She organized the village's defenses during bandit incursions, taught younger children basic self-defense, and continued to expand her skills whenever traveling specialists passed through—a battle mage here, a former knight there, each contributing pieces to her education.
Word of her abilities spread through the region. The "Orange Bladestorm of Sauin," some called her, a nickname she found embarrassingly dramatic but didn't actively discourage. Occasionally, nobles passing through would offer her positions in their household guards, but she declined them all. Her ambitions extended beyond standing watch over a single noble family.
When she turned eighteen, Leonie made her announcement to the village council. She had been accepted to the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery, having impressed a visiting Knight of Seiros enough to earn a recommendation. The tuition was extraordinary—far beyond what any villager could afford—but she had a solution.
"I'm asking the village to invest in me," she explained to the assembled elders. "The same way you invested in seed grain during the drought. The Academy will make me more than a common mercenary—it will open doors to proper military contracts, court positions, opportunities that would let me send enough money back to repay you many times over."
The council debated for days. Some argued that the village couldn't possibly spare such funds, while others pointed out how often Leonie's quick thinking and martial skills had already saved lives and resources. In the end, they agreed—a collective loan, to be repaid when she secured proper employment after graduation.
The night before her departure for Garreg Mach, Leonie walked alone to the forest clearing where she had first encountered Joy Boy nine years earlier. The place looked ordinary in the moonlight—just rocks and trees, with no sign of the miracle that had occurred there. Yet to Leonie, it remained sacred ground, the birthplace of her purpose.
"I've kept my promise so far," she said softly to the night air. "I'm stronger now. But there's still so much to learn, so many people I can't help yet. The Academy is the next step."
No voice answered her from the darkness, no mysterious white-haired youth appeared to affirm her path. But as she turned to leave, the clouds briefly parted, allowing moonlight to spill across the clearing in a pattern that reminded her of his smile.
The next morning, with her village gathered to see her off, Leonie shouldered her lance and her small pack of possessions. The road to Garreg Mach was long, but her steps were light with purpose. She wasn't just seeking to become a better mercenary—though that ambition remained—but to become a better protector, a stronger shield for those who needed one.
As Sauin Village disappeared behind her, Leonie touched the small sun symbol she had carved into the shaft of her lance years ago. It wasn't a religious gesture—she had no special reverence for the Church of Seiros—but a personal reminder of the promise that had shaped her life.
"I'm on my way," she whispered, her words carried away by the morning breeze. "Watch me become everything I promised I would be."
And somewhere, perhaps, a white-haired youth with golden eyes smiled.
Chapter 18: A Noble's Purpose
Summary:
Eight-year-old Lorenz Hellman Gloucester witnesses an extraordinary intervention during a public punishment in Gloucester territory. When the mysterious Joy Boy transforms instruments of punishment into flowers, young Lorenz begins to question the nature of nobility and power. As the heir to County Gloucester grapples with conflicting lessons from his father and this silent, otherworldly visitor, the seeds of his future philosophy—a peculiar blend of aristocratic pride and genuine desire to protect—take root in fertile soil.
Chapter Text
The morning air carried the metallic tang of impending rain as eight-year-old Lorenz Hellman Gloucester stood beside his father in Gloucester's central square. His violet hair—meticulously trimmed and styled even at his young age—rustled in the breeze. Lorenz straightened his formal attire, a miniature replica of his father's noble garments, and tried to emulate the Count's stern posture.
"Pay attention, Lorenz," Count Erwin von Gloucester instructed, his voice low but carrying the unmistakable command of a man accustomed to unquestioning obedience. "These proceedings are essential to your education as heir to Gloucester. You must learn how justice is administered."
"Yes, Father," Lorenz replied, folding his hands neatly before him.
The central square had been arranged for what his father called a "public demonstration of consequences." A wooden platform stood at the square's center, surrounded by gathering townsfolk whose expressions ranged from grim resignation to poorly concealed fear. Soldiers bearing the Gloucester rose emblem stood at attention around the platform's perimeter.
Today's proceedings concerned three villagers from the eastern farmlands—a weather-beaten man with calloused hands, a woman whose face bore the lines of persistent worry, and a youth barely into his teens. All three knelt on the platform, their wrists bound in iron manacles secured to posts before them.
"Tax evasion," his father explained clinically, noting Lorenz's questioning glance. "Three consecutive seasons. Their village was granted leniency twice before. We cannot allow such defiance to continue, or the entire territory would collapse into lawlessness."
Lorenz nodded, absorbing this information with the seriousness his father expected. He had spent countless hours in the Count's study, learning the intricacies of territorial governance, tax collection, and the responsibilities nobility bore. His father's favorite lesson echoed in his mind: "A noble's purpose is to govern, and governance requires respect. Respect is maintained through both beneficence and discipline."
The high bailiff of Gloucester, a tall man with a voice that carried across the square without effort, read the formal charges. The three accused kept their heads bowed, though the youngest occasionally trembled visibly. The declaration complete, two soldiers approached with long whips coiled at their sides.
"Ten lashes each," Count Gloucester pronounced, his tone as measured as if he were discussing crop rotations. "A merciful sentence, considering their repeated infractions."
Lorenz's stomach tightened uncomfortably, but he maintained his composed expression. He had never witnessed a public punishment before—his father had deemed him too young until now—but he understood theoretically why such measures existed. The common folk needed guidance and structure; his father had explained this countless times. Still, something about the scene before him—the bowed heads, the trembling youth, the whips being ceremoniously uncoiled—stirred an unfamiliar disquiet within him.
"Father," he ventured hesitantly, "might the drought have affected their ability to pay? Perhaps—"
"A noble does not seek excuses for failure, Lorenz," his father interrupted, his tone sharpening. "The drought affected all of Gloucester equally. Other villages met their obligations despite hardship. To excuse some but not others would be the height of inequity."
Lorenz fell silent, properly chastised. Of course his father was correct. Equity and fairness were cornerstones of proper governance. He straightened his posture further, resolving to observe the proceedings with the detachment befitting his station.
The bailiff gave a curt nod to the soldiers. The first man raised his whip.
The air changed.
Lorenz felt it before he saw anything—a subtle shift in the atmosphere, like the moment before lightning strikes. A collective intake of breath rippled through the crowd. Even his father, ever-composed Count Gloucester, stiffened beside him.
Between Lorenz and the platform, where no one had stood a moment before, was a figure unlike any Lorenz had ever seen.
He was youthful in appearance, perhaps somewhere between boyhood and adulthood, clad in garments of pure, unblemished white that seemed to repel the day's gloom. His hair defied natural understanding—it moved like a living flame, not burning red but a brilliant white that shifted and danced as if stirred by an unfelt wind. Most striking were his eyes—large golden irises that appeared to emit their own gentle light.
Around his shoulders and trailing behind him was something Lorenz's young mind struggled to comprehend—a substance like cloud or mist that moved with him as if it were an extension of his being.
"Guards!" his father barked, recovering from his momentary shock. "Seize this intruder!"
But no one moved. The soldiers stood transfixed, their expressions revealing a mixture of awe and uncertainty that Lorenz had never witnessed on their typically stoic faces. The crowd had fallen utterly silent, though a few whispers now broke that silence.
"Joy Boy..." someone murmured.
"It's him..."
"The divine messenger..."
Joy Boy. Lorenz had heard servants whispering this name in recent years—tales of a mysterious white-haired youth who appeared when people were suffering, who performed impossible feats without speaking a word. His father had dismissed these stories as peasant superstition, forbidding such "nonsense" in his presence.
Yet here stood someone who could be no one else.
Joy Boy gave no indication that he heard the whispers or noticed the soldiers' hesitation. He simply walked forward, his movements fluid and graceful, approaching the platform with unhurried confidence. The soldiers stationed at the steps finally stirred, crossing their spears to block his path.
Joy Boy stopped before them. He made no aggressive move, showed no sign of frustration or impatience. He simply smiled—a gentle, understanding expression that somehow conveyed more meaning than a thousand words could have.
And then, to Lorenz's astonishment, both soldiers slowly lowered their spears and stepped aside.
"What are you doing?" Count Gloucester demanded, his voice cutting through the silence. "I ordered you to seize him!"
The soldiers looked conflicted, caught between their lord's command and something Lorenz couldn't fully comprehend—something in Joy Boy's presence that seemed to bypass ordinary authority.
Joy Boy ascended the platform steps, his white garments somehow remaining pristine despite the day's dust. He approached the kneeling prisoners, who had looked up now, their faces transforming from resignation to wonder.
"I demand to know the meaning of this interference," Count Gloucester called out, striding forward with Lorenz following uncertainly behind. "This is a lawful proceeding of Gloucester justice."
Joy Boy turned, his golden eyes meeting the Count's stern gaze without defiance but without submission either. They simply looked upon each other—noble lord and mysterious visitor—as if taking each other's measure. Then Joy Boy's gaze shifted to Lorenz.
The moment their eyes met, Lorenz felt a peculiar sensation—as if those golden irises could see beyond his carefully maintained appearance, beyond the noble heir he was being shaped into, to something underneath that Lorenz himself couldn't yet name.
"Father," Lorenz whispered, tugging at his father's sleeve, "who is he?"
"A vagabond with unusual coloring," the Count replied curtly. "Nothing more. This disruption ends now." He gestured to the captain of his guard. "Remove him, immediately."
The captain approached Joy Boy warily, hand on his sword hilt. "Sir, I must ask you to depart. This is official business of House Gloucester."
Joy Boy acknowledged the captain with a slight nod but made no move to leave. Instead, he turned back to the kneeling prisoners. With graceful movements, he knelt before the youngest, whose eyes widened in what looked like recognition.
"You..." the youth whispered. "You saved my cousin when the river flooded last spring."
Joy Boy smiled in response—a smile that somehow conveyed both confirmation and modesty. Then, with deliberate care, he reached out and touched the manacles binding the youth's wrists.
The transformation was both immediate and impossible. The iron shackles rippled like water, their rigid form dissolving and reforming in the space of a heartbeat. Where cold metal had been, delicate flower garlands now encircled the youth's wrists—intricate arrangements of roses, lilies, and forget-me-nots, fresh and vibrant as if just picked from a summer garden.
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Even Count Gloucester fell momentarily silent, his typical eloquence abandoned in the face of the inexplicable.
Joy Boy continued, moving to the woman and then the older man, each time transforming their restraints into similar flower garlands. The scent of fresh blossoms filled the air, incongruously sweet in the tense atmosphere of the square.
Finally, Joy Boy turned to the soldiers who still held their whips. He extended his hands, palms upward, in a gesture that was somehow both request and command. After a moment's hesitation, both men surrendered their implements of punishment.
As Joy Boy's fingers closed around the leather cords, they too transformed—twisted leather becoming twining vines, steel tips blooming into white roses. He handed these transformed objects back to the bewildered soldiers, who accepted them with expressions of stunned disbelief.
Lorenz watched, transfixed. In his eight years of life, he had witnessed noble mages perform impressive feats, seen the power of Crests manifest in controlled demonstrations. But this—this quiet, effortless transfiguration—was unlike anything in his experience or education.
"Sorcery," his father declared, recovering his voice at last. "An elaborate trick to undermine lawful authority."
Yet even to Lorenz's young ears, the Count's words lacked their usual conviction. There was something in his father's expression—a fleeting uncertainty—that Lorenz had never seen before.
Joy Boy turned to face Count Gloucester fully. For several moments, the strange visitor simply regarded the noble lord with those golden eyes, his expression neither challenging nor judgmental—simply observant, perhaps even compassionate.
Then, with fluid grace, he approached the Count. Soldiers tensed, but made no move to intercept him. Joy Boy stopped directly before Count Gloucester, close enough that Lorenz could sense his father's discomfort at the invasion of his personal space.
From within his white garments, Joy Boy withdrew something and offered it to the Count with both hands—a gesture of formal presentation that seemed deliberately chosen to honor noble etiquette.
It was a single perfect rose, its petals the distinctive lavender shade of House Gloucester's emblem, its stem free of thorns.
Lorenz held his breath. His father's response to this gesture would determine everything that followed.
Count Gloucester stared at the offered flower, his expression unreadable. The square had fallen completely silent—villagers, soldiers, even the accused on the platform watched the tableau with bated breath.
After what seemed an eternity, Count Gloucester accepted the rose. His movements were stiff, his expression still guarded, but in taking the flower, he acknowledged something—some unspoken message in the exchange.
Joy Boy smiled, a radiant expression that seemed to brighten the gloomy day. Then, to Lorenz's surprise, he turned and knelt before him, bringing himself to eye level with the noble child.
Up close, Joy Boy was even more extraordinary. His flame-like hair moved with subtle, impossible grace, and his eyes—those golden eyes—seemed to contain depths beyond their apparent youth. The misty substance draped around his shoulders shimmered with faint, shifting colors that appeared and disappeared too quickly to identify.
From seemingly nowhere, Joy Boy produced another rose—this one smaller, its lavender hue lighter and more delicate. He offered it to Lorenz with the same formal respect he had shown the Count.
Lorenz glanced quickly at his father, seeking permission. When no objection came, he carefully accepted the flower.
"Thank you," he said, his noble etiquette never failing even in extraordinary circumstances.
Joy Boy's smile deepened, genuine warmth emanating from his expression. Then he did something unexpected—he placed his hand lightly on Lorenz's chest, directly over his heart, and then gestured toward the kneeling villagers, whose flower garlands glinted in the dim light.
The meaning seemed clear even without words: The connection between a noble's heart and those under his protection.
After a moment that felt suspended in time, Joy Boy rose and stepped back. He bowed once to Lorenz, once to Count Gloucester, and then turned to walk away. As he descended the platform steps, the misty substance around his shoulders seemed to expand, enveloping his form in luminous whiteness.
Between one step and the next, between one blink and another, he was gone. No flash of light, no dramatic disappearance—simply present one moment and absent the next, leaving only the lingering scent of roses and the flower garlands as evidence he had been there at all.
The square remained silent for several heartbeats before erupting into astonished murmurs. Count Gloucester cleared his throat, visibly reasserting his authority over the situation.
"This... interruption... has concluded," he announced, his voice nearly back to its usual commanding tone. "However, in light of... circumstances... the physical punishment is commuted. The accused will instead provide additional labor to compensate for their tax deficiencies."
It was a face-saving pronouncement, Lorenz realized even at his young age. His father could hardly proceed with whippings after such an intervention, especially with the instruments of punishment now transformed into flowering vines. Yet the Count had found a way to maintain his authority while adjusting his decree.
The bailiff untied the flower garlands from the prisoners' wrists, handling the blooms with evident unease, as if expecting them to transform back to iron at any moment. The accused were led away, their expressions dazed but unmistakably relieved.
As the crowd dispersed, many glancing at the sky as if expecting Joy Boy to reappear, Count Gloucester placed a firm hand on Lorenz's shoulder.
"We will return to the estate," he said. "This has been... an irregular proceeding."
Lorenz nodded, still clutching the lavender rose Joy Boy had given him. As they departed the square, he noticed his father had not discarded his own rose either. It remained in his hand, periodically drawing the Count's puzzled glance, as if he couldn't quite decide what to make of it—or its giver.
The journey back to Gloucester Manor was conducted in unusual silence. Normally, his father would use such opportunities to analyze the events Lorenz had witnessed, extracting educational value from every experience. Today, Count Gloucester seemed lost in thought, responding to Lorenz's few tentative questions with uncharacteristic brevity.
Upon their return, the Count immediately summoned his council of advisors, leaving Lorenz in the care of his tutors. The afternoon lessons in history and etiquette proceeded as scheduled, but Lorenz found his mind continuously drifting back to the events in the square.
He had placed Joy Boy's rose in a small crystal vase in his private chambers. Each time his concentration wavered, he found himself thinking of those golden eyes and the strange, wordless message they had seemed to convey.
That evening, after dinner eaten in formal silence, his father summoned him to the Count's private study. This wood-paneled sanctuary, lined with books and maps, was where his most serious lessons in nobility and governance took place. Lorenz entered with appropriate decorum, standing at attention before his father's massive oak desk.
Count Gloucester was examining a large tome, its pages yellowed with age. He closed it carefully as Lorenz entered, setting it aside with deliberate movements.
"Sit, Lorenz," he instructed, gesturing to the smaller chair positioned before the desk.
Lorenz obeyed, maintaining perfect posture despite the chair's uncomfortable design—intentionally so, his father had once explained, to prevent complacency during important discussions.
"You witnessed something unusual today," the Count began, steepling his fingers. "I have consulted our archives and my advisors about this... Joy Boy... as the commoners call him."
"Have you learned who he is, Father?" Lorenz asked, curiosity momentarily overcoming his training to speak only when directly questioned.
"Not precisely." The Count's expression tightened. "Reports of his appearances began approximately eight months ago. Initially in remote areas—saving farmers from collapsed barns, children from flooding rivers, travelers from bandits. Recently, his activities have become more... politically involved."
"Like today," Lorenz offered.
"Indeed." His father's frown deepened. "This is the third time he has interfered with official proceedings in noble territories. Similar incidents occurred in Ordelia and Goneril lands."
Lorenz considered this information carefully. "Is he an enemy of the nobility, Father?"
The question seemed to give Count Gloucester pause. "That... remains unclear. His actions undermine lawful authority, yet he shows no overt hostility. He presents himself with unexpected... courtesy."
Lorenz thought of Joy Boy's formal bow, the respectful presentation of the roses. "He seemed to understand noble etiquette."
"Yes," his father agreed, sounding troubled by this observation. "Which suggests education one would not expect from his apparent background. More concerning is his... abilities."
"The flowers," Lorenz said quietly. "How did he transform the manacles and whips? Is it magic?"
Count Gloucester's expression became more severe. "I have consulted our court mage. He insists that such transmutation is beyond any known magical system. It violates fundamental principles of equivalent exchange."
"Then how—"
"I do not know," his father interrupted, the admission clearly costing him. Count Gloucester prided himself on comprehensive knowledge. "Some suggest he possesses a previously undocumented Crest of extraordinary power. Others propose more... superstitious explanations."
"The villagers called him a divine messenger," Lorenz recalled.
His father's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes. Such notions spread quickly among the common folk. They have begun leaving offerings at roadsides—flowers, mainly, and small tokens. Some have erected crude shrines."
This detail surprised Lorenz. "Do they worship him?"
"Not precisely worship, according to my informants. But they are certainly attributing to him powers beyond mortal constraint." The Count leaned forward slightly. "This brings me to the purpose of our discussion, Lorenz. I must impress upon you the importance of maintaining proper perspective regarding today's events."
Lorenz straightened further in his chair. "Yes, Father."
"While this Joy Boy's abilities are remarkable, even extraordinary, they do not change the fundamental order of our society. The nobility exists for necessary reasons—we provide structure, protection, and leadership that would otherwise be absent. One unusual individual with unexplained powers does not invalidate the system that has maintained order for centuries."
"I understand," Lorenz replied, though part of him wondered if he truly did.
"Furthermore," his father continued, "his methods, while seemingly gentle, represent a dangerous precedent. Imagine if every punishment was interrupted, every lawful sentence commuted. Chaos would ensue."
Lorenz nodded dutifully, though the image of the trembling youth and the flower garlands lingered in his mind.
Count Gloucester studied him intently, perhaps sensing his less than complete conviction. "You find his actions compelling, don't you?"
"I..." Lorenz hesitated, knowing honesty was expected despite the risk of disapproval. "I thought the flowers were beautiful, Father. And he was kind, but also... proper. Not like a criminal or rebel."
His father's expression softened marginally. "I understand. His presentation is designed to appeal—particularly to someone of your sensitive aesthetic nature. But remember, Lorenz, true nobility lies deeper than appearances or gestures."
"Yes, Father."
"However," the Count continued, his tone turning contemplative, "there may be a lesson worth extracting from today's events. This Joy Boy seems to inspire devotion through his actions rather than his title. The commoners respond to him not from fear or obligation, but from genuine admiration."
Lorenz considered this carefully. "Is that... valuable?"
"In moderation, yes." His father leaned back in his chair. "A truly effective noble must balance firmness with occasional displays of magnanimity. The public punishment might have been better reserved for more severe crimes, particularly given this year's difficulties."
This partial concession surprised Lorenz. His father rarely admitted to misjudgments.
"Then was Joy Boy right to intervene?" he asked cautiously.
"That is not for us to determine," Count Gloucester replied firmly. "Right or wrong is less relevant than authority and order. Remember, Lorenz—a noble's first duty is to maintain the structure of society. Without that structure, all would collapse into chaos."
Lorenz nodded, absorbing this teaching as he had countless others. Yet something about today's events had planted a seed of questioning that his father's explanations couldn't quite uproot.
"You may go," the Count said finally. "Reflect on what you have witnessed and what we have discussed. Tomorrow, I expect a composed analysis of how a noble should balance justice with mercy, authority with compassion."
"Yes, Father." Lorenz stood, bowed perfectly, and turned to leave.
"And Lorenz," his father added, causing him to pause at the door. "The rose he gave you..."
"Yes, Father?"
Count Gloucester seemed to reconsider whatever he had been about to say. "Nothing. You may keep it, if you wish. A memento of an unusual day."
"Thank you, Father." Lorenz departed, quietly pleased with this permission.
That night, long after his chamberlain had extinguished the lamps and left him to sleep, Lorenz lay awake watching moonlight play across the ceiling of his bedchamber. The lavender rose stood in its crystal vase on his bedside table, its petals silvered by moonlight, its scent subtly perfuming the air.
In his mind, the day's events replayed continuously—the platform, the kneeling villagers, Joy Boy's silent intervention, the flowers blooming where iron had been. Most persistently, he remembered those golden eyes meeting his, the gentle touch over his heart, and the gesture toward the people Joy Boy had helped.
A noble's purpose...
His father taught that nobility existed to maintain order, to govern, to prevent chaos. These were important responsibilities, Lorenz acknowledged. Yet Joy Boy had demonstrated something his father's lessons rarely emphasized—the power of genuine compassion, of protection without domination.
Lorenz turned on his side, gazing at the silvery rose. He had received countless lessons in proper noble behavior—how to speak, how to dress, how to command respect. But today he had witnessed something different—respect freely given rather than demanded, authority exercised through kindness rather than force.
"A true noble protects," he whispered to himself, testing the words in the quiet darkness. "A true noble serves through strength."
The phrase felt right, resonating with something awakened in him today. Perhaps both his father and Joy Boy were correct in different ways. Perhaps the structure his father valued could be maintained while still incorporating the compassion Joy Boy had demonstrated.
His eight-year-old mind couldn't fully reconcile these competing philosophies, but he sensed they needn't be entirely at odds. Couldn't a noble be both authoritative and kind? Couldn't power be exercised with both firmness and gentleness, depending on the circumstance?
As sleep finally began to claim him, Lorenz made a private promise to himself. He would learn everything his father taught him about nobility and governance—every rule, every responsibility, every tradition. But he would also remember the silent lesson Joy Boy had offered—that true nobility might be measured not just in titles and authority, but in the welfare of those under one's protection.
"A noble's purpose..." he murmured as his eyes drifted closed, the scent of roses accompanying him into dreams where golden eyes and lavender petals guided him through landscapes of possibility.
In the following days, Count Gloucester never directly mentioned Joy Boy again, though Lorenz noticed subtle changes in his father's governance. The scheduled public punishments for minor infractions were quietly cancelled. Tax collection procedures were modified to include more graduated consequences for late payments. Small mercies, perhaps, but noticeable to those affected.
Lorenz threw himself into his studies with renewed vigor, particularly history and governance. His tutors noted his increased interest in the philosophical underpinnings of nobility rather than merely its practical applications.
"Why do commoners accept noble rule?" he asked during one lesson, earning a surprised look from his political theory tutor.
"Because it is the natural order," the tutor replied automatically.
"But what makes it natural?" Lorenz pressed. "Is it simply tradition, or is there a deeper purpose that benefits everyone?"
Such questions became frequent, sometimes testing his tutors' patience but gradually shaping Lorenz's developing understanding of his future role.
The lavender rose never wilted. Weeks passed, then months, yet it remained as fresh as the day Joy Boy had presented it. Lorenz said nothing about this impossibility, but occasionally caught servants eyeing the bloom with superstitious unease during their cleaning duties.
For Lorenz, the preserved rose became both reminder and symbol—of an extraordinary day, yes, but more importantly, of the ideal he was gradually forming: nobility as protection, power as responsibility, authority as service.
This ideal would evolve and mature as he grew, sometimes obscured by pride or social expectations, sometimes reasserting itself in moments of clarity. It would shape his interactions with commoners and peers alike, emerging in his peculiar blend of aristocratic hauteur and genuine concern for others' welfare.
And years later, when he encountered Professor Byleth at the Officers Academy and joined the Golden Deer House, when he met a certain orange-haired commoner who spoke of promises and protection with unexpected conviction, something in him would recognize a kindred spirit—someone else whose path had been touched, however indirectly, by golden eyes and impossible kindness.
But those were distant days, beyond the horizon of his current understanding. For now, eight-year-old Lorenz Hellman Gloucester was content to balance his father's teachings with the wordless lesson of that extraordinary day: that true nobility might be measured not just in power wielded, but in compassion shown; not just in authority maintained, but in protection freely given.
Each night, as moonlight silvered the ever-fresh petals of his impossible rose, this understanding deepened root by quiet root—a seedling philosophy that would, in time, flower into the complex, contradictory, earnestly noble young man he would become.
Chapter 19: The Smile That Saved Duscur
Summary:
Four years before attending the Officers Academy, fourteen-year-old Dedue Molinaro faces the most harrowing day of his young life when the Tragedy of Duscur unfolds. As his homeland burns and chaos reigns, Joy Boy makes a pivotal appearance that changes the course of history. Through the aftermath of devastation and surprising salvation, Dedue witnesses firsthand how Joy Boy's intervention preserves lives, transforms perspectives, and creates unexpected bonds that will shape his future path.
Chapter Text
The memory was one Dedue cherished, though he had not experienced it himself—not consciously, at least. His mother had recounted it so vividly and so often that it had become almost like his own, a treasured inheritance passed down through her words rather than through blood or possessions.
"He came to you in the night," she would say, her eyes distant with remembrance, her voice taking on the rhythmic cadence that all her best stories possessed. "Just appeared in the doorway, like moonlight made flesh. Your father was in the workshop, and I was mending his shirts while you slept in your cradle, barely twelve days old."
Dedue sat on the worn bench outside his family's forge, carefully polishing the ornate ceremonial blade his father had been commissioned to create for the upcoming harvest festival. At fourteen, he had grown tall and broad-shouldered, already showing signs of the imposing figure he would one day become. His hands, though young, moved with practiced precision over the metal, applying just the right pressure with the polishing cloth.
"And what did he do then, Mother?" he asked, though he knew the answer by heart. Some rituals were worth repeating, and this story was one of them—a reminder of something greater than the daily concerns that occupied their lives.
Amalie smiled from where she kneeled in her herb garden, gathering sprigs of basil and thyme that would season that evening's meal. Her dark hair, now streaked with the occasional silver thread, was bound in a practical braid that hung down her back, and earth stained her capable hands.
"He came to your cradle," she continued, "and looked down at you with such tenderness, such joy. And you—you who had been sleeping soundly moments before—opened your eyes and smiled at him as if greeting an old friend. No fear, no crying. Just pure delight."
Dedue nodded, allowing himself to imagine it: the divine visitor with hair like white flame and eyes of molten gold, standing over him in the simple house where he had been born. Joy Boy, the Star-Child, the Smiling One. The being whose unexpected arrival twelve years before Dedue's birth had transformed not just Duscur but lands far beyond.
"He played with you," his mother went on, her voice warming with the memory. "Made faces, blew on your cheeks to make you giggle. Such ordinary things from a being of such power. And when he finished, he came to me, patted my head like I was a child myself, and then simply... dissolved into light."
"And the drums?" Dedue prompted, the final element of the tale that never failed to give him goosebumps.
Amalie straightened, wincing slightly as her knees protested the movement. "The drums grew louder then, as if in approval or blessing. Doom, doom, doom. The heartbeat of liberation. Even after he was gone, they continued, softer but still present." She wiped her hands on her apron, regarding her son with thoughtful eyes. "I've often wondered what it meant—why he chose to visit you that night. What purpose he had in mind."
Dedue considered this as he had many times before. "Perhaps there was no purpose," he suggested. "Perhaps he simply wanted to see a new life, to share in the joy of it."
His mother's smile turned enigmatic. "Perhaps. Though in my experience, when the divine touches the mortal world, ripples spread outward in ways we can't always predict."
The conversation might have continued, but Dedue's younger sister, Anya, came bounding into the courtyard, her braids flying behind her. At ten years old, she possessed an energy that seemed inexhaustible, a counterpoint to her brother's more measured demeanor.
"Dedue! Mother!" she called, excitement brightening her face. "He's in the village square! Joy Boy! Making flowers grow from the cobblestones!"
Amalie and Dedue exchanged a glance—these appearances had become more frequent in recent months, as if Joy Boy were increasing his presence in Duscur for some reason they couldn't fathom.
"Finish polishing that blade first," Amalie instructed Dedue. "Your father will want it ready for its final inspection when he returns. Then you may go see."
Dedue nodded, quickening his movements without sacrificing care. By the time he completed his task, carefully storing the weapon in its protective wrappings, Anya was nearly dancing with impatience.
"Come on," she urged, tugging at his hand. "You're so slow!"
He allowed her to lead him through the winding streets of their village, past workshops and homes built of the sturdy gray stone native to Duscur. The sound of laughter and delighted exclamations grew louder as they approached the central square, where a small crowd had gathered.
In the center stood the figure from his mother's stories, from his own occasional glimpses over the years—Joy Boy, unchanged by time, his white flame-like hair catching the afternoon sunlight, his golden eyes crinkled with mirth. He wore a simple white tunic and trousers, and around his shoulders floated what appeared to be a mantle made of clouds, swirling gently despite the still air.
Currently, he was entertaining a group of children who had just finished their day's work in the communal fields—hard labor that was necessary but taxing for ones so young. Yet their fatigue seemed forgotten as Joy Boy performed small wonders for their amusement: pulling coins from behind their ears, transforming pebbles into candies, and, as Anya had reported, causing flowers to sprout instantly from between the cobblestones.
Dedue hung back, content to observe from a distance. There was something both comforting and unsettling about watching a divine being engage in such simple acts of kindness—as if the universe itself had decided to take a moment to care personally about the happiness of ordinary children.
"He does this for us," came a voice at his elbow. Dedue turned to find Marten, one of the village elders, leaning on his walking stick as he too watched the scene. "Not for the nobles or the wealthy or the powerful. For the children of laborers, for those who work with their hands. Remember that, young Molinaro."
Dedue nodded respectfully. It was true—Joy Boy's appearances in Duscur tended to favor the common folk, those whose daily struggles rarely captured the attention of more worldly powers. He brought no grand revelations, demanded no worship, established no dogma. He simply... was. A presence that reminded them all that joy remained possible even in difficult circumstances.
As if sensing Dedue's contemplation, Joy Boy looked up suddenly, his golden gaze finding the tall youth at the edge of the crowd. For a moment—just a heartbeat, really—their eyes met, and Dedue felt a shock of recognition pass through him, as if some part of him remembered that long-ago night in his cradle.
Joy Boy's smile broadened, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before returning his attention to the children. The moment had been brief but profound, leaving Dedue with a curious sense of connection.
Anya, who had pushed forward to get a better view, came running back to her brother, her hands cupped around something. "Look what he gave me!" she exclaimed, opening her fingers to reveal a small flower unlike any that grew naturally in Duscur—its petals a luminous blue that seemed to glow from within, its center a perfect golden circle.
"It's beautiful," Dedue said, careful not to touch it. Joy Boy's gifts were unpredictable—some lasted indefinitely, others dissolved back into light within hours or days. "Perhaps Mother can help you press it between book pages to preserve it."
Anya nodded, already protective of her treasure. Together, they watched a while longer as Joy Boy continued his gentle entertainment, bringing smiles to faces that too often knew only work and worry. When he finally departed—not in a dramatic fashion but simply by walking behind a market stall and not emerging on the other side—the square seemed diminished somehow, as if the colors had become less vibrant in his absence.
"Do you think it's true?" Anya asked as they made their way home. "What Mother says about him choosing you specially?"
Dedue considered the question seriously, as was his way. "I don't know," he admitted. "He brings joy to many. Perhaps Mother simply wishes to believe I am somehow significant to him."
"I think it's true," Anya declared with a child's certainty. "I think he has plans for you, Dedue. Important ones."
He smiled at her confidence, ruffling her braids affectionately. "If so, I hope those plans include dinner soon. I'm famished."
Anya laughed, and they continued home through the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, unaware that in a few weeks' time, every aspect of their lives would be irrevocably altered—and that Joy Boy's connection to Dedue would be revealed in ways none of them could have predicted.
The day of the Tragedy began like any other. Dedue rose with the sun, helped his father in the forge for several hours, then accompanied his mother to the market to purchase supplies for the week ahead. There had been rumors of a diplomatic visit from the Kingdom of Faerghus—King Lambert himself was said to be coming to discuss trade agreements and border security—but such matters seemed distant from the concerns of a blacksmith's son.
It was shortly after midday when the first signs of trouble appeared. Dedue was carrying a heavy sack of flour home for his mother when he noticed unusual movement at the village perimeter—armed men in unfamiliar uniforms, moving with a furtive purpose that immediately set him on edge.
"Mother," he said quietly, touching Amalie's arm to draw her attention to the suspicious figures.
She followed his gaze, her expression instantly shifting from content to concerned. "We should hurry home," she decided, quickening her pace. "Your father will want to know about this."
They had nearly reached their street when the first screams erupted from the direction of the central square. Moments later, smoke began to rise above the rooftops—not the controlled smoke of cooking fires or forges, but the thick, black billowing of buildings set ablaze.
"Run," Amalie urged, pushing Dedue ahead of her. "Home, now!"
They arrived to find Karsten already in the courtyard, his massive frame tense with alertness, a sword in one hand and a heavy hammer in the other. "Get inside," he ordered as soon as they appeared. "There's trouble coming. Men in Kingdom colors, but something's not right about them."
"What's happening?" Amalie asked, ushering Dedue toward the house. "Is it an invasion?"
Karsten shook his head grimly. "Worse, I think. There's talk that the King's party was attacked on the road. Someone is claiming Duscur assassins are responsible."
Dedue felt his blood run cold. Such an accusation was absurd—Duscur had no quarrel with Faerghus that would warrant assassination—but he understood immediately the danger it presented. If people believed Duscur responsible for an attack on the Faerghus royal family, retaliation would be swift and merciless.
"Get your sister," Karsten instructed Dedue. "We need to—"
His words were cut short by a crash from the street, followed by shouts in a language Dedue recognized as the common tongue of Faerghus. His father's expression hardened.
"Go," he repeated, more urgently now. "Take Anya and your mother through the back. Head for the eastern hills. The old hunting paths. I'll find you there."
"Father, no—" Dedue began, but Karsten silenced him with a look.
"Now, son. I'll delay them here, buy you time." His voice softened momentarily. "Remember what I've taught you about protecting your family."
There was no time for further argument. Dedue rushed into the house, finding Anya wide-eyed with fear as she peered out a window at the thickening smoke.
"Dedue, what's happening?" she asked, her earlier excitement at Joy Boy's visit replaced by trembling dread. "There are soldiers in the streets. They're hurting people."
"We have to go," he told her, taking her hand firmly in his. "Mother! We must leave, now!"
Amalie appeared from the storage room, a pack already slung over her shoulder. She had always been practical in crisis—a quality Dedue had inherited. "This way," she said, leading them toward the rear door that opened onto a small garden. "Stay close, both of you."
The sounds of conflict grew louder behind them as they slipped out the back—metal on metal, shouted orders, and worst of all, the screams of the injured and dying. Dedue desperately wanted to look back, to see if his father was still defending their home, but he knew his responsibility now was to his mother and sister.
They weren't the only ones fleeing. As they reached the edge of the village, they encountered other families making for the relative safety of the forested hills. Everyone moved with the same desperate purpose, parents clutching children's hands, young adults supporting the elderly, all united by the instinct to escape the violence engulfing their homes.
From this vantage point, Dedue could see that multiple areas of the village were now ablaze. Black smoke billowed into the afternoon sky, blotting out the sun and casting an apocalyptic pall over the scene. The capital city of Duscur, visible in the distance, appeared to be suffering a similar fate, with columns of smoke rising from its stone buildings.
"Why is this happening?" Anya sobbed, clinging to Dedue's hand. "What did we do wrong?"
"Nothing," he assured her, though his own heart was pounding with fear and confusion. "We've done nothing wrong. Keep moving."
They had nearly reached the tree line when a group of armed men on horseback appeared, cutting off their escape route. Unlike the disorganized attackers in the village, these were clearly trained soldiers, their armor bearing the crest of a noble house of Faerghus that Dedue didn't recognize.
"There!" one shouted, pointing toward the fleeing villagers. "Round them up!"
Panic rippled through the group as the horsemen charged. People scattered in all directions, desperate to avoid capture. In the chaos, Dedue felt Anya's hand torn from his as the crowd surged. For a terrifying moment, he lost sight of both his sister and mother.
"Anya!" he called, fighting against the tide of bodies. "Mother!"
A scream cut through the din—a child's scream, high and terrified. Dedue recognized his sister's voice and pushed forward with renewed determination, shoving aside adults in his desperation to reach her.
He found her cornered against a large boulder, a mounted soldier looming over her with weapon drawn. Without hesitation, Dedue charged, his size and strength surprising the soldier who clearly hadn't expected such resistance from a youth.
The impact knocked the man from his horse, and Dedue followed up with a powerful blow that sent the soldier's helmet flying. Years of smithy work had built strength in his arms that belied his age.
"Run, Anya!" he commanded, positioning himself between his sister and the dazed soldier. "Find Mother!"
But more horsemen were approaching. Dedue knew they couldn't outrun mounted pursuers, and the trees were still too far away to offer protection. For the first time in his young life, he faced the real possibility that he might die—that they all might die, here on the edge of their own village, victims of violence they neither understood nor deserved.
It was then that the drums began.
At first, they were barely perceptible beneath the sounds of chaos—a distant doom, doom, doom that seemed to emanate from the earth itself. Yet steadily, inexorably, they grew louder, drawing everyone's attention skyward as the clouds above began to swirl unnaturally.
The horsemen reined in, their pursuit momentarily forgotten as they stared upward in confusion and growing alarm. Even the villagers paused in their flight, sensing that something extraordinary was unfolding.
The dark smoke from the burning village rose to meet the swirling clouds, creating a vast, churning vortex overhead. And then, impossibly, the center of the vortex began to glow—first a faint gold, then brighter and brighter until it rivaled the sun itself.
From within that radiance emerged a familiar figure, descending slowly toward the earth, his white hair streaming upward, his golden eyes blazing with an intensity Dedue had never before witnessed. Joy Boy's usual playful demeanor was gone, replaced by something more primal, more powerful—a righteous anger that transformed his features into something almost too radiant to behold.
As he touched down on the earth between the fleeing villagers and their pursuers, the clouds around his shoulders expanded, darkening and crackling with silent lightning. His face literally became the sun behind those clouds, so bright that many had to shield their eyes, yet strangely, Dedue found he could look directly at the divine presence without pain.
The mounted soldiers recoiled, several making signs against evil, others turning their horses to flee. But before any could escape, Joy Boy raised one hand in a gesture that brooked no defiance. Instantly, the soldiers were frozen in place, unable to advance or retreat.
With measured steps, Joy Boy moved among the people of Duscur, pausing to touch the injured, to comfort the frightened. Where his fingers brushed wounds, flesh knitted together; where his gaze fell on those in distress, calm settled over them like a blanket.
When he reached the area where some villagers had been captured, already bound and shackled, he approached the restraints with almost childlike curiosity. A tap of his finger, and metal shackles popped like soap bubbles. Another touch, and wooden cages simply dissolved into sawdust. The liberated captives stared in wonder, many falling to their knees in gratitude.
Dedue found himself transfixed, barely aware of Anya clinging to his side or of his mother's arrival as she fought her way through the crowd to reach her children. All he could see was Joy Boy, moving through the chaos with purpose and power, his presence alone enough to halt the violence that had threatened to consume them all.
It was then that Dedue noticed a figure slumped against a tree trunk some distance away—a young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, wearing the armor of Faerghus but clearly separated from the other soldiers. Blood stained his silver-blue hair, and even from a distance, it was evident he was gravely injured.
Joy Boy had noticed him too. With a final stern glance at the immobilized soldiers, the divine visitor made his way to the wounded youth, kneeling beside him with an expression of profound compassion. He placed a hand on the young man's chest, and a soft golden light spread outward from his palm, enveloping the injured figure.
"The madness," the young man gasped, becoming aware enough to speak, though his words were clearly painful. "They weren't... supposed to attack civilians. Only the conspiracy... I tried to stop them..."
Joy Boy nodded in understanding, his expression gentle now as he continued his healing work. The young man's most severe injuries closed before Dedue's eyes, though it was clear that complete recovery would take time.
"Glenn," the wounded soldier murmured before slipping back into unconsciousness. "My name is Glenn Fraldarius..."
As if the name were a signal, Joy Boy looked up, his golden gaze finding Dedue once more across the distance. With a gesture that combined command and entreaty, he beckoned the young Duscur native forward.
Dedue hesitated, glancing at his mother and sister.
"Go," Amalie whispered, her eyes wide with wonder. "I told you he had purpose for you."
Reluctantly releasing Anya's hand, Dedue made his way to where Joy Boy knelt beside the unconscious soldier named Glenn. As he approached, the divine being smiled—that radiant, transcendent smile that his mother had described from his infancy—and pointed first to Glenn, then to Dedue himself.
The message was clear: This wounded enemy soldier was now Dedue's responsibility.
"But he's from Faerghus," Dedue protested, speaking directly to Joy Boy for the first time in his life. "They're killing our people."
Joy Boy's expression turned sorrowful. He shook his head, then placed one hand on Glenn's chest and the other on Dedue's, creating a connection between them. In that touch, Dedue felt a flood of understanding—this young man had tried to prevent the attack, had fought against his own comrades to protect innocent lives, and had been cut down for his efforts.
"I understand," Dedue said softly. "We'll care for him."
Joy Boy's smile returned, brilliant with approval. He rose to his feet, surveying the scene once more—the smoldering village, the frightened people, the soldiers still frozen in their mounts. With a gesture that somehow combined dismissal and mercy, he released the soldiers from their paralysis. They immediately retreated, spurring their horses away from the scene as if pursued by demons.
Then, turning his attention to the burning buildings in the distance, Joy Boy spread his arms wide. The clouds above responded, darkening further before releasing a gentle but persistent rain that fell precisely over the areas of greatest destruction, dousing flames without causing further damage.
His immediate work apparently done, Joy Boy returned his attention to Dedue. With movements reminiscent of the playful gestures he had used with Dedue as an infant, he reached out and gently patted the youth's head, much as he had once patted Amalie's. Then, raising one finger as if imparting an important lesson, he pointed first to the wounded Glenn, then to the distant capital city of Duscur, and finally upward toward the direction of Fhirdiad, the capital of Faerghus.
Again, Dedue understood: This was not over. There were connections to be made, bridges to be built, even in the aftermath of tragedy.
With a final nod of encouragement, Joy Boy stepped backward, his form beginning to dissolve into motes of light just as Amalie had described from that night long ago. The last to fade were his golden eyes, which remained fixed on Dedue with an expression of absolute confidence in the young man's strength and character.
And then he was gone, leaving behind only the gentle rain to wash away the blood and ash, and the distant sound of drums that gradually faded back into the earth.
Dedue stood motionless for several moments, processing all that had occurred. Then, with the practicality that characterized his nature, he knelt beside the wounded soldier named Glenn and carefully assessed his injuries. Though Joy Boy's intervention had saved his life, the young man would need proper care to fully recover.
"Mother," Dedue called, gesturing for Amalie to join him. "We need to move him somewhere safe."
Together with several other villagers, they constructed a makeshift stretcher and carried Glenn back toward the parts of the village that had been spared from destruction. Their home, thankfully, was among these, though the workshop showed signs of the fierce battle that had occurred there.
Of Karsten there was no immediate sign, leaving Dedue to fear the worst even as he focused on the immediate tasks at hand: securing shelter, organizing care for the wounded, assessing the extent of the damage.
It was during this period of frantic activity that a shout went up from the direction of the main road—"Riders approaching!"
Hearts that had only just begun to calm now raced anew with fear. Had the soldiers returned with reinforcements? Was this the final assault that would wipe Duscur from the map entirely?
But the banners carried by these new arrivals didn't bear the arms of any Faerghus noble house intent on destruction. Instead, they displayed a simple open hand, palm upward—the emblem of The Liberator's Hand, a trading company known for their fair dealings and ethical practices.
At their head rode a broad-shouldered man with russet hair streaked with gray at the temples, a prominent scar cutting across his left cheek. Behind him came wagons laden with supplies, and mounted guards who immediately spread out to secure the perimeter of the devastated village.
"We heard the drums," the scarred man announced as he dismounted. "Joy Boy's signal. We came as quickly as we could." His gaze swept over the destruction, his expression grim but determined. "I am Miklan, leader of The Liberator's Hand. We bring medicine, food, shelter materials. And protection, should those responsible attempt to return."
Relief washed through the gathered survivors. The Liberator's Hand was known to have connections to the Joyist movement, though they operated primarily as merchants rather than evangelists. Their arrival represented the first tangible hope that the people of Duscur would not face this catastrophe alone.
As the newcomers began distributing supplies and tending to the wounded, Dedue found himself approached by a woman whom Miklan introduced as Eliza, their chief healer.
"I'm told you have a special patient," she said, her eyes kind but assessing. "A young man from Faerghus?"
Dedue nodded, leading her to the room where Glenn rested under his mother's watchful eye. The young knight had not regained consciousness since Joy Boy's departure, though his breathing had remained steady.
Eliza examined him thoroughly, her experienced hands gentle but thorough as they checked his wounds. "Joy Boy's touch," she murmured, recognizing the distinctive healing pattern of injuries that had closed too quickly to be natural. "He must be important to receive such attention."
"He tried to stop them," Dedue explained. "That's all I know."
"Glenn Fraldarius," Amalie supplied from her position by the window. "He said his name before he lost consciousness again."
Eliza's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Fraldarius? As in House Fraldarius, the King's Shield?" She returned her attention to the unconscious figure with newfound respect. "This is the eldest son of Duke Fraldarius, then. The King's right hand."
The implication was clear—they now harbored a hostage of immense political value, someone whose fate could influence how Faerghus responded to the day's events.
"Joy Boy entrusted him to us," Dedue said firmly. "We will heal him, not use him."
Eliza nodded approval at this declaration. "A wise choice. Kindness in the face of cruelty is a powerful statement." She reached into her medicine bag, producing herbs and bandages. "Let me tend to his remaining injuries. With proper care, he should regain consciousness within a day or two."
True to her prediction, Glenn awoke the following morning, disoriented and in pain but coherent enough to understand his situation. His initial wariness gave way to confusion when he realized he was being cared for by the very people his comrades had been attacking.
"Why?" he asked Dedue, who had taken on the role of his primary caretaker. "Why help me, after what Faerghus soldiers did to your village?"
Dedue, changing the bandage on Glenn's shoulder with careful movements, considered his answer. "Joy Boy brought you to us," he said finally. "He saw worth in you, worth saving. Who am I to question his judgment?"
Glenn was silent for a long moment, processing this. "The being who appeared during the attack... that was Joy Boy? The one Kingdom clerics warn against as a false prophet?"
"The same," Dedue confirmed. "Though we do not worship him as a god. He is... something else. Something that reminds us of our capacity for joy, for freedom, for choosing better paths than hatred and vengeance."
The young knight seemed troubled by this explanation, though whether from theological concerns or personal ones, Dedue couldn't determine. "I need to return to Fhirdiad," Glenn said after a pause. "I must report what truly happened—that it wasn't Duscur behind the attack on the King's party. It was a conspiracy involving certain Kingdom nobles."
"You're not yet strong enough to travel," Dedue pointed out. "And the roads are dangerous. Those who wished to blame Duscur will not want your testimony heard."
Glenn's frustration was evident, but he couldn't argue with the logic. He was barely able to sit upright unassisted, let alone undertake a journey to the Kingdom capital.
"Give yourself time to heal," Dedue advised. "When you're ready, Joy Boy will ensure you reach your destination safely."
"How can you be so certain?" Glenn asked.
Dedue recalled the divine being's gestures—pointing to Glenn, to Duscur, to Fhirdiad. The connection that needed to be made, the truth that needed to be carried. "Because it's part of his plan," he answered simply. "Just as saving my people was part of his plan."
The days that followed brought both despair and hope. The full extent of what would come to be called the Tragedy of Duscur became clear—hundreds had died in the attack, including many prominent citizens. The capital city had suffered extensive damage, and reports suggested that similar violence had touched other Duscur settlements as well.
Yet the losses would have been far greater without Joy Boy's intervention. By appearing when he did, he had halted the worst of the violence, prevented a true genocide from unfolding. And in the aftermath, his influence continued to be felt as aid arrived from unexpected sources.
Miklan's Liberator's Hand was only the first. Within days, other merchant caravans appeared, bringing supplies and offering assistance in rebuilding. More surprisingly, diplomatic envoys arrived from the Royal Palace of Faerghus itself, led by none other than King Lambert—very much alive despite rumors of his assassination.
The King himself came to the village where Dedue's family had sheltered Glenn, his expression grave as he surveyed the destruction wrought in his name.
"This was not done by my order," he declared to the assembled survivors. "Those responsible—certain nobles who sought to use Duscur as a scapegoat for their own attempted coup—have been identified and will face justice."
His gaze fell on Dedue, who stood protectively near Glenn's side as the young knight formally reported what he had witnessed. "You saved my Shield's son," the King said, addressing the Molinaro family directly. "For that, you have my eternal gratitude."
It was during this royal visit that Dedue first encountered the Prince of Faerghus—a solemn boy approximately his own age named Dimitri, whose blue eyes held a wisdom beyond their years as he accompanied his father on this difficult diplomatic mission.
"Your people showed mercy when they had every reason not to," the Prince said quietly to Dedue as they stood somewhat apart from the main gathering. "I won't forget that."
Alongside the royal party came representatives of other noble houses, including Lord Rodrigue Fraldarius, Glenn's father, who embraced his son with unrestrained emotion before turning to offer his profound thanks to those who had cared for him. With Rodrigue was his younger son, Felix—a boy perhaps a year or two younger than Dedue, who regarded the Duscur youth with cautious interest.
"You helped my brother," Felix stated, the words somewhere between question and declaration.
"Joy Boy helped your brother," Dedue corrected gently. "I merely followed his guidance."
Felix frowned slightly. "My father says this Joy Boy is not recognized by the Church. That he appears to those who need hope."
Dedue considered this characterization. "Perhaps," he allowed. "Though I would say rather that he appears to those who are ready to see beyond their own pain to the joy that remains possible."
The boy seemed to ponder this, his sharp eyes thoughtful. "Glenn says he never speaks. That he communicates through gestures and... feelings. Is that true?"
"Yes," Dedue confirmed. "Words would limit him, I think. What he offers transcends language."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a strange group—a middle-aged couple accompanied by a girl with striking red hair who appeared close to Dedue's age. What made them unusual was the pack of dogs that followed the girl closely, animals that moved with an intelligence that seemed almost human.
"Tobias and Eliza of The Joyful Path," Miklan introduced them to the assembled dignitaries. "And their ward, Hapi. They've come to offer their assistance in rebuilding efforts."
The girl named Hapi regarded Dedue with open curiosity. "You saw him too, didn't you? During the attack. Joy Boy."
Dedue nodded, somehow unsurprised that this unusual girl would broach the subject so directly. "Yes. He saved many of us, including the King's Shield's son."
Hapi's eyes widened slightly. "He saved me too, a few years ago. From a different kind of cage." She gestured to the dogs that surrounded her protectively. "These were monsters once, before he changed them. Now they're my family."
This simple declaration formed an immediate bond between them—two youths whose lives had been touched directly by Joy Boy's intervention, who understood something about his purpose that perhaps others could not fully grasp.
As dusk approached, the diplomatic party prepared to depart, though not before establishing protocols for ongoing aid and cooperation. King Lambert, in a gesture of reconciliation, declared Duscur under his personal protection—a status that would shield the region from further reprisals while the truth about the conspiracy was fully investigated.
"The young man named Glenn will accompany us back to Fhirdiad," the King informed Dedue and his family. "But he has spoken highly of you and your care for him. Should you ever wish to visit the capital, you would be welcome guests at Castle Blaiddyd."
It seemed an abstract offer at the time, one made from royal courtesy rather than expectation of acceptance. Yet as Dedue watched the Faerghus contingent depart, he couldn't help but recall Joy Boy's gestures—pointing from Glenn to Duscur to Fhirdiad. Connections being formed, bridges being built.
That night, as the village settled into an uneasy quiet, the drums began again—not the thunderous call that had heralded Joy Boy's dramatic intervention, but the softer, steadier rhythm that often accompanied his more peaceful appearances.
Dedue found his father three days after the attack, alive but gravely injured. Karsten Molinaro had defended their home against multiple attackers, fighting with the same precision and power he brought to his smithing. When the soldiers had finally overwhelmed him, it was only by numbers, not skill. They'd left him for dead in the workshop, blood pooling beneath his massive frame as flames licked at the building's wooden supports.
But Joy Boy's rain had come in time, dousing the encroaching fire before it could claim Karsten along with the forge. Neighbors had found him unconscious among the wreckage and moved him to one of the makeshift healing tents Miklan's people had established.
"Father," Dedue whispered, kneeling beside the pallet where Karsten lay, his broad chest wrapped in bandages, his breathing labored but steady.
Karsten's eyes flickered open, recognition slowly dawning. "My son," he murmured, voice rough with pain. "You're safe. Your mother? Anya?"
"Both safe," Dedue confirmed, taking his father's calloused hand gently in his own. "Joy Boy came. He saved many of us."
A ghost of a smile crossed Karsten's pale face. "As your mother always said he would." He closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength. "I saw him, you know. Just for a moment, as I lay bleeding. Thought it was a dream at first—a dying man's vision. But he touched my forehead, and the pain... receded. Not gone, but... bearable."
Dedue nodded, remembering the divine being's healing touch on Glenn. "He entrusted a wounded Faerghus knight to us. Glenn Fraldarius. He tried to stop the attack."
"Then we will honor that trust," Karsten said firmly, despite his weakened state. "If Joy Boy believes this knight worth saving, who are we to argue?"
The days following the Tragedy blurred together in Dedue's memory—a chaotic tapestry of rebuilding efforts, diplomatic meetings, and tending to the wounded. King Lambert remained in Duscur for nearly a week, personally overseeing the initial reconstruction and meeting with survivors to hear their accounts of what had transpired.
It was during one such meeting, held in the village's partially restored gathering hall, that Dedue first heard the name that would forever be associated with the orchestration of the Tragedy.
"The evidence points primarily to the Royal Court Mage, Cornelia Arnim," Lord Rodrigue Fraldarius explained to the assembled villagers, his normally composed features tight with controlled fury. "She appears to have been working with several Western Lords who sought to destabilize the Kingdom by eliminating the King and framing Duscur for the assassination."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—confusion, anger, relief that the truth was being acknowledged rather than buried. Dedue, standing at the back with his now-recovering father, watched as Prince Rufus stepped forward to join Rodrigue.
"What my colleague hesitates to share," Rufus said, his voice carrying easily through the hall, "is that Cornelia has apparently met her end in a manner that suggests divine intervention."
This revelation caused a different sort of stir among the Duscur natives, many of whom exchanged knowing glances. Joy Boy's justice was rarely violent—he was, after all, a being associated with joy rather than retribution—but his capacity for righteous anger had been demonstrated clearly during the Tragedy itself.
After the formal meeting dispersed, Dedue found himself approached by Prince Rufus, who had been observing him with unconcealed interest throughout the proceedings.
"Young Molinaro," the prince greeted him, using the formal version of his family name. "I understand you had a personal encounter with Joy Boy during the attack."
Dedue nodded, maintaining respectful eye contact with the royal. "Yes, Your Highness. He entrusted Glenn Fraldarius to my care."
"And performed that same service for many others, it seems," Rufus observed, his expression thoughtful. "Including, it would appear, dealing with the architect of this tragedy."
Dedue remained silent, uncertain what response was expected.
Rufus smiled slightly, seeming to appreciate the youth's discretion. "Come, walk with me," he invited, gesturing toward the door. "There are matters I would discuss away from the formal setting."
Outside, the afternoon sun illuminated the ongoing recovery efforts—villagers clearing debris, Kingdom soldiers assisting with repairs, merchants from The Liberator's Hand distributing supplies. Overhead, the sky was clear, with no trace of the supernatural clouds that had heralded Joy Boy's dramatic intervention.
"What occurred with Cornelia was... extraordinary," Rufus continued once they were beyond earshot of others. "She was found in her laboratory in Fhirdiad, surrounded by evidence of her involvement in the conspiracy."
"She confessed?" Dedue asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
Rufus gave a short, mirthless laugh. "In a manner of speaking. She was found... transformed."
"Transformed?" Dedue echoed, immediately thinking of the stories his mother had told—of Joy Boy's many manifestations across different lands, sometimes bringing blessings, sometimes justice.
"Into stone," Rufus clarified, his voice dropping lower. "Not dead, precisely. Reports from those who discovered her suggest she still... exists... within the statue. Her eyes move. Perhaps she even thinks, trapped within that immobile form. The royal sculptors who examined her say the craftsmanship is unlike anything they've ever seen—perfect in detail down to individual eyelashes, yet achieved without chisel marks or other signs of human creation."
Dedue absorbed this information silently. It seemed a fitting fate for someone who had orchestrated mass murder—not death, which might have been merciful, but containment. Limitation. The opposite of the freedom Joy Boy typically bestowed.
"The official explanation," Rufus continued, "is that she activated some experimental magic that backfired spectacularly. Only those in the highest circles know or suspect differently." He paused, studying Dedue's face. "I'm sharing this with you because I believe Joy Boy has plans for you, young man. Just as he appears to have plans for my nephew."
"Prince Dimitri?" Dedue asked, surprised by this connection.
"Indeed. The boy has been asking about you specifically since hearing of your role in saving Glenn. He seems... fascinated by the concept of someone his age showing such courage in crisis." Rufus's expression softened slightly. "Dimitri has a tender heart. Too tender, perhaps, for the role he must one day assume. He will need steadfast allies who understand both strength and compassion."
Dedue considered this carefully. "I'm not sure what you're suggesting, Your Highness."
"For now, nothing specific," Rufus assured him. "Only that you keep an open mind about future possibilities. Bridges between Duscur and Faerghus must be rebuilt on foundations stronger than before. Perhaps those bridges will be formed by individuals rather than diplomatic treaties."
Before Dedue could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of a young girl with striking red hair, accompanied by several unusually large dogs. It was Hapi, the girl he had briefly met during the immediate aftermath of the Tragedy.
"Prince Rufus," she greeted, inclining her head with minimal deference. "Tobias sent me to tell you the supply wagons from the eastern villages have arrived. They're asking for guidance on distribution priorities."
"Thank you, Hapi," Rufus replied, his tone warming. "Tell them I'll join them shortly."
As the girl turned to leave, one of her canine companions—the largest, with intelligent eyes that seemed to assess Dedue deliberately—paused beside them. The dog's gaze moved from Dedue to Rufus and back again, as if confirming something, before rejoining its mistress.
"Another of Joy Boy's miracles," Rufus commented, watching the unusual procession depart. He returned his attention to Dedue. "Life has a way of transforming us all, one way or another. The question is whether we embrace that transformation or resist it."
With that enigmatic observation, the prince excused himself, leaving Dedue to ponder their conversation as he returned to his family's partially restored home.
Four years passed, years of gradual rebuilding and tentative reconciliation. Though many in Faerghus still viewed Duscur with suspicion despite the King's official declarations of their innocence, trade slowly resumed. The presence of The Liberator's Hand throughout the region helped stabilize the economy, providing opportunities for skilled craftsfolk like the Molinaros to find new markets for their creations.
Dedue had grown into his name—"great tree" in the old Duscur tongue—standing well over six feet tall at eighteen, with shoulders broad enough to make even Karsten's substantial frame seem average by comparison. His hands, calloused from years at the forge, were capable of both devastating force and remarkable delicacy, whether shaping metal or tending the herbs his mother had taught him to cultivate.
It was an ordinary afternoon when the messenger arrived—a young woman in the livery of House Fraldarius, her expression serious as she requested an audience with the Molinaro family.
"Lord Glenn Fraldarius sends his regards," she announced once they had gathered in the rebuilt courtyard, "and extends an invitation to Dedue Molinaro to join Prince Dimitri's personal guard as he prepares to attend the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery."
The invitation, though unexpected in its timing, wasn't entirely a surprise. Glenn had visited several times over the years, gradually recovering from his injuries though he would always bear a pronounced limp. During these visits, he had often spoken of Prince Dimitri's interest in Dedue, how the young royal frequently asked about "the Duscur youth who helped save Glenn's life."
"It is a position of honor," the messenger continued, "and one that Lord Glenn specifically requested for you, citing your strength of character and proven loyalty in crisis."
"This is politics," Karsten observed after the messenger had departed with a promise to return for Dedue's answer in three days' time. "They want a visible connection to Duscur to demonstrate the Kingdom's commitment to reconciliation."
"Perhaps," Amalie agreed, watching her son carefully. "But it's also an opportunity unlike any other a young man of Duscur might receive in these times. Access to education, to connections that could benefit our entire region."
Anya, now fourteen and developing into a skilled herbalist under her mother's tutelage, was less diplomatic in her assessment. "They just want to use you as a symbol," she declared, her youthful face fierce with protective instinct. "To make themselves look good after what they did to us."
"Not all of 'them' did anything to us," Dedue reminded her gently. "Glenn fought to protect our people. King Lambert has worked to establish the truth and provide restitution."
"And Prince Dimitri?" Karsten asked, raising an eyebrow. "What do you know of him?"
Dedue considered what he had heard from Glenn and others who had visited from the capital. "He is said to be intelligent, dedicated to his training, and uncommonly interested in the wellbeing of common people. Glenn speaks highly of his character, though he mentioned the prince can be... intense in his convictions."
"Would you want this?" Amalie asked directly, cutting through the speculation. "Setting aside politics and symbolism—would serving as this young prince's guard fulfill you?"
It was the right question—the one Dedue had been asking himself since the messenger's arrival. He thought of Joy Boy's gesture four years ago, pointing from Glenn to Duscur to Fhirdiad. A connection to be made, a purpose to be fulfilled.
"I believe I would," he answered slowly. "Not for status or political advantage, but because... there is something unfinished. Something that began when Joy Boy brought Glenn to us. A path I'm meant to follow."
Karsten nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Then you should accept. With one condition."
"What condition?" Dedue asked.
"That you remember who you are," his father said firmly. "A son of Duscur first, a royal guard second. Your loyalty to the prince need not erase your identity or your connection to your people."
"I will remember," Dedue promised.
Three days later, he gave his acceptance to the returning messenger. Within a fortnight, he found himself journeying to Fhirdiad, the northern capital he had heard so much about but never seen. The city was a stark contrast to the warmth and color of Duscur—all gray stone and practical architecture designed to withstand the harsh Faerghus winters.
Glenn personally escorted him to the royal palace, explaining protocol and expectations as they navigated the imposing structure. "Dimitri insisted on meeting you privately first," Glenn explained, leading Dedue down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors. "No formal court introduction until you've had a chance to speak with him directly."
They arrived at a training yard, currently empty save for a single figure methodically working through lance exercises. Prince Dimitri was not what Dedue had expected—slender rather than imposing, with fine blond hair and features that still held traces of boyhood despite his sixteen years. What struck Dedue most, however, were the prince's eyes—a clear blue that seemed to hold both remarkable focus and a hint of something darker, something wounded.
"Your Highness," Glenn called, "may I present Dedue Molinaro of Duscur."
Dimitri immediately set aside his training weapon and approached, his expression transitioning from concentration to genuine interest. "Dedue," he said, extending his hand in a gesture more appropriate for greeting an equal than a prospectus guard. "I've waited a long time to meet you properly."
Dedue hesitated briefly before accepting the handshake, noting with surprise the prince's firm grip—stronger than his frame would suggest. "The honor is mine, Your Highness."
Glenn discreetly excused himself, leaving the two youths alone in the training yard. For a moment, an awkward silence hung between them—two young men from vastly different worlds, connected by circumstance and perhaps by something more.
"Glenn has told me much about you," Dimitri said finally. "About how your family cared for him after he was wounded. About your courage during the attack."
"He speaks too highly of me," Dedue demurred. "I did only what was necessary."
Dimitri smiled slightly. "That's exactly what he said you would say." The prince's expression grew more serious. "I want you to know that I understand this position might be... complicated for you. Coming to serve a royal house of the very kingdom whose soldiers attacked your homeland. If you have reservations, I would hear them honestly."
The directness of the approach surprised Dedue. He had expected formality, perhaps condescension, or at the very least the careful distance nobility typically maintained from those who served them. Instead, Dimitri was offering something that felt remarkably like genuine dialogue.
"My only reservation," Dedue said carefully, "is whether I can be effective in this role. I know little of court etiquette or Kingdom military forms."
"Those can be learned," Dimitri dismissed with a wave of his hand. "What cannot be taught is character—and from everything I've heard, yours is exemplary." He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "There is something else you should know. Something personal that may help explain why I specifically requested you join my guard."
Dedue waited, sensing the importance of whatever the prince was about to share.
"My uncle Rufus had told me stories about him, but I had never... experienced anything myself. Until that day."
Dedue absorbed this revelation with growing certainty. This, then, was the purpose Joy Boy had indicated with his gestures four years ago—not just healing in the immediate aftermath of tragedy, but a longer path toward reconciliation and understanding.
"I believe," Dedue said slowly, "that we were meant to work together, Your Highness. I cannot explain how I know this, but I feel it with absolute conviction."
Relief visibly washed over Dimitri's features. "I had hoped you would say that. I feared you might think me mad, or worse, that you might reject the connection entirely." He extended his hand once more, this time in a more formal gesture. "Then let us make a pact, Dedue Molinaro. I will work to restore honor to Duscur and justice to those who truly orchestrated the Tragedy. And you will help me become the kind of king who prevents such atrocities rather than merely responding to them."
Dedue clasped the offered hand, feeling the weight of the moment—two young men from different worlds, bound together by divine intervention and shared purpose. "I swear it, Your Highness."
"Dimitri," the prince corrected with a small smile. "When we're alone, at least, I would have you use my name. If we are to rebuild trust between our peoples, we must begin by establishing it between ourselves."
The months that followed transformed both young men. Dedue learned the intricacies of Kingdom culture even as he maintained his own traditions, becoming not just Dimitri's shield but his closest confidant. The prince, in turn, grew more determined in his pursuit of justice, studying governance and diplomacy with unprecedented focus. Together, they formed a partnership that puzzled many court observers but gradually earned respect for its effectiveness and unwavering loyalty.
When the time came to attend the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach, Dedue accompanied Dimitri as both guard and fellow student—a controversial arrangement that raised eyebrows among the nobility but was stubbornly insisted upon by the prince himself.
"You will receive the same education as any other student," Dimitri had declared when announcing his decision. "Your insights are too valuable to be limited to protective duties alone."
Their arrival at the monastery coincided with that of students from the other nations of Fódlan—the Black Eagles House of the Adrestian Empire and the Golden Deer of the Leicester Alliance. Among these new faces, Dedue recognized one: the red-haired girl named Hapi, though she now moved with the confidence of a young woman rather than the wariness of the child he had briefly encountered.
Her dogs still accompanied her, somehow permitted within the monastery grounds despite strict regulations about animals. When their paths crossed in the dining hall, she acknowledged him with a nod of recognition.
"Joy Boy's fingerprints are all over you," she observed without preamble. "Just like they're all over me and my pack. Makes us stand out in a place like this."
"Is that why you're here?" Dedue asked.
Hapi shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the thoughtfulness in her eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just seeing what options exist beyond what was planned for me." She glanced toward where Dimitri sat with other Blue Lions students. "Dimitri has always been interesting. Not in what I expected."
"Few things are what we expect," Dedue replied. "I never expected to be here, studying alongside Kingdom nobility."
"Life's weird that way," Hapi agreed. "One minute you're locked in a lab being experimented on, the next you're attending the most prestigious academy in Fódlan with a pack of transformed monsters as your roommates."
Before Dedue could respond to this startling revelation, they were interrupted by the arrival of Felix Fraldarius—Glenn's younger brother, now a prickly, sharp-tongued youth whose relationship with Dimitri was notably strained.
"Dedue," Felix acknowledged curtly. "Professor Hanneman is looking for you. Something about adjusting the training regimen to accommodate your fighting style."
With a respectful nod to Hapi, Dedue excused himself, aware of Felix's evaluating gaze following him as he departed. The younger Fraldarius had made no secret of his mixed feelings about Dedue's presence—grateful for his family's role in saving Glenn, yet suspicious of his unwavering loyalty to Dimitri.
As the academic year progressed, Dedue found himself reflecting often on the path that had brought him to Garreg Mach. Not just the immediate circumstances of the Tragedy and its aftermath, but the longer thread that connected back to his infancy—to Joy Boy's visit to his cradle, to his mother's certainty that he was somehow special to the divine being.
Had it all been leading to this? To his position beside a future king who might reshape relations between their peoples? To this opportunity to learn skills that could benefit not just Dimitri but all of Duscur?
One evening, as sunset painted the monastery's stone walls in hues of gold and amber, Dedue stood alone in the greenhouse, tending to herbs from his homeland that he had carefully cultivated. The familiar scents of Duscur spices and medicinals brought comfort, a connection to home amid the foreign surroundings of Garreg Mach.
He became aware of a presence behind him—not Dimitri, whose approaching footsteps he had learned to recognize, but someone moving with deliberate silence. Turning, he found himself facing a white-haired girl with lavender eyes who regarded him with open curiosity.
"You're from Duscur," she stated—not a question but an observation. "I've been hoping to speak with you."
"Lady Lysithea," Dedue acknowledged, recognizing the Golden Deer student known for her magical prowess and academic intensity. "How may I assist you?"
She glanced around the greenhouse, confirming they were alone before continuing. "I understand you've had personal encounters with the being known as Joy Boy."
Dedue tensed slightly. While not explicitly forbidden, discussion of Joy Boy was generally avoided within the monastery walls, given the Church of Seiros' official stance against what they termed "false prophets."
"It's all right," Lysithea assured him, apparently noting his hesitation. "I'm not here as an informant for the Church. I'm here because..." she took a deep breath, seeming to gather her courage. "Because I need to know if the stories are true. If he truly has the power to transform what others have done to us."
There was something in her emphasis, in the intensity of her gaze, that made Dedue understand this was not idle curiosity. This young woman was seeking hope for something specific, something personal.
"I have witnessed his power firsthand," Dedue confirmed carefully. "During the Tragedy of Duscur, he transformed situations that seemed beyond salvation. He healed wounds, both physical and... otherwise."
"And the transformations are permanent?" Lysithea pressed. "Not temporary measures that revert once he's gone?"
"In my experience, yes. Those he changed remained changed." Dedue studied her pale features, noting signs of strain beneath her composed exterior. "May I ask why you seek this information?"
Lysithea hesitated, conflict evident in her expression before she seemed to reach a decision. "I was experimented on as a child," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "My body was changed, my lifespan shortened. The white hair, the two Crests I bear—none of it natural. I've searched everywhere for a means to reverse what was done to me, but conventional magic offers no solutions."
Understanding dawned. "And you hope Joy Boy might intervene, as he did for others."
"Is it foolish?" she asked, a rare vulnerability showing through her typically confident demeanor. "To hope for a miracle from a being whose very existence the Church denies?"
Dedue considered his answer carefully, aware of both the importance of hope and the danger of false promises. "I don't believe hope is ever foolish," he said finally. "Joy Boy appears where and when he chooses, for reasons we cannot always understand. But in my observation, he is drawn to those who suffer unjustly yet maintain their capacity for joy despite that suffering."
"Joy feels very distant sometimes," Lysithea admitted, her gaze dropping to the greenhouse floor.
"That," Dedue said gently, "may be precisely why he appears—to remind us that joy remains possible even in the darkest circumstances. Even when our bodies or situations have been transformed against our will."
She nodded slowly, absorbing his words. "Thank you for your honesty. And for not dismissing my questions."
"We each carry our burdens," Dedue replied. "Some visible, some hidden. There is no shame in seeking relief from them."
After Lysithea departed, Dedue remained in the greenhouse, reflecting on their conversation. How many others at the monastery carried similar hidden wounds? How many sought healing for transformations forced upon them by circumstances or the cruelty of others?
His thoughts turned to Dimitri, whose nightmares sometimes echoed through their adjoining rooms—tormented visions he refused to discuss but which clearly haunted his waking hours as well. The prince, too, carried burdens invisible to most observers, trauma that had shaped him in ways even Dedue could not fully comprehend.
Perhaps that was why Joy Boy had connected them—not just for the political significance of their alliance, but because they both understood what it meant to be fundamentally altered by forces beyond their control. To seek not a return to what was lost, but transformation of those losses into something that might eventually bear fruit.
As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky above the greenhouse glass, Dedue completed his work among the herbs of his homeland. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—training exercises, academic demands, navigating the complex social dynamics of the monastery. But tonight, tending plants that had survived transplantation to foreign soil, he allowed himself to feel something that had become increasingly familiar during his years with Dimitri: purpose.
Not the grim determination born of revenge or obligation, but the quieter, stronger purpose that came from believing one's path, however difficult, served a greater design. A design that perhaps had begun in a cradle in Duscur, with a divine visitor's smile and a mother's watchful love.
As he gathered his gardening tools and prepared to return to the dormitory, Dedue permitted himself a small, private smile—an expression of the joy that remained possible even after tragedy. The smile that, in its own way, had saved Duscur.
For while the Tragedy had nearly destroyed his homeland, it was joy—persistent, defiant joy in the face of suffering—that had preserved its heart and soul. Joy that had brought unexpected allies, formed improbable bonds, and kept hope alive in the darkest hours.
Joy Boy's greatest gift, Dedue had come to understand, was not his supernatural power or divine intervention, but the reminder that joy itself was a form of resistance against despair—a transformation more profound than any miracle.
Standing tall beneath the stars, Dedue carried that knowledge forward into the night, a silent guardian of both a prince and a promise: that through joy, even the greatest tragedies could be transformed into foundations for a better world.
Chapter 20: The Songbird's Dawn
Summary:
In which a young Dorothea Arnault, abandoned and alone on the streets of Enbarr, discovers her voice as both weapon and solace against the cruel indifference of the Empire's capital. When her lonely night song attracts an unexpected audience—a silent visitor with flame-white hair and golden eyes—their impromptu duet changes the trajectory of her life forever. As dawn breaks over the city that had shown her no kindness, Dorothea learns that sometimes salvation comes not from wealthy nobles or grand gestures, but from the simple magic of being truly seen.
Chapter Text
Winter in Enbarr was a merciless enemy to those without shelter. The imperial capital's grand boulevards and elegant plazas, so alive with color and movement during warmer months, became bitter channels for cutting winds that swept in from the sea. Marble and stone, materials chosen for their beauty and permanence, held no warmth for those who huddled in their shadows.
Dorothea knew this better than most. At nine years old, she had already mastered the geography of survival that remained invisible to Enbarr's wealthy citizens. She knew which baker's assistants might slip her a day-old roll if she appeared at the right moment. She knew which alleyways offered shelter from the wind without attracting the attention of the city watch. She knew which noble houses might need an extra pair of small hands for laundry or kitchen work, paying a few copper coins for a child's labor without asking uncomfortable questions.
Today, however, had yielded nothing. No work, no charity, no stroke of luck. Only hunger and the persistent, bone-deep cold that had been her constant companion since the first frost.
As dusk settled over the city, Dorothea made her way toward the opera house district. She had discovered weeks ago that the narrow service passage behind the Mittelfrank Opera Company's grand building retained warmth from the kitchens and laundry rooms long after the staff departed. If she timed her arrival correctly, she could claim a spot near the steam vents that would keep her from freezing through the night.
The elegant back of the opera house came into view as she turned down a side street, its ornate architecture softened by the fading light. Dorothea quickened her pace, clutching the thin woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. The shawl—once her mother's—was her most precious possession, despite its worn condition and the holes that had appeared along its edges. It carried the faintest trace of lavender oil, a scent that sometimes, if Dorothea closed her eyes very tight and concentrated, allowed her to remember her mother's embrace.
"Not tonight, urchin," a gruff voice called as she approached the service passage. "Got orders to keep you lot out."
A burly man in the uniform of the opera house staff stood blocking the narrow entrance, arms crossed over his chest. His expression wasn't cruel—simply indifferent, the way most adults looked at street children. Not as people to be helped, but as problems to be managed.
"Please, sir," Dorothea said, summoning her most polite voice, the one that sometimes worked with shopkeepers or housewives. "I just need a small corner for the night. I won't make any trouble."
"Can't do it," the man replied, shaking his head. "Some fancy noble complained about finding 'vagrants' here yesterday morning. Says it ruins the atmosphere for patrons. Manager's livid. If I let you stay, it's my job on the line."
"But it's so cold tonight," Dorothea persisted, hating the pleading note that had crept into her voice but unable to stop it. "I'll be gone before first light, I promise."
The guard's expression softened slightly, but he remained firm. "Look, girl, I've got four kids of my own to feed. Can't lose this position." He sighed, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small copper coin. "Here. It's not much, but maybe you can find somewhere else to shelter tonight."
Dorothea accepted the coin with mixed feelings. Gratitude for the unexpected kindness, bitter disappointment at losing her best shelter, and the stubborn pride that made charity—even well-intentioned—feel like a sharp stone in her shoe.
"Thank you, sir," she said quietly, pocketing the coin.
As she turned away, the guard called after her: "Try the Seven Bells district. Old widow Madris sometimes lets street kids sleep in her stable if they help with her goats in the morning."
Dorothea nodded acknowledgment without looking back. Seven Bells was clear across the city, an impossible journey before full dark. She would have to find another solution.
For an hour, she wandered through progressively narrower streets, searching for any sheltered corner that might offer protection from the night wind. The few promising spots she discovered were already claimed by other desperate souls—adults with haunted eyes who warned her away with harsh words or threatening gestures.
Eventually, she found herself in a small, forgotten courtyard tucked between the backs of several wealthy townhouses. A stone archway sheltered one corner, and better still, a chimney from one of the houses ran up the nearby wall. When Dorothea pressed her hand against the stones surrounding it, she felt blessed warmth.
"This will do," she murmured to herself, settling into the corner and arranging her shawl to cover as much of her body as possible.
As full darkness descended, the sounds of Enbarr transformed. The daytime bustle of commerce and conversation gave way to a different rhythm—the distant laughter from taverns, the occasional clip-clop of a late-night carriage, the soft footfalls of the city watch making their rounds. From one of the nearby houses came the muted sounds of a family dinner—clattering silverware, indistinct voices, a child's high laughter.
Dorothea's stomach clenched painfully at the sound. She should use the copper coin to buy bread in the morning, she knew. It was the practical choice. Yet the temptation to spend it on something sweet—a honey cake or a dried fig—was almost overwhelming. Just once, she wanted to taste something that wasn't given out of pity or salvaged from discards.
To distract herself from hunger and cold, she began to hum softly. The tune was one her mother had often sung while working—a simple melody about springtime and new beginnings. Dorothea couldn't remember all the words, but the melody remained clear in her memory, a precious inheritance that could never be stolen or lost.
As the night deepened and the temperature dropped further, her humming became more deliberate. She found herself adding words—not the original lyrics, which remained frustratingly incomplete in her memory, but new ones that rose from some deep well within her.
"Cold stones beneath me, cold stars above, Not a hand to hold, not a heart to love. But my voice still rises, clear and free, Even when there's no one to hear but me."
Her voice was quiet at first, barely more than a whisper, as if she feared disturbing the night itself. But as the improvised song continued, something shifted within her. The simple act of singing—of transforming her loneliness into something that almost resembled beauty—kindled a small flame of defiance against the darkness that pressed in around her.
"They walk past unseeing, these lords so grand, Their children warm in beds with quilts hand-planned. While I curl tight against the coming snow, With only shadows for friends as night winds blow."
Her voice grew stronger, clearer, filling the small courtyard with a sound that belied her years. Dorothea had always loved singing, had been told by her mother that she had a pretty voice, but she had never before experienced this peculiar alchemy—the transformation of pain into something that, if not quite joy, at least resembled strength.
"But I am still breathing, still singing my song, And maybe tomorrow won't feel quite so long. The sun will still rise, the bell will still chime, And my heart will keep beating, one day at a time."
As the last note faded into the cold night air, Dorothea became aware of a strange sensation—the feeling of being watched. Not with the predatory assessment that sometimes followed street children, but with something that felt almost like... appreciation.
She turned her head slowly, eyes scanning the shadows of the courtyard, and froze.
Standing not ten paces away was a figure that seemed to glow with its own inner light despite the darkness. Tall and slender, clad entirely in white garments that somehow remained pristine despite the grimy surroundings. The stranger's hair rose from their head like a controlled flame, also pure white, and their eyes—impossible, enormous eyes—gleamed golden in the faint light from a distant streetlamp.
Most startling of all was the cloud-like substance that draped around the figure's shoulders, swirling and shifting as if stirred by an unfelt breeze.
Dorothea's first instinct was to run. This was no ordinary person—perhaps not a person at all. Yet something held her in place. Not fear, but a curious sense of recognition, as if she were meeting someone she had always known existed but had never before encountered.
"Who are you?" she whispered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Are you... a spirit?"
The figure smiled then—a broad, luminous grin that transformed their entire face. They raised one finger and placed it against their lips in the universal gesture for silence, then took several graceful steps forward until they stood directly before Dorothea.
Up close, the stranger was even more otherworldly. Their golden eyes seemed to contain actual light, and the cloud-mantle around their shoulders moved with liquid grace, occasionally forming shapes—a bird in flight, a blooming flower—before dissolving back into formlessness.
Dorothea should have been terrified. Yet the figure exuded such palpable warmth and goodwill that fear seemed impossible. Instead, she found herself fascinated, studying their appearance with open curiosity.
"You don't talk, do you?" she asked softly.
The figure shook their head, that luminous smile never faltering. Then they made a graceful gesture toward their throat and ear, followed by a motion that mimed singing.
"You... heard my song?" Dorothea guessed.
An enthusiastic nod, followed by a series of gestures—hands placed over the heart, eyes closed briefly in apparent appreciation, then open palms extended toward her in what seemed to be admiration or approval.
"You liked it?" Dorothea felt warmth rise to her cheeks. No one had complimented her singing since her mother's death. "It wasn't really a proper song. I was just... making it up."
The stranger nodded again, this time with even greater enthusiasm. They pointed to Dorothea, then to themselves, then made a flowing motion with both hands coming together.
"You want... us to sing together?" she ventured, uncertain if she had interpreted correctly.
The beaming smile and rapid nodding confirmed she had understood. The stranger stepped back slightly, adopting a pose reminiscent of performers Dorothea had glimpsed through the windows of the opera house during rehearsals.
"But you don't speak," she pointed out, confused.
The stranger tilted their head in acknowledgment of this fact, then placed one hand over their heart and opened their mouth in a silent expression of song. Though no sound emerged, the message was clear—they would participate in their own way.
Dorothea hesitated. The request was strange, this entire encounter was strange, and yet... there was something undeniably magical about the moment. A mysterious visitor appearing from nowhere to listen to her lonely song; a silent invitation to perform together beneath the cold stars of Enbarr.
"All right," she said finally, straightening her posture and smoothing her ragged dress as best she could. "What shall we sing?"
The stranger made an elegant gesture toward her, clearly indicating that she should choose.
Dorothea thought for a moment, then began the only formal song she knew in its entirety—a traditional Adrestian lullaby her mother had sung to her each night, even when illness had weakened her voice to a whisper. The melody was simple but haunting, the lyrics a promise of protection and enduring love.
As the first notes left her lips, something extraordinary happened. Though the stranger made no audible sound, Dorothea could somehow hear a perfect harmony accompanying her voice—not with her ears, but somewhere deep within her mind. The sensation was unlike anything she had experienced before—as if her song had gained a depth and resonance that completed it in ways she hadn't known were possible.
More incredible still were the stranger's movements. As Dorothea sang of stars watching over sleeping children, the white-garbed figure swirled one hand above their head, and tiny points of golden light appeared in the air, twinkling like miniature stars. When the lyrics spoke of a mother's protective embrace, they shaped their arms into a cradle, and the cloud-mantle around their shoulders briefly formed the suggestion of a rocking mother and child.
Each verse brought new wonders—visual embellishments that transformed the simple lullaby into something magical and profound. The stranger's expressions shifted with the emotional beats of the song—comically exaggerated during lighter moments, solemnly beautiful during more poignant passages.
So absorbed was Dorothea in their impromptu duet that she didn't immediately notice they had attracted an audience. Only when she reached the final verse did she become aware of shapes gathering at the edges of the small courtyard—people drawn from nearby houses and streets by the unexpected performance.
Her voice faltered briefly at the sight of so many watching eyes, but the stranger gave her an encouraging nod and gestured for her to continue. Drawing a deep breath, Dorothea sang the final lines with renewed confidence, her young voice ringing clear and true in the night air.
As the last note faded, there was a moment of perfect silence. Then, from the gathered crowd, came applause—hesitant at first, then building to enthusiastic clapping and calls of approval.
"Bravo!" "Magnificent!" "What extraordinary talent!"
Dorothea stood frozen in shock, unable to process this sudden transformation—from invisible street urchin to admired performer in the span of a single song. She turned to share her bewilderment with her strange companion, only to discover...
He was gone.
Where the white-garbed figure had stood moments before, there was only empty air. No footprints marked his departure, no disturbance suggested which direction he might have taken. He had simply... vanished.
"Young lady," a warm female voice called, cutting through Dorothea's confusion. "Might I have a word?"
A woman stepped forward from the crowd—tall and striking, dressed in the elegant evening attire of Enbarr's cultural elite. Her dark hair was swept up in an elaborate style adorned with small pearls that caught the faint light. Though her makeup was subtle, there was something dramatic about her bearing that suggested a life lived on stage.
"My name is Manuela Casagranda," the woman said, approaching with a gentle smile. "I am a principal vocalist with the Mittelfrank Opera Company."
Dorothea's eyes widened. Even living on the streets, she had heard of Manuela Casagranda—the Divine Songstress, whose performances were said to reduce hardened soldiers to tears.
"I... I'm Dorothea," she replied, suddenly acutely aware of her ragged appearance and dirty hands.
"Dorothea," Manuela repeated, as if testing the sound of it. "A lovely name. Tell me, Dorothea, where did you learn to sing like that? And who was your extraordinary partner? I've never seen such an innovative performance style."
"I didn't learn anywhere, really," Dorothea admitted. "My mother sang to me, but she... she's gone now. And my friend..." She glanced around the courtyard again, still bewildered by the stranger's disappearance. "I don't know who he is. He appeared while I was singing alone, and he wanted to perform together, but he never spoke."
Manuela's finely shaped eyebrows rose in surprise. "Never spoke? Yet he harmonized perfectly with you. How curious." She studied Dorothea with new interest. "And where is your family now, child? It's rather late for a girl your age to be out alone."
Dorothea hesitated. Experience had taught her that admitting to her circumstances often led to either uncomfortable pity or suspicious questioning. Yet something about Manuela's direct gaze encouraged honesty.
"I don't have one anymore," she said simply. "My mother worked as a lady's maid for a noble family. When she got sick, they let her go. After she died, I've been... managing on my own."
"I see." Manuela's expression softened further, but not with the cloying pity Dorothea had come to dread. Instead, there was something like recognition in her eyes—as if she understood precisely what it meant to be alone in a world that took little note of one small life.
The opera singer glanced around at the courtyard, noting the small corner where Dorothea had arranged her meager belongings. Understanding dawned in her eyes, but she approached the subject with remarkable tact.
"Were you planning to spend the night here?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
Dorothea lifted her chin slightly. "I've stayed in worse places."
"I'm sure you have," Manuela replied, surprising Dorothea with her matter-of-fact acceptance. "But it happens that I know of a much warmer alternative, if you're interested."
"What kind of alternative?" Dorothea asked cautiously. Years on the street had taught her that offers from strangers, especially well-dressed ones, often came with hidden costs.
Manuela seemed to understand her wariness. "The Mittelfrank Opera Company maintains dormitories for its younger performers and apprentices. We currently have an empty bed that I believe would suit a girl with your evident talent." She paused, gauging Dorothea's reaction. "It would mean work, of course. Training, lessons, chores. But also regular meals, warm clothes, and the chance to develop that remarkable voice of yours."
Dorothea stared at her, certain she had misheard or misunderstood. "You're offering me... a place in the opera company? Just like that?"
"Not 'just like that,'" Manuela corrected gently. "Based on what I just witnessed—a child with untrained natural talent that surpasses many who have studied for years. The Mittelfrank doesn't often take students so young, but exceptions have been made before." She smiled. "I myself was not much older than you when I was discovered."
"But I'm nobody," Dorothea whispered, the enormity of the opportunity making her voice tremble. "I don't have a family name or connections or—"
"Neither did I," Manuela interrupted, her smile taking on a wry edge. "My father was a carpenter and my mother sold flowers in the market. What mattered was my voice." She extended her hand. "What matters is yours."
Dorothea looked at the offered hand—elegant, with carefully maintained nails and a large silver ring bearing the emblem of the Mittelfrank Opera Company. Then she looked back at her small bundle of possessions in the corner of the cold courtyard. The choice seemed impossible, too good to be true.
"What about my friend?" she asked suddenly. "The one who was performing with me?"
Manuela glanced around the now-empty courtyard. "Your mysterious partner? I'm afraid he seems to have departed. But perhaps he'll find you again if you're on stage rather than in hidden courtyards."
The thought was oddly comforting. Dorothea took a deep breath, then placed her small hand in Manuela's outstretched one. "All right," she said. "I'll come with you."
As they prepared to leave, Dorothea carefully gathered her few possessions—the worn shawl, a small wooden comb that had been her mother's, and a cloth bag containing a spare set of stockings and a dented tin cup. Such a tiny collection to represent a life, she thought, not for the first time.
Just as they were about to exit the courtyard, something caught her eye—a small object that definitely hadn't been there before, placed precisely where the white-garbed stranger had stood during their performance. Dorothea bent to examine it.
It was a perfectly formed white feather, unlike any she had seen from the pigeons or gulls of Enbarr. When she picked it up, it felt impossibly soft against her fingers, and seemed to glow faintly with its own inner light.
"What have you found?" Manuela asked, looking curiously at the feather.
"I think... it's a gift," Dorothea replied softly, carefully tucking the feather into her small bag of possessions. "A goodbye present from my friend."
"A thoughtful gesture," Manuela commented, though she seemed slightly puzzled by Dorothea's attachment to what appeared to be an ordinary feather. "Come along now. It's getting very late, and you'll need rest before meeting the company directors tomorrow."
As they walked through the nighttime streets of Enbarr—now transformed from threatening shadows to a backdrop for this unexpected change in her fortunes—Dorothea found herself glancing back several times, half-expecting to glimpse a white-garbed figure with golden eyes watching from the darkness.
"Is something wrong?" Manuela asked after the third such backward glance.
"No," Dorothea replied, turning her attention forward again. "I was just wondering if I'll ever see him again—my strange friend."
Manuela smiled. "In my experience, true magic rarely enters our lives only once. If your paths are meant to cross again, they will."
Dawn was breaking over the city as they reached the impressive façade of the Mittelfrank Opera House. In the pale morning light, Dorothea could fully appreciate its grandeur—the soaring columns, the intricate carvings depicting scenes from famous operas, the massive doors of polished oak.
"This is where I live?" she asked in awe.
"This is where you'll work," Manuela corrected with gentle amusement. "The dormitories are around the back—much less grand, I'm afraid, but comfortable enough."
As they circled the building, Dorothea recognized the service passage she had been turned away from just hours earlier. The same guard stood at his post, looking tired after his night shift. His eyes widened in recognition when he saw Dorothea, then grew even wider at the sight of who accompanied her.
"Good morning, Georg," Manuela greeted him cheerfully. "I see you've met our newest apprentice."
"Apprentice?" the guard repeated, clearly confused.
"Indeed. I happened upon a most extraordinary street performance last night. This young lady has a remarkable voice that the Mittelfrank cannot afford to lose to the cold." Manuela placed a protective hand on Dorothea's shoulder. "Please inform Director Fellman that I'll be bringing her to audition formally after breakfast."
"Yes, Miss Casagranda," the guard replied, still looking bewildered but managing a respectful nod.
As they passed him and entered the warmth of the building, Dorothea fought the urge to look back once more—not at the guard, but at the city beyond. The Enbarr that had been both her prison and her home, the streets and alleys where she had learned to survive by her wits alone.
Instead, she kept her gaze fixed ahead, on the long corridor that led deeper into the opera house. Whatever lay before her—whether success or failure, acceptance or rejection—would be determined by her voice and her determination, not by the circumstances of her birth or the tragedy of her past.
Yet even as she embraced this new beginning, a small part of her wondered about the white-garbed stranger with the golden eyes and cloud-like mantle. Had he known, somehow, what would happen when he joined her song? Had he deliberately attracted the crowd that brought Manuela to her? Or had it all been simply chance—one of those rare moments when the uncaring universe briefly aligns in favor of a single, forgotten child?
These questions would return to her many times in the years that followed—during grueling rehearsals when her voice cracked with fatigue, during triumphant performances that brought audiences to their feet, during quiet moments alone when memories of her mother's face grew increasingly indistinct despite her desperate efforts to hold them clear.
But for now, as she followed Manuela through the backstage labyrinth of the Mittelfrank Opera House, Dorothea allowed herself a small, private smile. Whatever magic had occurred in that forgotten courtyard—whether divine intervention or extraordinary coincidence—had changed the course of her life in a single night.
And the feather tucked safely in her bag seemed to pulse with gentle warmth against her side, a reminder that sometimes, in the darkest moments, unexpected light could appear from nowhere and transform everything.
Chapter 21: The Gentle Art of Fixing Things
Summary:
In which young Hilda Valentine Goneril witnesses an act of quiet restoration, and discovers a different kind of strength than that which her family name demands.
Chapter Text
The morning sunlight filtered through the rose-colored curtains of Hilda Valentine Goneril's bedroom, casting the entire chamber in a warm pink glow that matched her hair. At ten years old, Hilda had already perfected the art of lingering in bed—an act of subtle rebellion against the industrious nature of House Goneril, where even children were expected to rise with the sun and make productive use of every waking hour.
"Lady Hilda! It's well past dawn!" came the familiar, exasperated voice of Madam Bethany from the hallway. "Your brother has been training for two hours already!"
Hilda pulled her silk coverlet over her head and groaned dramatically. "Five more minutes," she called back, her voice muffled by the expensive fabric. Of course, five minutes would become ten, then fifteen, and eventually Madam Bethany would enter the room herself to physically extract Hilda from her comfortable cocoon—a daily ritual that both had come to expect, if not exactly enjoy.
The comparison to her brother was nothing new. For as long as Hilda could remember, every aspect of her existence had been measured against Holst's towering example. Holst, who at twenty was already being hailed as one of the finest warriors in all of Leicester. Holst, who trained from dawn until dusk without complaint. Holst, whose dedication to House Goneril's sacred duty of protecting Fódlan's Locket was unwavering and absolute.
And then there was Hilda—who found training exhausting, martial duties boring, and the very concept of "sacred family responsibility" something to be avoided whenever possible.
"It's not fair," she whispered to her favorite stuffed bear, an elaborate creation embroidered with the Goneril crest. "I never asked to be born into a family obsessed with hitting things."
The door swung open with a creak, and Madam Bethany's stern face appeared. The older woman had been nursemaid to both Goneril children and had long since grown immune to Hilda's various techniques for evading responsibility.
"Up, young lady," she said, crossing to the windows and pulling the curtains fully open. Sunshine flooded the room, making Hilda wince. "Your father has instructed that you're to join your brother for axe training this morning."
"Axe training?" Hilda sat bolt upright, horror evident in her wide pink eyes. "But I was supposed to have embroidery lessons today! Madame Laurent promised to show me how to make silk roses!"
Madam Bethany's expression softened slightly. Unlike the Duke, she recognized that Hilda's talents lay in directions quite different from the traditional Goneril path. The girl had nimble fingers and an artistic eye that were wasted on weapons training.
"Your father believes you've been neglecting your martial education," she explained, selecting a practical training outfit from Hilda's wardrobe despite the child's look of dismay. "He was quite insistent. Something about maintaining the Goneril legacy on both fronts."
Hilda flopped back onto her pillows with an exaggerated sigh. "I don't want a legacy. Legacies are heavy."
Despite her complaints, fifteen minutes later Hilda found herself trudging across the Goneril estate's vast grounds toward the training yard, dressed in padded training clothes that she considered both uncomfortable and unflattering. The weight of the small training axe in her hands seemed to increase with each reluctant step.
The Goneril estate sprawled across the eastern reaches of Leicester territory, its architecture a blend of defensive fortifications and noble luxury. Stone walls rose high against potential Almyran incursions, while meticulously maintained gardens boasted exotic flowers from across Fódlan. The dichotomy perfectly represented House Goneril itself—outwardly focused on martial strength while privately indulging in the refinements their position afforded them.
As she approached the training yard, Hilda could hear the familiar sounds of combat practice—the thud of weapons against training dummies, the sharp commands of the weapons master, and rising above it all, her brother's voice offering encouragement to younger trainees. Holst had recently begun taking on teaching duties, passing his considerable knowledge to the next generation of Goneril defenders.
Pausing at the edge of the yard, Hilda watched her brother demonstrate an axe technique to a group of wide-eyed squires. At nineteen, Holst had grown into his strength, his tall frame packed with muscle earned through years of dedicated training. His pink hair—a shade lighter than Hilda's own—was pulled back from his face, revealing features that combined gentleness with unmistakable determination.
"Remember," he was saying to his attentive audience, "an axe isn't just about brute force. It's about controlling that force, directing it precisely where it needs to go." He executed a perfect swing that stopped a hair's breadth from the training dummy's neck. "Too much force in the wrong direction is wasted energy."
The squires nodded earnestly, several attempting to mimic Holst's stance. Hilda rolled her eyes. She'd heard variations of this lecture countless times, usually directed specifically at her. Holst meant well—she knew that—but he couldn't seem to understand that what came naturally to him felt impossibly difficult to her.
"Ah, Lady Hilda!" The weapons master, a grizzled veteran named Kerrick, spotted her hovering at the edge of the yard. "Come to join us at last? Your brother has been at it since dawn."
And there it was again—the comparison, the implicit criticism. Hilda plastered on a sweet smile, one she had been perfecting since she was old enough to realize its effectiveness, particularly on older male authority figures.
"I'm afraid I'm feeling rather weak today," she said, making her voice sound slightly breathless. "But Father insisted I should try, so here I am, doing my very best despite my delicate constitution."
Kerrick looked unimpressed—he'd known Hilda since she was in swaddling clothes and had long since developed immunity to her particular brand of manipulation—but Holst immediately broke off his demonstration and crossed the yard to his sister.
"Are you unwell?" he asked, concern evident in his eyes as he placed a hand on her forehead. "You do seem a bit flushed."
Hilda leaned into the touch, emphasizing her supposed frailty. "I didn't want to disappoint Father, but I hardly slept last night, and my arms feel so weak..."
Holst frowned, clearly torn between his duty as a training instructor and his role as a protective older brother. "Perhaps we should start with something simpler today. Basic forms only, no sparring."
"Or," Hilda suggested hopefully, "I could sit and watch? I'm sure I would learn so much just by observing you, brother. Everyone says you're the finest axe wielder in all of Leicester."
The flattery, sincere though it was—Hilda did genuinely admire her brother's skill, even if she had no desire to emulate it—almost worked. Holst's expression softened further, but before he could respond, a new voice entered the conversation.
"The Duke was quite clear that Lady Hilda is to participate fully in today's training session."
Hilda turned to see Goneril's steward, a thin, severe man named Eustace, standing at the edge of the yard. Unlike Kerrick and Holst, who had some sympathy for Hilda's disinterest in martial pursuits, Eustace was a traditionalist who believed firmly in upholding the Goneril legacy at any cost.
"House Goneril stands as Fódlan's shield against Almyran incursions," Eustace continued, his tone making it clear he was reciting words that had been repeated countless times before. "Every member must be prepared to take up arms in defense of our territory, regardless of personal preference."
Holst straightened, the dutiful heir once more. "Of course. Hilda will train properly. I'll personally oversee her session."
Hilda shot her brother a betrayed look, though she knew he had little choice in the matter. When their father issued direct orders, even Holst couldn't countermand them without serious consequences.
"Wonderful," she muttered under her breath as Eustace nodded approvingly and departed. "Another day of blisters and bruises for the greater glory of House Goneril."
Holst gave her an apologetic smile before guiding her to a quieter corner of the training yard. "Let's start with basic form," he said, positioning himself beside her. "Remember what I taught you last week about stance?"
Hilda grudgingly mimicked her brother's position, feet planted shoulder-width apart, weight slightly forward. The training axe felt awkward in her hands, its balance all wrong for her small frame despite being sized for a child. She had always found axes particularly difficult—swords were bad enough, but at least they had a certain elegance. Axes were just... brutish.
"That's it," Holst encouraged as she made a half-hearted swing. "But you need to put your whole body into it, Hilda. Power comes from the legs and core, not just the arms."
For the next hour, Hilda endured what felt like torture—endless repetitions of basic axe forms, corrections to her stance, and her brother's well-intentioned but increasingly frustrating encouragement. By the time Holst finally called for a break, Hilda's arms were trembling with exhaustion, and sweat had plastered pink strands of hair to her forehead.
"You're improving," Holst said, offering her a water flask. "Your grip was much better toward the end."
Hilda accepted the water with a noncommittal grunt. She knew her brother was trying to be kind, but they both recognized the truth: she was terrible at this, and no amount of practice seemed likely to change that fundamental fact.
"I need to check on the other trainees," Holst said after a moment of awkward silence. "Take fifteen minutes to rest, then we'll work on defensive positions."
As he walked away, Hilda slumped against the stone wall that bordered the training yard, letting the training axe fall to the ground beside her. Her fingers ached from gripping the wooden handle, and she could already feel blisters forming on her palms despite the thin leather gloves she wore.
"I hate this," she whispered fiercely to no one in particular. "I hate axes and training and being a Goneril."
The moment the words left her mouth, guilt washed over her. She didn't really hate being a Goneril—she loved her family, especially Holst, who had always been protective and kind despite his exasperating perfectionism. What she hated was the expectation that she should be something she clearly wasn't: a warrior.
With a sigh, Hilda pushed herself away from the wall. Perhaps if she disappeared for a few minutes—just long enough to cool her temper and reset her facade of cheerful compliance—she could endure the rest of the morning's training without an outburst that would surely be reported to her father.
Slipping away from the training yard was easy enough; despite his attentiveness as an instructor, Holst was currently occupied with correcting a particularly enthusiastic but technically sloppy squire. Hilda made her way along the stone pathways that wound through the Goneril estate, no particular destination in mind beyond "away from axes."
Her wanderings eventually led her to one of her favorite spots on the grounds—a small gazebo nestled within the rose garden, partially obscured by climbing vines and flowering shrubs. It was a quiet retreat, rarely visited by anyone but the gardeners and occasionally Hilda herself when she sought solitude.
Today, however, the gazebo was not empty.
Hilda froze at the garden's edge, her eyes widening at the sight before her. Seated on the gazebo's wooden bench was a figure unlike any she had seen in person before, though instantly recognizable from countless stories, puppet shows, and illustrations that had spread throughout Fódlan in recent years.
Joy Boy.
His appearance matched exactly the descriptions she had heard: clothes of pure white that seemed to glow with their own inner light, hair like white flame that moved slightly despite the stillness of the air, and most striking of all, eyes with golden irises that radiated warmth and understanding. A trail of what looked like cloud or mist draped over his shoulders, flowing and shifting as if alive.
For a moment, Hilda thought she might be hallucinating from heat and exertion. She had heard stories of Joy Boy since she was small—first from servants whispering about miraculous appearances in distant villages, then from traveling merchants bringing tales from across Fódlan, and eventually from Holst himself, who had shared his own encounter with the mysterious figure years earlier.
But to see him here, now, in her family's garden—it seemed impossible.
What made the scene even more surreal was what Joy Boy was doing. Spread on the bench beside him were the broken pieces of what Hilda recognized as one of her most treasured possessions: a delicately carved wooden music box that Holst had given her for her eighth birthday. The box had played a haunting melody from an ancient Leicester folk song, and Hilda had treasured it until two days ago, when...
Her mind flashed back to the incident. Holst, returning from border patrol duty, had been uncharacteristically tense. Reports of increased Almyran activity had put the entire estate on edge, and when Hilda had pestered her brother to tell her stories about his adventures, his usual patience had snapped. In a rare moment of frustration, he had knocked the music box from her hands, sending it crashing to the stone floor where it had shattered into pieces.
The look of horror on Holst's face had been immediate. He had apologized profusely, gathered the broken pieces, and promised to find someone who could repair it. But the damage had seemed irreparable—the delicate gears crushed, the wooden casing splintered beyond recognition.
And yet here was Joy Boy, legendary figure of hope and impossible feats, apparently attempting to fix her broken music box.
Hilda should have been afraid, or at least awestruck, but something about the scene before her was so unexpected, so charmingly mundane compared to the stories of Joy Boy splitting skies and inspiring revolutions, that she found herself stepping forward into the gazebo without hesitation.
"Hello," she said softly, her natural curiosity overcoming any trepidation. "Are you really fixing my music box?"
Joy Boy looked up, those golden eyes fixing on her with an intensity that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't. His face broke into a smile so genuinely delighted that Hilda couldn't help but smile back.
He didn't speak—another detail that matched the stories; Joy Boy never spoke, at least not with words—but he nodded enthusiastically, gesturing toward the scattered pieces as if inviting her to observe his work.
Hilda approached cautiously, settling on the bench at a respectful distance. Up close, Joy Boy was even more otherworldly, his entire being seeming to radiate a subtle light that was most noticeable in the shadows of the gazebo. The cloud-like substance around his shoulders shifted and swirled like living mist.
"I didn't think it could be fixed," Hilda admitted, eyeing the broken music box. "My brother broke it accidentally. He's usually very careful with my things, but he was upset about something at the border."
Joy Boy's expression turned sympathetic, and he reached out to pat Hilda's head gently—a gesture that reminded her of how Holst had described his own encounter years ago. Then, with exaggerated determination, Joy Boy returned his attention to the music box.
What followed was one of the strangest and most entertaining performances Hilda had ever witnessed. Joy Boy made a great show of examining each piece with comical seriousness, holding tiny gears up to his golden eyes and squinting dramatically. He pantomimed great effort as he attempted to fit pieces together, his face contorting with exaggerated strain that made Hilda giggle despite herself.
At one point, he pretended that one of the smaller gears had gotten stuck to his finger, shaking his hand wildly as if trying to dislodge the stubborn piece. The performance was so ridiculous, so completely at odds with the solemn reverence with which most people spoke of Joy Boy, that Hilda found herself laughing openly.
"You're silly," she said, the words escaping before she could consider whether it was appropriate to call a legendary figure "silly."
But Joy Boy didn't seem offended. If anything, his smile grew wider, and he gave her a conspiratorial wink before returning to his work with renewed theatrical effort.
As Hilda watched, however, she began to notice something remarkable beneath the comedic performance. Despite the exaggerated struggles, Joy Boy's fingers moved with incredible precision and gentleness. Pieces that had seemed beyond repair were somehow matching perfectly; tiny gears that had been bent were straightening under his touch; wood that had splintered was smoothing as if years of damage were being reversed.
There was true skill here—not the brute force that House Goneril valued so highly, but something else entirely: a delicate, patient craftsmanship that reminded Hilda of her own careful work with embroidery needle and silk thread.
"You're not really struggling at all, are you?" she asked quietly. "You're just pretending it's hard."
Joy Boy paused, those golden eyes meeting hers with surprising depth. For a moment, his silly facade dropped, and Hilda glimpsed something ancient and wise behind his cheerful exterior. He shook his head slowly, then held up the partially repaired music box, pointing to it and then to Hilda's own hands.
The message seemed clear enough: Some things that appear difficult are actually simple with the right touch.
"But why pretend?" Hilda pressed, genuinely curious. "Everyone says you're so powerful. Holst told me you punched the sky and split the clouds apart when he was little. Why act like fixing a music box is hard?"
Joy Boy considered her question, head tilted thoughtfully. Then he pointed to Hilda, made a lifting motion with his arms, and flexed his muscles in an exaggerated display of strength—a perfect mimicry of the stance Holst often took when demonstrating axe techniques.
Hilda frowned, trying to interpret the pantomime. "You're saying... I try to look strong? No, that's not right. I'm always telling everyone how weak I am."
Joy Boy shook his head, then pointed to himself, repeated the lifting motion, and then pointed back to Hilda and made a different gesture—gentle, delicate movements of his fingers that mimicked embroidery.
"Oh," Hilda said slowly, understanding dawning. "You mean different kinds of strength? Like, you're showing that fixing things can be as important as breaking them?"
The brilliant smile that lit up Joy Boy's face told her she had understood correctly. He nodded enthusiastically, then returned to his work on the music box with renewed focus, though the comical expressions continued.
Hilda watched in fascination as the music box gradually took shape under Joy Boy's careful hands. What had been a collection of shattered pieces was becoming whole again, each component fitting perfectly into place as if it had never been broken.
"My father says strength is everything," she said after a while, the words coming more easily than she would have expected when speaking to a legendary figure. "He says House Goneril has to be strong to protect Fódlan's Locket from Almyran invaders. That's why Holst trains so hard, and why I'm supposed to as well."
Joy Boy looked up, his golden eyes serious despite his playful demeanor. He set down the nearly completed music box and spread his hands wide, as if to encompass the entire world, then brought them together in a gesture that suggested unity rather than division.
"You think the borders don't matter?" Hilda asked, surprised. "But the Almyrans are always trying to invade. Everyone says so."
Joy Boy shook his head, then pointed to his chest, to Hilda, and made a sweeping gesture that seemed to include far distant places beyond the Goneril estate.
"We're... the same?" Hilda guessed, trying to interpret. "People are people, no matter where they're from?"
The enthusiastic nod she received suggested she'd captured at least part of his meaning. Joy Boy then pretended to swing an axe aggressively, his face twisted in an exaggerated scowl, before dropping the imaginary weapon and extending an open hand instead, his expression peaceful.
"There are better ways than fighting," Hilda translated slowly. "Ways to connect instead of... instead of just defending and attacking."
Joy Boy beamed at her understanding. He picked up the music box again, made one final adjustment to its mechanism, and then closed the repaired lid. With a flourish worthy of the most dramatic court performer, he presented it to Hilda, bowing deeply as he held it out.
Hilda accepted the box with gentle hands, marveling at its perfect restoration. Not a crack remained in the wood, and the delicate inlay work that decorated the lid—a pattern of roses that matched the Goneril gardens—seemed even more vibrant than before.
"Thank you," she whispered, genuine gratitude washing through her. "It's... it's perfect."
With trembling fingers, she opened the lid. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the tiny mechanism inside began to turn, and the familiar melody—the ancient Leicester folk song that had always reminded her of quiet evenings with Holst before he became consumed with border duties—filled the gazebo with its haunting sweetness.
Tears pricked at Hilda's eyes unexpectedly. The music box had been special not just because of its beauty, but because it represented a time when life had seemed simpler—before the weight of the Goneril name had fully settled on her shoulders, before the constant comparisons to her brother had begun to erode her confidence.
When she looked up to thank Joy Boy again, the words died on her lips. The bench beside her was empty. Like in all the stories, Joy Boy had vanished between one breath and the next, leaving no trace of his presence except for the perfectly restored music box still playing its melody in Hilda's hands.
"Hilda! Hilda, where are you?" Holst's voice carried across the gardens, concern evident in its tone. "Break time ended ages ago!"
The sound of her brother's approaching footsteps snapped Hilda out of her daze. She quickly closed the music box, silencing its melody, and slipped it into the pocket of her training clothes. Something told her that this encounter—this gift—was meant for her alone, at least for now.
"I'm here!" she called back, rising from the gazebo bench just as Holst appeared at the garden entrance, his expression a mixture of relief and exasperation.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, striding toward her. "You can't just disappear like that. Father would have my head if anything happened to you."
"I'm sorry," Hilda said, and for once, she actually meant it. "I needed some air. The training yard was so stuffy."
Holst's stern expression softened slightly. "I know it's not your favorite place. But we all have responsibilities to House Goneril, Hilda. Even you."
In the past, such words would have provoked either rebellion or calculated helplessness from Hilda. Today, with the weight of the restored music box in her pocket and the memory of Joy Boy's pantomimed message fresh in her mind, she found herself considering a different response.
"What if there are different ways to honor House Goneril?" she asked, falling into step beside her brother as they headed back toward the training yard. "Ways that don't involve axes and armor?"
Holst glanced down at her, surprise evident in his expression. "What do you mean?"
"Well..." Hilda chose her words carefully, uncertain herself of exactly what she meant. "You're amazing with weapons, and that's how you protect people. But what if I could protect people in other ways? Or... or bring people together instead of just keeping them apart?"
She expected dismissal or perhaps condescending amusement. Instead, Holst stopped walking, turning to face her with unexpected seriousness.
"Joy Boy said something similar to me, once," he said quietly. "Not in words, but... I understood. Strength takes many forms, and not all of them involve breaking things."
Hilda stared up at her brother, momentarily speechless. Of all the reactions she had anticipated, this understanding had not been among them.
"You're not angry?" she asked tentatively.
Holst smiled, reaching out to ruffle her pink hair much as Joy Boy had done earlier. "How could I be angry at my brilliant little sister for thinking deeply about her place in the world? Besides," he added with a wink, "you're terrible with an axe. Perhaps it's time we found something better suited to your actual talents."
Relief and something like hope bloomed in Hilda's chest. "Does that mean I don't have to go back to training today?"
"Nice try," Holst laughed, resuming their walk toward the training yard. "You still have to complete today's session. Father's orders. But after that... perhaps we can talk to him about adjusting your education to include more than just martial arts."
It wasn't a complete victory, but it was a beginning. As they reached the training yard, Hilda slipped her hand into her pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the restored music box. A reminder that some broken things could be fixed, and that strength could take many forms—including the patient, gentle art of putting pieces back together.
And if that lesson came with a side of kindness toward others, regardless of which side of Fódlan's Throat they happened to be born on... well, perhaps that was the most important restoration of all.
Chapter 22: The Scholar's Ambition
Summary:
In which Constance von Nuvelle, determined to restore her fallen house to glory, discovers that ambition alone is not enough when faced with the rigid hierarchies of the Royal School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad. As she struggles with both her studies and the prejudice of her peers, an unexpected encounter with Joy Boy reveals that true strength may come not from recovering what was lost, but from building something entirely new.
Chapter Text
The cold of Fhirdiad bit through Constance's cloak as she hurried across the courtyard of the Royal School of Sorcery, her arms laden with tomes of advanced magical theory. Winter had come early this year, dusting the stone walkways with frost that crunched beneath her boots. She cursed under her breath as one particularly heavy volume began to slip from her grasp, threatening to drag the entire stack down with it.
"Not today," she muttered, shifting her weight to steady the precarious tower. "I refuse to give them the satisfaction."
Them being the other students who had gathered near the entrance to the lecture hall, their eyes tracking her progress with barely concealed disdain. Children of noble houses still standing, secure in their family names and fortunes, watching the last daughter of fallen House Nuvelle struggle beneath the weight of her ambitions.
Constance lifted her chin higher, refusing to let them see even a flicker of weakness. At fourteen, she was younger than most of the students in the advanced theoretical magic course, having earned her place through sheer brilliance rather than connections. A fact that had earned her the resentment of classmates twice her age and half her talent.
"Need a hand with those?"
The voice came from her left—warm, familiar, and tinged with gentle amusement. Constance turned to find Mercedes von Martritz walking beside her, already reaching to take some of the books.
"Mercie!" Constance's facade of dignity cracked into a genuine smile. "I thought you were volunteering at the cathedral this morning."
Mercedes deftly relieved her of half the stack, balancing them with practiced ease. "I was, but Sister Greta sent me to deliver medicines to the school infirmary." Her eyes crinkled with affection. "And it seems the Goddess guided my timing perfectly."
"The Goddess or someone else," Constance said quietly, her gaze flickering briefly skyward.
Four years had passed since that remarkable winter when Joy Boy had transformed Baron Bartels into a rat, reuniting Mercedes with her brother and changing all their lives. Four years since Constance had begun secretly collecting every scrap of information she could find about the enigmatic white-haired figure who defied the laws of nature with childlike glee.
"How is your mother?" Constance asked as they navigated around a group of chattering first-year students. "And Emile—forgive me, Jeritza?"
"Both well," Mercedes replied, her smile softening at the mention of her family. "Mother and Herr Martritz are expanding the business to Derdriu, and Jeritza has been offered to become a at the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach."
Constance nearly dropped her books in surprise. "Garreg Mach? That's... that's incredible, Mercie! The most prestigious school in all of Fódlan!"
"Yes," Mercedes agreed, though something in her tone suggested concern. "Though I worry about him there, so close to the heart of the Church of Seiros. You know how... complicated our relationship with formal religion has become."
Constance nodded, understanding perfectly. The Martritz family maintained the appearance of devout Seiros worship, but the crystal flowers they wore concealed beneath their clothes told a different story—one of loyalty to a different kind of divinity, one who painted storms into family portraits and transformed cruel noblemen into rodents.
"And what of you?" Mercedes asked as they reached the lecture hall. "Professor Hanneman mentioned your thesis proposal has been accepted. Something about Crest manipulation through magical means?"
Constance straightened, pride flaring in her chest. "Indeed! I've been developing a theory that with properly calibrated magical energy, one might temporarily amplify or even suppress the manifestation of a Crest." She lowered her voice, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "If I can prove it works, it could revolutionize our understanding of Crestology. And with such an achievement, surely House Nuvelle's restoration would be within reach."
Mercedes' expression clouded slightly. "Constance... you know I support your dreams, but this obsession with restoring your house—"
"Is the only thing keeping me going," Constance finished firmly. "I am the last of the Nuvelles, Mercie. If I don't restore our name, our legacy dies with me."
Before Mercedes could respond, the bell tower chimed, signaling the imminent start of classes. Students began filtering into the lecture hall, some casting curious glances at the mismatched pair—the fallen noble and the merchant's daughter, both outsiders in their own ways.
"I should go," Mercedes said, handing the books back to Constance. "We're still meeting for tea this afternoon?"
"At the usual place," Constance confirmed with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mercie. For everything."
Mercedes squeezed her arm gently before departing, leaving Constance to face the lecture hall alone. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and entered the imposing room, navigating to her usual seat in the front row—deliberately isolated from the clusters of students who preferred to keep their distance from the intense, ambitious orphan of House Nuvelle.
Professor Hanneman von Essar stood at the lectern, his scholarly presence commanding immediate silence as he adjusted his monocle. At forty-five, the renowned Crestologist had already revolutionized the field with his discoveries, and his decision to teach at the Royal School of Sorcery for a term had drawn students from across Fódlan.
"Today," he announced, "we will discuss the theoretical correlation between magical aptitude and Crest manifestation. Recent studies suggest that certain magical techniques may temporarily enhance the expression of one's Crest, though such methods remain highly experimental and potentially dangerous."
Constance sat straighter, her quill poised over pristine parchment. This was precisely the subject of her research, the cornerstone of her ambitious thesis. If she could develop a spell to enhance Crest powers—or better yet, to temporarily grant Crest-like abilities to those born without them—the implications would be revolutionary.
And more importantly, it would be the achievement she needed to petition King Lambert for the restoration of House Nuvelle's lands and title.
The lecture proceeded with Hanneman's characteristic thoroughness, each point meticulously explained and documented with references to existing research. Constance's quill flew across the page, recording every nuance, every theoretical possibility that might fuel her own work.
"Miss von Nuvelle," Hanneman called suddenly, causing Constance to jolt upright. "Perhaps you might share your thoughts on the ethical implications of Crest enhancement, given your own research interests?"
All eyes in the hall turned toward her, some curious, others coldly judgmental. From the back row came a barely concealed snicker—Mason von Arundel, distant cousin to the current Lord Arundel of the Empire and one of Constance's most vocal detractors.
"With pleasure, Professor," Constance replied, rising to her feet with practiced poise. "While concerns about creating inequality through magical Crest enhancement are valid, I believe such technology could actually democratize power in Fódlan. If those born without Crests could temporarily access similar abilities, it would challenge the very foundation of our nobility system, which privileges Crest-bearers above all others."
A murmur rippled through the lecture hall—some sounds of interest, others of outrage. Matthias's face darkened visibly.
"A provocative perspective," Hanneman commented, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "Though one must consider whether such technology might also be abused to further entrench existing power structures rather than dismantle them."
"Only if we allow it to be, Professor," Constance countered, passion heating her words. "Any tool can be wielded for good or ill. The responsibility lies with the wielder."
"And you believe yourself qualified to make such determinations?" Mason called from the back, his aristocratic drawl dripping with contempt. "A representative of a fallen house, desperate to claw back relevance through radical theories?"
Hanneman frowned sharply. "That will be quite enough, Mr. von Arundel. Personal attacks have no place in academic discourse."
But the damage was done. Titters of laughter spread through the hall, and Constance felt her cheeks burn with humiliation even as she maintained her dignified posture.
"I believe my research will speak for itself," she replied coolly, forcing steel into her voice. "And history will judge which of us contributed more meaningfully to the advancement of magical theory."
The remainder of the lecture passed in a blur of tense silence. When finally dismissed, Constance gathered her materials with methodical precision, ignoring the whispers that followed her out of the hall. Only when she had reached the relative privacy of the library's eastern alcove did she allow her composure to crack, her hands trembling slightly as she set down her books.
"Ignorant, privileged fools," she whispered fiercely, blinking back the hot pressure behind her eyes. "I'll show them all. When I've restored House Nuvelle, when my name commands respect again, they'll regret every dismissive word."
Hours passed as Constance lost herself in research, the library's atmosphere shifting from bustling activity to hushed quiet as afternoon mellowed into evening. She had forgotten about tea with Mercedes, forgotten about dinner, forgotten everything but the formulae and theories that might unlock the secret to Crest enhancement.
"Miss von Nuvelle?"
Constance startled, looking up to find Professor Hanneman standing beside her table, concern evident in his scholarly features.
"Professor! I apologize—I didn't hear you approach."
"Quite understandable when one is absorbed in study," he replied kindly. "However, the library will be closing shortly, and I noticed you've been here since the conclusion of my lecture."
Constance glanced toward the windows, surprised to find darkness had fallen. "I... lost track of time, it seems."
Hanneman nodded, his gaze falling to her notes—pages of complex magical formulae and theoretical constructs far beyond what most students her age could comprehend.
"Impressive work," he commented. "Your approach to combining elemental manipulation with Crest theory shows remarkable insight."
Pride warmed Constance's chest. "Thank you, Professor. I've been developing these ideas since—"
"Since the fall of House Nuvelle," Hanneman finished gently. "Your determination is admirable, Miss von Nuvelle, but I must express concern about your motivations."
Constance stiffened. "My motivations?"
"The best magical research comes from curiosity, from a desire to understand the world's mysteries," Hanneman explained, settling into the chair across from her. "Research driven primarily by personal ambition often leads down problematic paths."
"With respect, Professor, curiosity alone doesn't restore fallen houses," Constance replied, more sharply than she'd intended. "And I fail to see how my desire to reclaim my family's legacy invalidates the quality of my work."
Hanneman sighed, removing his monocle to polish it thoughtfully. "It doesn't invalidate it. But it may blind you to ethical considerations or alternative interpretations that don't align with your goals." He replaced the monocle, his gaze gentle but direct. "The greatest discoveries often come when we're willing to abandon our preconceptions and follow where the research truly leads—even if that destination isn't the one we initially sought."
Before Constance could formulate a response, the librarian approached to announce closing time. Hanneman rose, gathering his own materials.
"Consider what I've said, Miss von Nuvelle. Your talent is extraordinary—I would hate to see it consumed by a single-minded quest that might ultimately prove less fulfilling than you imagine."
With that unsettling parting thought, he left Constance to gather her books and notes, frustration simmering beneath her composed exterior. Even Hanneman, who had initially seemed so supportive of her research, apparently harbored doubts about her motivations.
The walk back to her modest lodgings passed in a blur of swirling snow and darker thoughts. As the last scion of House Nuvelle, Constance occupied an uncomfortable position in Fhirdiad's social hierarchy—too noble to live completely as a commoner, too fallen to be accepted among the aristocracy. The small apartment she maintained near the school was neat but sparse, affordable only because Mercedes' stepfather had arranged a favorable rent with the landlord.
Another small charity she endured for the sake of her ambitions.
Constance climbed the narrow stairs to her rooms, fumbling with her key in the dim light of the stairwell. Once inside, she lit the lamps with a swift fire spell—one of the few conveniences her magical talents afforded her—and dropped her books onto the small desk that dominated the main room.
Only then did she notice the letter sitting atop her pillow, its seal bearing the insignia of the Royal School of Sorcery.
With trembling fingers, Constance broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, her eyes scanning the formal script:
Miss Constance von Nuvelle,
We regret to inform you that the Committee for Advanced Research has denied funding for your proposed thesis on "Magical Enhancement of Crest Manifestation." While the committee acknowledges the theoretical merit of your work, concerns have been raised regarding both the ethical implications and the practical feasibility of the research within the confines of our institution.
Additionally, your status as an unsponsored student without noble patronage means the School cannot assume liability for experimental magic of this nature.
You may continue your studies in the general program, but access to the restricted magical research facilities will not be granted without official sponsorship from a recognized noble house or significant revision to your proposal.
With respect, Camila Arnim Head of the Committee for Advanced Research
The letter slipped from Constance's fingers, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird. Denial. After months of preparation, of sleepless nights perfecting her proposal, of enduring the whispers and sidelong glances—denied, not on the merits of her work, but because she lacked the proper connections and support.
Because House Nuvelle was fallen, and Constance von Nuvelle stood alone.
A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped her lips, quickly transforming into something dangerously close to a sob. She pressed her hand against her mouth, refusing to give in to the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.
"This changes nothing," she declared to the empty room. "Nothing! I'll find another way. I always do."
But even as the words left her mouth, doubt crept in like the chill through her poorly insulated windows. How many more doors would close in her face? How many more rejections must she endure before accepting that perhaps the world had moved on, leaving House Nuvelle behind in the dust of history?
Sleep eluded her that night, her mind racing through increasingly desperate alternatives. By dawn, exhaustion had settled into her bones, but determination had hardened in her heart. She would not give up—could not give up. Not when her family's legacy rested solely on her shoulders.
Constance dragged herself through her morning routine, the habitual elegance of her appearance maintained through sheer force of will. Dark circles beneath her eyes were concealed with powder, her golden hair arranged in its customary elaborate style. No one would see her falter, least of all those who would take satisfaction in her failure.
The morning sun had barely crested the city walls when Constance left her lodgings, drawn not toward the school where she had been so thoroughly rebuffed, but toward the edges of the city where the old watchtower stood abandoned. It was their special place—hers and Mercedes'—where they could speak freely away from prying eyes and judgmental ears.
The tower had once served as a lookout post during more turbulent times, but years of neglect had rendered it useless for military purposes. Its upper chambers, however, remained relatively intact, offering a panoramic view of Fhirdiad and the mountains beyond.
Constance climbed the winding stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. Mercedes would not be there—they had arranged to meet that afternoon, not at this ungodly early hour—but Constance needed the solitude, needed the perspective that came from seeing the city spread beneath her like a map of possibilities.
The door to the upper chamber creaked open at her touch, and Constance stepped into the circular room, prepared to embrace the solitude—
Only to find she was not alone.
A figure stood by the eastern window, white garments flowing gently despite the stillness of the air. Hair like living flame moved in an invisible breeze, and when he turned to face her, golden eyes luminous with their own inner light, Constance felt her breath catch in her throat.
Joy Boy.
Four years since she had last seen him transform a storm into her family's memories, four years of collecting stories and whispers about his appearances across Fódlan, and here he stood—in the very place she had come seeking solace.
"You," she whispered, frozen in the doorway. "How did you know I'd be here?"
Joy Boy tilted his head, his expression curious and kind. He gestured toward the rising sun visible through the window, then pointed to his chest, as if to say: I didn't—I was just watching the sunrise.
Constance took a hesitant step forward, then another, drawn by the gentle radiance that seemed to emanate from his very being. "Do you remember me? From the storm, four years ago?"
A brilliant smile spread across Joy Boy's face, and he nodded enthusiastically. From within his flowing white garments, he produced a small object—a perfectly preserved flower petal, iridescent in the morning light. With delicate movements, he placed it in Constance's palm.
She stared at it in wonder. "From the roses in our garden. The ones mother loved so much." Tears pricked at her eyes. "You remember."
Joy Boy's expression softened, and he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. The touch was like summer sunshine after a long winter—warm, revitalizing, full of promise. Constance felt the weight of her failures and fears momentarily lift, replaced by a clarity she hadn't experienced in months.
"I failed," she admitted, the words easier to speak in his presence than they had been even in the privacy of her own thoughts. "Everything I've worked for, all my plans to restore House Nuvelle—they rejected my research proposal. Without it, I have no path forward."
Joy Boy listened with solemn attention, his golden eyes reflecting understanding beyond his youthful appearance. When she finished, he moved to the center of the chamber, kneeling to place his palm flat against the worn stone floor.
Golden light spread from his touch, rippling outward in concentric circles. The dusty, neglected room transformed around them—cobwebs dissolving, cracked stones mending, faded paint refreshing to vibrant colors. But more than mere restoration was taking place. The chamber was changing, evolving into something new: a perfect circular workspace with shelves lining the walls, magical apparatus appearing as if conjured from thin air, a large worktable at the center inlaid with symbols of power.
When the transformation completed, Joy Boy stood and gestured around the space with evident pride, his smile encouraging Constance to explore what he had created.
"A laboratory," she breathed, running her fingers over equipment that would be the envy of the Royal School of Sorcery. "My own research space."
But as she turned to thank him, Joy Boy shook his head and pointed directly at her, then made a circular motion encompassing the entire room. His meaning was clear: This wasn't just any laboratory—it was specifically designed for her, tailored to her unique magical approach.
"I don't understand," Constance said, overwhelmed by the gift but confused by its implications. "Why would you do this for me? I'm nobody special—just the last daughter of a fallen house, grasping at shadows of former glory."
Joy Boy's expression grew serious. He approached one of the newly created shelves and selected a book, opening it to reveal blank pages. With a finger trailing golden light, he began to draw on the first page—not words, but images that moved and shifted as if alive.
Constance watched, transfixed, as he depicted a tree being violently uprooted by a storm, its branches broken, its leaves scattered. Then, on the facing page, he drew seeds from the fallen tree taking root in new soil, growing not into a replica of the original tree, but into something different—a garden of diverse plants, each beautiful in its own right.
"You're saying... that I shouldn't try to restore exactly what was lost," Constance interpreted slowly, "but instead create something new from the remains."
Joy Boy nodded vigorously, his smile returning. He turned to a new page and drew a simple image of Constance herself, but surrounded by pulsing light that seemed to represent magic. Next to it, he drew the crest of House Nuvelle—but rather than placing it above her as tradition would dictate, he showed it flowing from her, transforming into new patterns and forms.
"The legacy of House Nuvelle isn't in the title or lands," Constance murmured, understanding dawning. "It's in me—in what I create, what I discover." She looked around at the laboratory again, seeing it now not just as a workspace but as a symbol of possibility. "I don't need their approval or their facilities. I can forge my own path."
Joy Boy clapped his hands in delight, the sound oddly musical in the transformed chamber. His golden eyes sparkled with approval and what almost looked like pride.
The weight that had been crushing Constance's spirit began to lift. Perhaps Hanneman had been right after all—her single-minded focus on restoration had blinded her to other possibilities, other paths that might ultimately prove more fulfilling.
"But how will I explain this?" she asked, gesturing to the miraculous laboratory that had appeared in what was supposed to be an abandoned watchtower. "People will ask questions."
Joy Boy shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. He mimicked the action of keeping a secret, then pointed toward the sky visible through the window, where clouds had begun to gather despite the earlier clear morning.
"Our secret," Constance agreed, understanding his meaning. "And if anyone does discover it..."
Joy Boy made a dramatic gesture with his hands, mimicking an explosion of light, his expression comically intense. The message was clear enough: He had ways of distracting people when necessary.
Constance laughed—a genuine laugh, the first in what felt like ages. "Thank you," she said, infusing the simple words with all the gratitude she couldn't adequately express. "Not just for this, but for showing me another way forward."
Joy Boy bowed with theatrical flourish, his flowing white garments rippling like water. Then, with a playful wink, he moved toward the window. Instead of opening it, he simply stepped through the solid glass as if it were no more substantial than morning mist, his form dissolving into the gathering clouds outside.
Constance rushed to the window, pressing her hands against the now-solid glass, watching as the clouds briefly took the shape of a smiling face before dispersing on the wind.
Alone in her miraculous new laboratory, Constance von Nuvelle felt something she hadn't experienced in years: not just hope, but freedom—freedom from the crushing weight of expectations she had placed upon herself, freedom to explore magical theory for its own sake rather than as a means to restoration.
House Nuvelle wasn't dead. It was transforming, evolving through her into something new—something that perhaps might one day outshine even its former glory.
Constance ran her fingers over the equipment Joy Boy had created, mind already racing with experiments now possible, theories now testable. She would still prove herself to the magical community, still reclaim respect for the Nuvelle name—but on her own terms, following the path of discovery rather than mere restoration.
As she began organizing the workspace, arranging tools and components to her preference, Constance smiled at the thought of Mercedes' reaction when she showed her this miraculous gift. Perhaps this could be their new meeting place—a sanctuary where they could discuss their encounters with the mysterious white-haired youth who had changed both their lives so profoundly.
Outside, the clouds parted briefly, allowing a shaft of sunlight to stream through the window and illuminate the worktable where Constance stood planning her future—a future built not on what was lost, but on what might yet be discovered.
Chapter 23: The Shadow and the Smile
Summary:
Two years before the events at the Officers Academy, Yuri Leclerc finds himself in the criminal underbelly of Faerghus's capital city. Operating his network of spies and thieves, he orchestrates a dangerous plan to expose a corrupt noble who's exploiting refugees from Duscur. But when his carefully laid scheme threatens to unravel, an unexpected encounter with the enigmatic Joy Boy changes everything, leaving Yuri to question his methods and reconsider what true justice looks like in a broken world.
Chapter Text
The alleyways of Fhirdiad's poorest district were a maze of contradictions—simultaneously the safest and most dangerous place for someone like Yuri Leclerc. Safe, because he controlled them; dangerous, because everyone else wanted to. Tonight, as sleet pattered against crumbling stone walls and soaked through threadbare awnings, Yuri moved through these familiar passages with practiced ease, his soft leather boots making no sound on the wet cobblestones.
At sixteen, he carried himself with the confidence of someone twice his age and the wariness of someone who had survived double that. His lavender hair was pulled back beneath a nondescript hood, the distinctive color hidden to avoid recognition. In this part of Fhirdiad, standing out usually meant ending up dead.
"Boss," a voice whispered from the shadows of a recessed doorway. Yuri didn't startle; he'd sensed the presence three paces before.
"Report," he replied, not slowing his stride. The figure fell into step beside him—a woman called Ferris, one of his most reliable informants.
"The shipment arrived at Lord Kleiman's warehouse an hour ago. Six crates, just like you said. Heavy ones too, from the way the guards were sweating."
Yuri allowed himself a small smile. "And our friend inside?"
"In position. He'll unlock the side entrance at midnight, exactly as planned."
"Guards?"
"Four outside, rotating in pairs. Another two inside. All armed, but they're drinking. Third shift on a cold night—they're not expecting trouble."
Yuri nodded, absorbing the information with quiet satisfaction. Six weeks of preparation, of carefully placed bribes and meticulously crafted lies, were finally bearing fruit. Tonight, he would have proof that Lord Kleiman—a minor noble whose lands bordered Duscur—was profiting from the misery that had followed the Tragedy. Selling relief supplies provided by the crown, hoarding medicines meant for survivors, all while presenting himself in court as a champion of reconstruction efforts.
"And the royal messenger?" Yuri asked, referring to the final, most crucial element of his plan.
Ferris hesitated, just slightly. "That's... complicated. He's here in the city, but there's something else. A rumor that's got the whole capital talking."
Yuri stopped walking, turning to face his informant directly. Complications were rarely good in his line of work. "What kind of rumor?"
"They say Joy Boy has been seen in the city. Three separate sightings since yesterday morning."
The name sent an unexpected shiver down Yuri's spine. Joy Boy—the mysterious figure who had appeared during the Tragedy of Duscur four years ago, whose interventions had saved countless lives and exposed the true conspirators behind the attempt on King Lambert's life. Some called him a god, others a spirit, still others some kind of powerful mage. Whatever he was, his appearances were unpredictable and, according to those who had witnessed them, transformative.
"That's... interesting," Yuri said carefully, "but irrelevant to our plans. Focus on what matters—getting that royal messenger to Kleiman's warehouse at precisely the right moment."
Ferris nodded, but her expression remained uncertain. "It's just... people say when Joy Boy appears, things change. Plans unravel. The impossible happens."
"I don't deal in the impossible," Yuri replied firmly. "I deal in probability and preparation. Have everyone in position by eleven. No mistakes tonight."
With a respectful nod, Ferris melted back into the darkness, leaving Yuri alone with his thoughts and the steady drum of sleet against stone.
He continued toward his temporary headquarters—a seemingly abandoned tavern that served as the nerve center for his growing network of spies, thieves, and informants. Two years ago, he had fled Count Rowe's estate with nothing but the clothes on his back and a burning determination to make a difference in his own way. Now he commanded the loyalty of dozens of cast-offs and forgotten souls throughout Faerghus, all united by a common purpose: justice for those the nobility ignored.
Most called his group the Mockingbirds—a name Yuri had chosen deliberately. Like the bird that mimicked the songs of others, his people moved among the elite, adopting their mannerisms and speech, infiltrating their households as servants, stable hands, and cooks. They listened, they learned, and they reported back. Information was Yuri's true currency, more valuable than gold or jewels.
The tavern appeared deserted from the outside—windows boarded, door reinforced with iron bands, a weather-beaten sign hanging lopsided above the entrance. But appearances, as Yuri well knew, were almost always deceiving. He rapped on the door in a specific pattern, waited three heartbeats, then knocked once more.
The door opened just wide enough to admit him, revealing a transformed interior that bore no resemblance to its dilapidated exterior. Lanterns hung from the rafters, casting warm light over mismatched furniture arranged in conversational clusters. Maps covered one wall, marked with colored pins indicating various nobles' estates, trade routes, and points of interest. A dozen people occupied the space, some studying documents, others maintaining weapons or equipment.
"Any problems?" asked the broad-shouldered man who had let him in—Bryce, a former knight who had been dismissed from service after questioning a superior's order to execute Duscur civilians.
"Nothing unexpected," Yuri replied, pulling back his hood and running a hand through his distinctive lavender hair. "But I want extra vigilance tonight. Double the lookouts."
"Something's got you spooked," Bryce observed with the directness of a military man.
Yuri shrugged off his damp cloak, draping it over a chair near the fire. "Not spooked. Cautious. There's a rumor Joy Boy's in the city."
The effect of the name was immediate—conversations halted mid-sentence, heads turned toward him, expressions ranging from wonder to apprehension.
"Here?" asked a young woman mending a cloak by the fire. Her name was Erin, and she had fled an arranged marriage to a nobleman three times her age. "In Fhirdiad?"
"Rumors," Yuri emphasized. "And even if true, it changes nothing about tonight's plan."
A murmur rippled through the room. From the back, an older man with a gray-flecked beard spoke up. "I was in Duscur when he came," he said quietly. "During the Tragedy. Saw him with my own eyes."
Yuri recognized the speaker—Henrik, a merchant who had lost his entire caravan during the violence. "And?" he prompted, curious despite himself.
Henrik's weathered face took on a distant quality, as if seeing something far beyond the tavern walls. "He moved like nothing I've ever seen. Not walking, not flying... just being where he needed to be. His eyes..." The man shook his head. "Gold, but not like metal. Like sunlight you could drown in. And when he smiled..."
"What happened?" Erin asked, her mending forgotten in her lap.
"A Kingdom soldier had cornered a Duscur family—mother, father, three little ones. His sword was raised, and there was such hatred in his face... Then suddenly, Joy Boy was there, standing between them. Didn't say a word—they say he never speaks—just smiled at the soldier. And the man... he dropped his sword. Started weeping. Begged forgiveness from the family he'd been about to kill."
A heavy silence followed the story, broken only by the crackling of the hearth fire.
"Well," Yuri said finally, "divine intervention or not, we have work to do. Lord Kleiman won't expose himself."
The practical reminder seemed to break the spell. People returned to their tasks with renewed focus, though the energy in the room had shifted subtly—an undercurrent of anticipation had joined the usual pre-operation tension.
Yuri retreated to a small room at the back of the tavern that served as his private quarters and planning space. A narrow bed occupied one corner, rarely used; a desk covered in papers dominated the center. He lit another lantern and spread out the detailed map of Lord Kleiman's warehouse and surrounding streets.
For the next hour, he reviewed every aspect of the plan, mentally walking through each step, anticipating potential problems and their solutions. The operation was relatively straightforward: infiltrate the warehouse, document the stolen relief supplies, then ensure a royal messenger "accidentally" discovered the evidence. The resulting scandal would force an investigation, one that Kleiman's influence couldn't easily suppress.
What worried Yuri wasn't the plan itself but the timing. The royal messenger—a minor court official named Theobald—was in Fhirdiad only briefly before returning to King Lambert with reports from various nobles. The opportunity to use him was fleeting.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Enter," he called, not looking up from his maps.
The door opened to admit a slender figure wrapped in a nondescript cloak, water still beading on the rough fabric. Fingers reached up to lower the hood, revealing a face Yuri recognized immediately—Mara, one of his most valuable agents, currently employed as a household servant to Lord Kleiman himself.
"You're supposed to be at the estate," Yuri said, instantly alert. Mara would never abandon her post without good reason.
"Change of plans," she replied, her voice tight with urgency. "Kleiman moved up the schedule. He's selling half the supplies tonight—right now—to a merchant from Sreng. The evidence will be gone by midnight."
Yuri swore under his breath. Months of work, undermined by a simple change in timetable. "The messenger won't arrive until after eleven. We need another approach."
Mara shook her head. "There's more. Kleiman is there personally, overseeing the transaction. And he's brought his personal guard—six men, all veterans."
This was rapidly becoming a worst-case scenario. Yuri's mind raced through possibilities, each less appealing than the last. They could abandon the operation entirely, but who knew when another opportunity would present itself? They could attempt to interrupt the sale by force, but that would mean casualties among his people. Or they could try to document the transaction as it happened, though without the royal messenger present, the evidence would be dismissed as the work of criminals.
"We proceed," Yuri decided after a moment. "New objective: document the sale itself. Get me proof of Kleiman's direct involvement—witnesses won't be enough, I need something irrefutable. And find a way to delay that merchant's departure."
Mara nodded, already turning to leave. "I'll spread the word. But Yuri..." She hesitated. "Be careful tonight. There's something strange in the air."
Alone once more, Yuri allowed himself a moment of frustration, running his hands through his hair. Complications were inevitable in his line of work, but tonight's setback felt particularly bitter. Lord Kleiman's exploitation wasn't abstract policy—it translated directly into suffering. Every healing potion he sold for profit was a Duscur child who remained ill; every withheld blanket meant a refugee family shivering through the harsh Faerghus winter.
The stakes were too high to fail. And yet...
Yuri shook himself. Self-doubt was a luxury he couldn't afford. Adjusting his daggers beneath his sleeves and checking that his lockpicks were secure in their hidden pocket, he prepared to enter the field himself. Some operations required personal attention, and with the timeline accelerated, this had become one of them.
Back in the main room, he found his people already mobilizing, Bryce efficiently issuing updated instructions based on Mara's information. Yuri caught his lieutenant's eye and nodded approval before addressing the group.
"Change of approach," he announced. "Kleiman's selling now, which means we have a limited window. I'll lead the documentation team personally. Bryce, you're responsible for delaying the merchant's departure—nothing permanent, just enough to give us time with the evidence. Everyone else maintains their assigned positions."
No one questioned the revised plan. That was the advantage of working with professionals who trusted his judgment—when circumstances changed, they adapted without complaint.
Outside, the sleet had given way to a fine, freezing mist that shrouded streetlamps in ghostly halos. Perfect weather for stealth operations, though miserable for those standing watch. Yuri moved through the darkened streets with three of his most skilled operatives in loose formation behind him, all dressed as common laborers returning from a late shift.
Lord Kleiman's warehouse stood near the commercial district, a large stone building with a sloped roof and few windows. As they approached, Yuri noted with approval that there was no obvious sign of his people in the vicinity—if he couldn't spot them, it was unlikely Kleiman's men would either.
A soft whistle from the shadows directed them to a narrow service alley behind the main structure. Here, a small door intended for individual workers rather than cargo provided their entry point. A figure slipped from the darkness to meet them—the inside man Ferris had mentioned earlier.
"Six guards outside as expected," the man reported in hushed tones. "But there are eight inside now, not two. Kleiman brought extras, and they're alert."
Yuri frowned. "And Kleiman himself?"
"Office on the upper level. The merchant's with him now—they're finalizing terms while the goods are being prepared for transport."
"The evidence?"
The man produced a key from his pocket. "Store room three has the ledgers. Everything's documented—Kleiman's careful that way. Thinks his position protects him from consequences."
Yuri took the key, a cold smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Let's disabuse him of that notion."
With practiced coordination, the team slipped through the service door and into the dimly lit interior of the warehouse. Massive wooden crates lined the walls, some bearing the royal seal of Faerghus—the official relief supplies meant for Duscur. Others, unmarked, presumably contained goods acquired through less official channels.
They moved silently, staying in shadows, freezing in place whenever the heavy tread of guards approached. Yuri led them toward the back of the warehouse where numbered store rooms lined a narrow corridor. Finding the door marked "3," he inserted the key with steady hands and eased it open just enough to slip inside.
The small room was lined with shelves containing ledgers and documents—the administrative heart of Kleiman's operation. Yuri signaled one of his operatives to stand watch at the door while he and the others quickly began examining the materials.
"Here," whispered a woman called Nessa, indicating a leather-bound ledger. "Records of incoming royal supplies matched against outgoing private sales."
Yuri took the book, flipping through pages of meticulous entries. Names, dates, quantities—all the evidence they needed, recorded in Kleiman's own hand. The noble's arrogance was breathtaking; he hadn't even bothered to disguise his activities in his private records.
"This is it," Yuri confirmed, tucking the ledger into his jacket. "Now we need proof of tonight's transaction."
A commotion from the main floor interrupted their search—raised voices, the sound of something heavy falling. Yuri motioned for silence, trying to make out what was happening.
"Check everywhere!" a commanding voice ordered—Kleiman himself, Yuri guessed. "Someone triggered the perimeter alarm. Find them!"
Yuri suppressed a curse. One of his lookouts must have been spotted. Their timetable had just collapsed from hours to minutes.
"Change of plans," he whispered. "We need to reach the office now, before Kleiman has time to destroy evidence of tonight's sale."
His team exchanged glances but nodded agreement. This was why they followed Yuri—his ability to adapt when plans went awry, to find opportunities in chaos.
They slipped back into the corridor, now moving with greater urgency though still maintaining stealth. The upper level was accessible via a wooden staircase at the far end of the warehouse—exposed, difficult to approach unseen when the entire building was on alert.
Yuri led them behind a stack of crates, assessing options. Direct confrontation was out of the question; Kleiman's guards were experienced fighters, and Yuri's people were infiltrators, not soldiers. They needed a distraction.
As if on cue, a thunderous crash came from the front of the warehouse—the main doors being thrown open with tremendous force. Guards shouted in alarm, boots pounded on stone floors as they rushed toward the disturbance.
"Now," Yuri hissed, seizing the opportunity. They darted from cover, reaching the staircase and ascending quickly. At the top, a short hallway led to an office with light spilling from beneath the door.
Yuri pressed his ear against the wood, listening. Two voices—Kleiman and presumably the merchant—engaged in heated discussion.
"This interruption is unacceptable," the merchant was saying, his accent marking him as from Sreng. "I was promised discretion."
"A minor security issue," Kleiman replied smoothly. "Being handled as we speak. Now, about the additional transport fee..."
Yuri tried the handle carefully—locked. But locks had never presented much of an obstacle for someone with his skills. With deft fingers, he withdrew his picks and set to work on the mechanism. Behind him, his operatives maintained watch on both ends of the hallway, ready to signal at the first sign of guards.
The lock yielded with a satisfying click. Yuri eased the door open just enough to peer inside. Lord Kleiman—a thin man with receding gray hair and cold eyes—stood behind a desk covered in documents. Across from him sat a burly merchant in furs, looking increasingly displeased with the situation.
Most importantly, between them lay a contract with signatures freshly applied, next to a substantial bag that clinked with the unmistakable sound of gold coins when Kleiman shifted it.
Perfect evidence—if Yuri could somehow document it. But how to capture this scene without being discovered? They needed the royal messenger, someone whose testimony would carry weight.
It was at that precise moment that Yuri noticed something odd about the office—specifically, about the ornate coat rack in the corner. It hadn't been there a moment ago, he was certain. And something about it seemed... wrong. The proportions were slightly off, as if it had been made by someone who had only ever heard coat racks described but never actually seen one.
As he watched, momentarily forgetting his mission in his confusion, the coat rack... sneezed.
Kleiman and the merchant froze mid-conversation, turning toward the sound. The coat rack wobbled slightly, then, with a flourish that defied physical explanation, transformed into a figure wearing pure white clothing, with hair like white flame and large, golden eyes that seemed to illuminate the room from within.
Joy Boy.
He had appeared exactly as the stories described—mysterious, impossible, and wearing what appeared to be... a false mustache and an oversized inspector's hat that hadn't been there a second ago.
Before anyone could react, Joy Boy produced an official-looking badge from nowhere, flashing it with such conviction that neither Kleiman nor the merchant thought to question its authenticity. He began a pantomime of inspecting the office with exaggerated movements—peering under the desk, examining the contract with a comically large magnifying glass that he pulled from his sleeve, and weighing the bag of coins in his hand with an expression of profound disapproval.
Yuri watched in disbelief as Lord Kleiman—a man known for his ruthless business acumen and utter disdain for authority—began to sweat profusely under Joy Boy's silent scrutiny.
"I can explain," Kleiman stammered, seemingly forgetting that Joy Boy hadn't actually spoken. "These supplies were... surplus. The crown authorized their sale."
Joy Boy raised a single eyebrow so high it briefly detached from his face entirely before snapping back into place. He pointed at the contract, then at the royal seal visible on some of the documents, then made a gesture like someone being placed in shackles.
"It's not illegal!" Kleiman protested, his composure crumbling entirely. "Everyone does it! Baron Dominic, Count Galatea—they all take a percentage of relief supplies for personal use!"
Joy Boy shook his head sadly, then brightened as if struck by an idea. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of drums—a steady, resonant doom, doom, doom that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
The effect on Kleiman was immediate and astonishing. He fell to his knees, face pale with terror.
"I confess!" he cried out. "All of it! The supplies were meant for Duscur refugees. I've been selling them since the Tragedy—medicines, food, blankets. The people were suffering, and I... I profited from it." Tears streamed down his face as years of calculated exploitation poured forth in a torrent of admission. "I falsified reports to the crown. I bribed inspectors. I threatened witnesses."
The merchant from Sreng, clearly wanting no part of this supernatural confession, began inching toward the door, only to find Joy Boy suddenly standing before it, arms crossed, head tilted in questioning manner.
"I didn't know," the merchant insisted, hands raised placatingly. "He told me these were legitimate goods." When Joy Boy's expression remained skeptical, the man quickly added, "But I suspected otherwise and chose not to ask questions. That makes me complicit. I acknowledge this."
From his vantage point in the doorway, Yuri could hardly believe what he was witnessing. The careful plan he had crafted over months—the infiltration, the documentation, the timed exposure—all rendered unnecessary by the inexplicable intervention of this divine trickster who had accomplished more with a false mustache and a disapproving look than Yuri could have with weeks of calculated scheming.
And yet... the results were undeniable. Not only was Kleiman confessing to his crimes, but he was implicating other nobles who had engaged in similar exploitation. It was more than Yuri had dared hope for.
As if sensing his thoughts, Joy Boy turned slightly, looking directly at the partially open door where Yuri stood frozen in amazement. For just a moment, their eyes met—Yuri's calculating violet gaze locking with Joy Boy's radiant golden one. And then, impossibly, Joy Boy winked at him. Just a quick, conspiratorial gesture that somehow conveyed both acknowledgment and approval.
In that brief connection, Yuri felt something unexpected—a kind of recognition, as if Joy Boy wasn't merely aware of his presence but understood his purpose. His methods might differ wildly from Yuri's careful planning and shadow games, but their goals aligned: justice for those who had no voice, consequences for those who believed their power placed them beyond reach.
Then the moment was gone. Joy Boy turned back to Kleiman, who continued to spill secrets as if unable to stop himself. With deliberate movements, Joy Boy gathered the contract, the ledgers, and other incriminating documents into a neat pile.
The drums grew louder, and a soft golden light began to emanate from Joy Boy's form. He raised one hand high, and suddenly—though no windows were open—a gust of wind swept through the office, catching the documents and sending them swirling through the air like leaves in an autumn storm.
As abruptly as it had begun, the wind ceased. The papers settled gently... directly into the hands of a startled man who now stood in the doorway behind Yuri. A man wearing the unmistakable insignia of a royal messenger.
"Theobald?" Kleiman gasped, recognition and horror dawning simultaneously on his face.
The royal messenger looked from the documents in his hands to the kneeling noble, confusion giving way to stern understanding as he processed what he was seeing—and hearing, as Kleiman continued to confess crimes apparently unable to stop himself.
"Lord Kleiman," Theobald said formally, "in the name of King Lambert, I am obligated to report these admissions and evidence to the royal court immediately."
Yuri retreated silently into the shadows of the hallway, signaling his team to withdraw. Their presence was no longer necessary; in fact, it would only complicate the official proceedings now unfolding. As they made their swift exit from the warehouse, avoiding the confused guards and slipping back into the misty night streets of Fhirdiad, Yuri found himself smiling despite the effective disruption of his carefully laid plans.
When he glanced back once at the warehouse, he caught a glimpse of white on the rooftop—a figure silhouetted briefly against the night sky before vanishing as if it had never been there at all. The false mustache, Yuri noted with amusement, was gone.
Hours later, as reports filtered through Yuri's network about Lord Kleiman's very public arrest and the seizure of his properties pending royal investigation, the Mockingbirds celebrated their unexpected victory. Toasts were raised, stories exchanged, plans made for distributing recovered supplies to those who needed them most.
But Yuri himself remained thoughtful, nursing a single drink in a corner of their hideout. That brief connection with Joy Boy had left him with questions he couldn't easily dismiss about the nature of justice and the methods used to achieve it.
"To Joy Boy," Bryce proposed, raising his mug. "Whoever or whatever he may be."
"To Joy Boy," the others echoed.
Yuri lifted his own drink silently, adding a private thought that he kept to himself: And to unexpected allies in the strangest of forms.
Perhaps there was room in this broken world for both approaches—Yuri's careful shadow work and Joy Boy's brilliant, impossible interventions. Different methods, same goal: a smile in the darkness for those who needed it most.
Chapter 24: The Noble's Awakening
Summary:
In which Ferdinand von Aegir, heir to the Prime Minister's legacy, confronts the shadows of his father's ambition while seeking his own path to nobility. As the Officers Academy begins its term, an unexpected return from his past forces Ferdinand to question everything he thought he knew about duty, honor, and the burden of legacy. Caught between childhood memories of impossible events and his present responsibilities, Ferdinand discovers that true nobility might not be what he always believed.
Chapter Text
The morning sun streaming through the arched windows of Garreg Mach Monastery's dining hall caught the edge of Ferdinand's teacup, casting amber reflections across the polished oak table. He raised the cup to his lips, savoring the aromatic bergamot blend—a small luxury he had insisted on bringing from home. The familiar ritual centered him as he observed his new classmates scattered throughout the hall, each absorbed in their own morning routines.
"Still drinking that fancy tea, Ferdie?" Caspar's voice boomed as he dropped onto the bench across from Ferdinand, his breakfast tray clattering against the table. "Don't they have perfectly good coffee here?"
Ferdinand winced at both the noise and the suggestion. "Coffee is a crude beverage, Caspar. Tea requires patience and appreciation—qualities befitting a noble."
"If you say so," Caspar shrugged, already shoveling eggs into his mouth with alarming enthusiasm. "Me, I just need something to wake me up after Linhardt kept me up half the night with his snoring."
Ferdinand allowed himself a small smile. Three days at the Officers Academy, and already the dynamics of their class were becoming clear. Caspar von Bergliez: boisterous, direct, utterly lacking in decorum yet somehow endearing in his honesty. Linhardt von Hevring: brilliant but perpetually exhausted, more interested in his research than in fulfilling the duties expected of his noble station. Bernadetta von Varley: a skittish creature who seemed to view every social interaction as a potential battlefield. Dorothea Arnault: the only commoner among them, yet carrying herself with more natural grace than most nobles Ferdinand had known.
And then there were the others—the ones who complicated Ferdinand's carefully constructed worldview in ways he wasn't quite ready to examine.
Edelgard von Hresvelg, Imperial Princess and heir to the Adrestian throne. Once, Ferdinand had known her as a bright-eyed girl with light brown hair who had smiled easily at palace functions. Now she moved with deliberate purpose, her hair turned stark white, her lilac eyes holding secrets Ferdinand couldn't begin to decipher.
And always at her side: Hubert von Vestra. Ferdinand's grip tightened imperceptibly around his teacup as his gaze drifted to the far corner of the dining hall where Hubert sat alone, watching Edelgard's table with hawkish intensity.
Eight years had passed since the Insurrection of the Seven—eight years since Ferdinand's world had been turned upside down in ways no child could possibly comprehend. Yet the memories remained as vivid as if they had happened yesterday: the shouting in his father's study, the servants' fearful whispers, and most of all, the strange white-garbed figure who had appeared like a phantom from a storybook, bringing both destruction and deliverance.
Joy Boy.
Even thinking the name sent a peculiar shiver down Ferdinand's spine. His mother had urged him never to speak of what he had witnessed that day—not to his tutors, not to his friends, not even to the priests during confession. "Some truths are too strange for this world, my dear," she had told him, her eyes still wide with disbelief despite her composed demeanor. "Sometimes it is better to accept a miracle without questioning its source."
But Ferdinand had questions. So many questions.
"Hey, you still with us, Ferdinand?" Caspar's voice pulled him back to the present. "You're staring at nothing like Linhardt does when he's about to fall asleep standing up."
"My apologies," Ferdinand straightened his posture, the movement automatic after years of his etiquette instructor's wooden ruler tapping his shoulders at the slightest slouch. "I was merely... contemplating our training exercises for today."
A half-truth. Professor Manuela had indeed scheduled their first practical training session that afternoon—a preliminary assessment of their combat abilities. Ferdinand had spent the previous evening polishing his lance and checking his armor, determined to demonstrate the exceptional horsemanship and martial prowess expected of House Aegir's heir.
Yet his thoughts had been far from training regimens when Caspar interrupted them. They had been eight years in the past, in the grand foyer of the Aegir estate, watching in frozen horror and fascination as his father—Duke Ludwig von Aegir, Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire—was transformed before his very eyes.
The memory surfaced despite Ferdinand's efforts to suppress it: his father standing tall in his ministerial robes, face flushed with triumph as he recounted the day's victories to his wife. "The Emperor is a figurehead now, nothing more," he had declared, voice thick with satisfaction. "The real power rests with the Seven—with us. And among the Seven, House Aegir stands supreme."
Ferdinand had been hiding on the grand staircase, a nine-year-old boy who should have been in bed but had sneaked down to listen to the adults talk. His father's words had made little sense to him then, but the pride in Duke Aegir's voice had been unmistakable.
And then... it had happened.
The rhythmic pulsing that seemed to emanate from the very walls: doom, doom, doom. The strange golden light that had spilled through the windows despite the late hour. And appearing as if stepped through a door that hadn't existed moments before: a figure dressed in pristine white, with hair like a living flame and eyes of molten gold.
Joy Boy had simply stood there, watching Duke Aegir with an expression that was neither angry nor judgmental—merely thoughtful, perhaps even a touch sad. When the Duke had demanded to know who dared intrude upon his home, Joy Boy had responded not with words but with a simple snap of his fingers.
What followed defied everything Ferdinand knew about the natural order of the world. His father—the imposing, austere Duke—had begun to hiccup uncontrollably. With each hiccup, a different colored butterfly had emerged from his mouth, fluttering away in a kaleidoscope of wings. The Duke's outrage had quickly turned to panic as his body began to shrink, his fine clothes suddenly hanging off him like a child playing dress-up in an adult's wardrobe.
By the time the transformation was complete, Duke Ludwig von Aegir—feared politician, architect of the Insurrection, proud noble—had been reduced to a rotund, cartoonish version of himself no taller than Ferdinand's kneecaps, still hiccupping occasional butterflies and speaking in a voice so squeaky it would have been comical in any other circumstances.
"What have you done to me?!" the tiny Duke had demanded, his voice barely audible over his wife's shocked gasp. "I am the Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire! I demand you restore me at once!"
Joy Boy had simply smiled—a warm, genuine expression that somehow contained no mockery despite the absurdity of the situation. He had knelt beside the miniature Duke, gently patting his head as one might comfort a child. Then, with movements too quick to follow, he had produced a small box decorated with cheerful patterns, scooped up the protesting noble, and closed the lid with a decisive click.
Ferdinand's mother had stood frozen in stunned silence throughout the entire scene. Only when Joy Boy approached her, offering the box with a formal bow, did she seem to regain her composure. "What... what am I supposed to do with this?" she had asked, her normally melodious voice strained.
Joy Boy had responded with a series of gestures: a mimicry of opening the box, a negative shake of his head, followed by pointing to her and making a sweeping motion across the grand foyer—the traditional gesture used by the Imperial Court to indicate succession or transfer of authority.
"You want me to... take his place?" she had whispered, disbelief evident in every syllable.
Joy Boy had nodded enthusiastically, then made another gesture—pointing to his heart, then to her head, then making a balancing motion with his hands.
"Because I have... both compassion and wisdom?" she had guessed, still visibly struggling to process the impossible situation before her.
Another nod, accompanied by that same warm smile. Then Joy Boy had turned to the staircase, looking directly at Ferdinand's hiding place with those impossible golden eyes. He had winked—a conspiratorial gesture from one secret-keeper to another—before turning back to bow once more to Ferdinand's mother. And then, between one heartbeat and the next, he had simply... vanished. No magical light, no cloud of smoke. Just gone, as if he had never been there at all, leaving only the cheerfully decorated box in the Duchess's trembling hands.
The aftermath had been chaotic in ways that nine-year-old Ferdinand could barely comprehend. His mother had summoned only their most trusted servants, sworn them to secrecy, and then—displaying a political acumen Ferdinand had never suspected she possessed—had crafted a narrative that Duke Aegir had been called away on urgent diplomatic business. As his spouse, she would temporarily assume his duties until his return.
That "temporary" arrangement had become permanent as weeks turned to months with no sign of the Duke's reappearance. Whispers spread throughout the Empire—that Ludwig von Aegir had fled after a falling out among the Seven, that he had been secretly executed on the Emperor's orders, that he had succumbed to a mysterious illness. Ferdinand's mother neither confirmed nor denied any of these rumors, simply continuing to execute the duties of her position with a grace and fairness that gradually won her the respect of both the Imperial Court and the common people.
Only once had Ferdinand worked up the courage to ask about the box and its diminutive occupant. His mother's face had gone very still, her eyes distant. "Your father is... elsewhere now," she had said carefully. "Somewhere he can reflect on his choices without causing further harm."
"Will he ever come back?" Ferdinand had asked, surprised to find himself uncertain whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no.
His mother had studied him for a long moment before answering. "I don't believe so, Ferdinand. And perhaps that is for the best—for all of us, including him."
What had happened to the box afterward, Ferdinand never discovered. It had simply vanished from the estate, along with any further mention of Ludwig von Aegir's fate.
"Earth to Ferdinand!" Caspar's voice once again jerked him back to the present, accompanied by a none-too-gentle nudge that nearly spilled his tea. "You're doing it again. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"Perfectly fine," Ferdinand assured him, forcing brightness into his tone. "Merely contemplating the responsibility that comes with being a member of the Black Eagle House. As nobles of the Empire, we must set the example for—"
"Yeah, yeah, noble obligations and all that," Caspar interrupted with a good-natured eye roll. "Save the speech for when we're all awake, okay? Look, even Linhardt managed to join us."
Sure enough, the green-haired heir to House Hevring was making his way toward their table, his breakfast tray held precariously in one hand while the other stifled a massive yawn. His uniform was impeccably pressed—likely the work of his valet rather than any effort on Linhardt's part—but his hair remained disheveled from sleep.
"Morning," Linhardt mumbled as he sat beside Caspar, immediately reaching for the cup of strong tea on his tray. "Or is it still morning? I could have sworn I just closed my eyes moments ago."
"It's nearly nine," Ferdinand informed him, unable to keep a note of disapproval from his voice. "Most of the class has been awake for hours."
"How unfortunate for them," Linhardt replied blandly, taking a careful sip of his tea. "Sleep is essential for optimal cognitive function. I'm merely practicing scholarly diligence."
Ferdinand opened his mouth to deliver a well-rehearsed lecture on the virtues of early rising when a flash of white at the dining hall entrance caught his attention. His words died in his throat as he instinctively turned toward the movement, heart suddenly hammering against his ribs.
But it was only Flayn, the peculiar green-haired girl who was apparently related to Seteth, the Archbishop's stern-faced advisor. She wore a white dress that had momentarily triggered Ferdinand's memory, but there was nothing flame-like about her carefully arranged curls, nothing golden about her eyes. Just an ordinary girl—well, perhaps not entirely ordinary, given the strange formality of her speech and behavior, but certainly not the otherworldly visitor who haunted Ferdinand's memories.
"Are you looking for someone?" Linhardt asked, following Ferdinand's gaze with mild curiosity.
"No," Ferdinand replied too quickly. "No one at all."
Linhardt's eyebrow rose slightly, but he didn't press the issue, turning instead to the book he had produced from somewhere within his uniform jacket. Ferdinand seized the opportunity to collect himself, finishing his tea in one inelegant gulp that would have horrified his etiquette instructor.
"I should prepare for today's assessment," he announced, rising from the table with forced confidence. "A von Aegir must never appear anything less than exceptional, after all."
"Good luck with that," Caspar called after him as Ferdinand strode from the dining hall, back straight and chin lifted in perfect noble posture.
Only when he was alone in the corridor did Ferdinand allow his shoulders to slump slightly. These memories—these impossible, unexplainable memories—had been surfacing with increasing frequency since his arrival at Garreg Mach. Perhaps it was seeing Edelgard and Hubert again after so many years. Perhaps it was the strange atmosphere of the monastery itself, with its ancient stones that seemed to whisper secrets if one listened closely enough.
Or perhaps, a small voice in the back of his mind suggested, it was because he was finally old enough to truly understand what he had witnessed that day—and what it meant for his understanding of himself, his family, and his place in the world.
The training grounds were thankfully empty when Ferdinand arrived, the morning sun casting long shadows across the sand-packed earth. He made his way to the equipment rack, selecting a training lance and testing its balance with a few experimental swings. The familiar movements centered him, pushing back the unsettling memories in favor of the present moment: the weight of the weapon in his hands, the sound of birds calling from the monastery walls, the scent of oil and leather that permeated the training area.
"Your grip is too tight," a cool voice observed from behind him. "It restricts the fluidity of your thrust."
Ferdinand turned, already knowing who he would find. Hubert von Vestra stood at the entrance to the training grounds, his tall figure silhouetted against the morning light. As always, he was dressed in the black uniform of the Officers Academy, though he somehow made the standardized garments appear more severe than those worn by his classmates.
"I was unaware you considered yourself an expert in lance technique, Hubert," Ferdinand replied, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "I would have thought daggers and poisons more your area of expertise."
A thin smile curved Hubert's lips. "One should understand all weapons, even those one does not favor. Know your enemies, know their tools."
"And am I your enemy, then?" Ferdinand challenged, lowering the lance to face Hubert directly.
Something unreadable flickered in Hubert's pale green eyes. "That depends entirely on you, Ferdinand. On the choices you make in the days to come."
The statement hung in the air between them, laden with meanings Ferdinand couldn't quite grasp. Before he could formulate a response, Hubert continued, his tone deliberately casual.
"I must admit some surprise at seeing you here at the Academy. I would have thought the acting Duke Aegir would want her heir close at hand, especially given the... unusual circumstances of her rise to power."
Ferdinand's grip tightened on the lance despite himself. "My mother believes a proper education is essential for the future Prime Minister of the Empire. And while she may hold the title of Duke Aegir currently, we both know it will pass to me when I come of age."
"Yes," Hubert agreed, his voice silky. "The question that interests me is what kind of Duke you intend to be, Ferdinand. Will you follow in your father's footsteps? Or perhaps..." He paused deliberately. "Perhaps you will forge a different path."
There it was—the shadow that had hung between them since childhood, now given voice. Ferdinand felt his pulse quicken, a mixture of anger and something more complicated churning in his chest.
"My father served the Empire as he thought best," he said stiffly, the words practiced and hollow. "As I shall do in my turn."
Hubert studied him for a long moment, his gaze uncomfortably penetrating. "Did he? Serve the Empire, I mean." He took a step closer, voice dropping to little more than a whisper. "Or did he serve only his own ambition?"
"You overstep, Vestra," Ferdinand warned, falling back on formality as a shield. "Whatever disagreements existed between our fathers—"
"Disagreements?" Hubert's laugh was harsh and entirely devoid of humor. "Is that what you call it? Your father and his conspirators stripped Emperor Ionius of his power, left the Imperial family as prisoners in all but name, and attempted to reshape the Empire to suit their own interests. Those were not 'disagreements,' Ferdinand. That was treason."
Ferdinand felt heat rise to his face. "And where is your father now, Hubert? At least mine had the courage to act openly, while yours skulked in the shadows, only to vanish when his schemes unraveled. At least my mother had the strength to step forward and bring stability back to the Empire."
The moment the words left his mouth, Ferdinand knew he had struck a nerve. Hubert's already pale complexion went positively bloodless, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
"You know nothing of my father's fate," he said, voice deadly quiet. "Nothing of what truly happened during the Insurrection. You were a child playing with toy soldiers while real blood was spilled."
"And you were not?" Ferdinand countered. "We were both children then, Hubert. Neither of us chose the actions of our fathers."
Something shifted in Hubert's expression—a momentary crack in his carefully maintained façade. For a fleeting instant, Ferdinand thought he glimpsed not the intimidating shadow of Edelgard, but simply a young man carrying burdens too heavy for his years.
"No," Hubert agreed after a pause, his voice different somehow. "We did not choose. But we live with the consequences nonetheless. And now we must choose our own paths forward."
The unexpected sincerity caught Ferdinand off-guard. Before he could respond, the training ground doors swung open again, admitting a group of Blue Lions students led by a stern-faced blond youth Ferdinand recognized as the Kingdom's crown prince, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.
Hubert immediately retreated a step, his momentary openness vanishing behind his usual mask of cold calculation. "We will continue this discussion another time," he said, turning to depart. "When there are fewer... interested parties."
As Hubert slipped away, Ferdinand found himself strangely unsettled by the conversation—not by Hubert's accusations, which were nothing he hadn't heard whispered in Imperial Court hallways for years, but by that brief glimpse of the person behind the intimidating façade. It had never occurred to Ferdinand that Hubert might be struggling with his own father's legacy, might be asking himself the same questions that kept Ferdinand awake at night.
The Blue Lions students had begun their own training routines, their voices and the clatter of practice weapons filling the previously quiet space. Ferdinand nodded politely to Prince Dimitri when their eyes met, then decided to seek somewhere more private to collect his thoughts before the Black Eagles' assessment that afternoon.
The monastery gardens offered a secluded bench partially concealed by a magnificent hedge of roses. Ferdinand settled there, watching bees drift lazily between blooms as he tried to order his thoughts. Hubert's words had stirred up memories he usually kept carefully contained—not just of Joy Boy and his father's transformation, but of the aftermath.
The whispers that had followed him in the Imperial Court, the sidelong glances from nobles who had once fawned over Duke Aegir and now curried favor with his wife. The confusion of servants who had served under his father's harsh rule and now found themselves answering to a mistress with very different expectations. The gradual, almost imperceptible shift in the Empire's governance as policies of intimidation gave way to diplomacy, as punitive taxes were reduced, as some small measure of power was even returned to Emperor Ionius—though the damage to his health had already been done.
And through it all, young Ferdinand had watched and listened and tried to understand what it truly meant to be noble. His father had always spoken of nobility as a birthright, a status conferred by blood and tradition. But his mother—his gentle, soft-spoken mother who had suddenly found herself wielding power she had never sought—spoke of nobility as a responsibility, an obligation to care for those who depended upon you.
"A true noble does not demand respect," she had told him once while reviewing petitions from commoners in their territory. "A true noble earns it through their actions, their decisions, their treatment of others. Titles and wealth are merely tools, Ferdinand. It is what you build with those tools that defines you."
A shadow fell across the bench, pulling Ferdinand from his reflections. He looked up, expecting to find another student seeking the garden's tranquility, only to freeze in shocked recognition.
Joy Boy stood before him, exactly as Ferdinand remembered from his childhood—white garments pristine, hair like a living flame, golden eyes regarding him with warm interest. The cloud-like mantle around his shoulders drifted gently in a breeze Ferdinand couldn't feel.
"You," Ferdinand whispered, scarcely able to believe his eyes. "You're real. You're actually real."
Joy Boy's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too perfect, too white to be human. He nodded emphatically, as if delighted that Ferdinand had worked out this fundamental truth.
"I thought—" Ferdinand swallowed hard, glancing around to ensure no one else was witnessing this impossible encounter. "I convinced myself you were a dream. A child's fantasy to explain something too difficult to understand."
Joy Boy shook his head, his expression gentle but firm. He tapped his own chest, then pointed to Ferdinand's, then made a gesture that seemed to encompass all of Garreg Mach around them.
"You're... here for me?" Ferdinand guessed, struggling to interpret the silent communication. "But why? Why now?"
Instead of attempting to answer, Joy Boy settled onto the bench beside Ferdinand with casual ease, as if they were old friends meeting for tea. Up close, there was something both comforting and unsettling about his presence—a warmth that radiated from him like a physical force, yet also a sense of otherness that defied explanation.
Joy Boy pointed to the training lance Ferdinand had brought with him from the grounds, then made a series of gestures: a mimicry of fighting, followed by a quizzical tilt of his head.
"You're asking why I train?" Ferdinand translated, finding it surprisingly easy to follow Joy Boy's non-verbal communication. "Because it is my duty as a noble, of course. I must excel in all areas befitting my station."
Joy Boy's golden eyes seemed to see right through this practiced response. He shook his head slightly, then pointed again to the lance, this time following it with a gesture toward Ferdinand's heart.
"Why does it matter to me personally," Ferdinand corrected himself, strangely compelled toward honesty by those knowing eyes. "Because... because I want to be strong enough to protect what matters. To be worthy of the position I will inherit."
This answer seemed to satisfy Joy Boy more, though he still appeared to be waiting for something else. When Ferdinand didn't continue, Joy Boy made another gesture—pointing to Ferdinand, then to the ground beside him, then upward with a sweeping motion.
"My place in the world?" Ferdinand ventured. "You're asking what I believe my place to be?"
An enthusiastic nod confirmed his interpretation. Ferdinand found himself considering the question more carefully than he might have if anyone else had asked it.
"I am the heir to House Aegir," he began, falling back on the familiar litany. "Future Prime Minister of the Adrestian Empire. It is my duty to uphold the noble traditions of my house, to serve the Emperor faithfully, to lead with strength and wisdom."
But even as the words left his mouth, Ferdinand felt their hollowness. These were the expectations that had been placed upon him since birth, not answers to the deeper question Joy Boy seemed to be asking.
"I want..." he started again, then paused, uncertain how to articulate thoughts he had barely acknowledged to himself. "I want to be worthy. Not just of my title, but of the trust people place in me. I want to be the kind of noble people look to for protection and guidance, not out of fear but out of genuine respect."
Joy Boy's smile deepened, encouraging Ferdinand to continue.
"My father believed nobility was about power," Ferdinand said softly, the admission painful yet somehow freeing. "About maintaining the hierarchy that placed us above others. But I've watched my mother these past eight years. I've seen how she listens to the concerns of merchants and farmers alike, how she considers the impact of her decisions on all people in our territory, not just those of noble birth."
Ferdinand looked down at his hands, surprised to find them trembling slightly. "I think... I think perhaps true nobility lies not in what we demand from others, but in what we give. In how we serve, not just how we rule."
Joy Boy's expression was radiant now, his golden eyes seeming to glow with inner light. He reached out, placing one hand over Ferdinand's clenched fist. The touch was warm and strangely substantial for a being Ferdinand had half-convinced himself was imaginary.
Joy Boy then made a series of gestures: pointing to Ferdinand, then to his own eyes, followed by a sweeping motion that encompassed the entire monastery grounds. Finally, he pointed to the sky, where clouds drifted peacefully above the towering spires of Garreg Mach.
Ferdinand frowned, struggling to piece together the meaning. "You want me to... see something? To look beyond what's directly in front of me?"
A nod, accompanied by another gesture—Joy Boy's hands starting close together, then spreading wide, as if revealing something hidden.
"To see the bigger picture," Ferdinand guessed. "To look beyond the traditions and expectations I've been raised with."
Joy Boy beamed at this interpretation, clapping his hands together in silent applause. Then his expression grew more serious as he pointed to Edelgard, who had appeared on a balcony overlooking the garden, her distinctive white hair immediately recognizable even at a distance.
Ferdinand followed his gaze, a familiar mixture of competitive spirit and grudging respect stirring at the sight of the Imperial princess. "Edelgard," he acknowledged. "What about her?"
Joy Boy made another series of gestures: pointing to Edelgard, then to himself, then making a walking motion with his fingers followed by what appeared to be an imitation of freedom or flight.
"She... knows you?" Ferdinand asked, surprised. "You helped her somehow?"
A nod, accompanied by a gesture that suggested a long journey or significant change. Then Joy Boy pointed to Ferdinand himself, his expression questioning.
"And you think you can help me too," Ferdinand concluded, understanding dawning. "That's why you've returned. That's why you're here at Garreg Mach."
Joy Boy's smile confirmed this interpretation. He stood from the bench with fluid grace, offering Ferdinand his hand in a courtly gesture that would have been at home in the Imperial Palace.
Ferdinand hesitated only briefly before accepting it, allowing Joy Boy to pull him to his feet. "What happens now?" he asked, feeling strangely like he stood at a crossroads, though he couldn't have explained why.
Instead of answering, Joy Boy simply winked, then pointed toward the monastery's main hall where students were beginning to gather for the midday meal. With a final smile that somehow conveyed both encouragement and promise, he stepped backward—not away from Ferdinand, but sideways in a direction that seemed impossible, vanishing between one heartbeat and the next.
Ferdinand stood alone in the garden, the only evidence of his visitor a single white feather that drifted gently to the ground where Joy Boy had stood. He bent to pick it up, marveling at its impossible softness, its pristine color that seemed to glow with inner light.
"Ferdinand?" Edelgard's voice called from the balcony above. "The professor is looking for you. Our assessment begins soon."
He looked up to find her watching him with that measured gaze that gave away nothing of her thoughts. "Thank you, Edelgard," he called back, tucking the feather carefully into his breast pocket. "I'll be there directly."
As Ferdinand gathered his training lance and made his way toward the main hall, he felt something shift within him—a subtle realignment, like a fractured bone finally set properly after years of healing wrong. His father's legacy, his mother's example, his own aspirations—all the pieces that made up Ferdinand von Aegir seemed to settle into a new configuration, one that felt... right. Balanced. True.
He wasn't sure exactly what Joy Boy's reappearance meant or what changes it might herald. But as Ferdinand joined his classmates for the midday meal, he found himself studying them with new eyes: Caspar's earnest enthusiasm, Linhardt's quiet intelligence, Bernadetta's hidden strength, Dorothea's determined grace.
And yes, even Edelgard's focused resolve and Hubert's unwavering loyalty. For the first time, Ferdinand wondered what burdens they carried, what experiences had shaped them, what dreams drove them forward.
Perhaps true nobility began not with asserting one's own excellence, but with recognizing the worth in others. Perhaps the path to becoming the leader he aspired to be started here, in this dining hall, with these people who would shape the future of the Empire alongside him.
Ferdinand touched the feather in his pocket, a tangible reminder of impossible things. Of second chances and new beginnings.
Of freedom.
Chapter 25: The Strength to Carry On
Summary:
At fifteen, Raphael Kirsten faces the devastating loss of his merchant parents. Fleeing into the forest to grieve in solitude, he encounters the mysterious Joy Boy, whose silent comfort and extraordinary gift of food becomes a turning point in the young man's life. As Raphael struggles with his new responsibility toward his sister Maya and the uncertain future ahead, Joy Boy's presence offers not just nourishment for his body but also wisdom for his soul. Through this chance meeting, Raphael discovers that true strength isn't just found in muscles, but in the courage to smile through pain and the determination to protect what matters most.
Chapter Text
The merchant's cart lay splintered at the bottom of the ravine, its contents scattered across the rocky terrain like discarded toys. Above, at the cliff's edge, a small crowd had gathered—villagers, fellow merchants, and officials from the local lord's estate. Their hushed voices carried on the wind, fragments of shock and sympathy that did nothing to ease the hollowness spreading through fifteen-year-old Raphael Kirsten's chest.
"Both of them, gone just like that..." "The wheel must have broken on the turn..." "Those poor children..."
Raphael stood apart from the crowd, his large frame rigid as stone. At fifteen, he already towered over most grown men in Leicester, his shoulders broad from years of loading and unloading his parents' merchandise. Those same strong shoulders now trembled slightly as he stared down at the wreckage that had claimed his mother and father.
Maya, his eleven-year-old sister, had been taken back to the village by a kindly merchant's wife. But Raphael had refused to leave, had insisted on seeing, on understanding what had happened. Now, looking at the destruction below, he wished he hadn't.
A hand settled on his shoulder—Ignatz's father, his eyes heavy with grief for his business partner and friend.
"Come away, son," he said gently. "There's nothing more to be done here."
Raphael nodded mechanically, allowing himself to be led a few steps before stopping. "I need... I need a moment alone, sir," he managed, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. "I'll return to the village soon."
Mr. Victor looked like he might object, but something in Raphael's expression made him reconsider. "Don't wander far," he cautioned. "The forest can be dangerous when darkness falls."
"I won't," Raphael promised, already turning away, his feet carrying him toward the line of trees that bordered the road.
The forest swallowed him in moments, the sounds of the gathered crowd fading behind him. Raphael walked without direction or purpose, simply putting distance between himself and the reality he couldn't face. Branches caught at his clothing, roots threatened to trip his feet, but he pushed on, welcoming the physical obstacles as distractions from the pain threatening to overwhelm him.
Only when he could no longer hear any human sounds did he stop, sinking down against the broad trunk of an ancient oak. There, with only the indifferent trees as witnesses, Raphael Kirsten finally allowed his grief to surface.
His sobs were raw and unrestrained, tearing from his throat with such force that they left him gasping. He cried for his parents—for his father's booming laugh that would never again fill their home, for his mother's gentle hands that would never again mend his too-small clothes. He cried for Maya, who would grow up without parents to guide her. And he cried for himself, for the sudden, crushing weight of responsibility that had fallen on his young shoulders.
"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked the silent forest, his voice breaking. "I don't know how to be a merchant. I don't know how to take care of Maya. I don't know how to do any of this without them."
No answer came from the rustling leaves above, and Raphael's shoulders slumped. He leaned his head back against the rough bark, feeling utterly alone in the vastness of the world.
The lengthening shadows told him he should return soon. Maya would be waiting, frightened and needing her big brother to be strong. But how could he be strong when he felt so broken inside? How could he comfort her when he could find no comfort for himself?
A twig snapped somewhere nearby, jarring Raphael from his misery. He straightened, hastily wiping his tear-streaked face with his sleeve. "Who's there?" he called, embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable state.
No answer came, but the sense of another presence grew stronger. Raphael pushed himself to his feet, instinctively dropping into the defensive stance his father had taught him for their journeys through bandit-prone territories.
"I said, who's there?" he repeated, his voice steadier now, edged with caution.
The figure that stepped into the small clearing was unlike anything Raphael had ever seen.
He—for it was clearly male despite his ethereal appearance—looked to be a youth not much older than Raphael himself. He wore garments of pure, unblemished white that seemed to repel the forest's dirt and shadows. But it was his hair that drew Raphael's widening eyes—a brilliant white that moved like a living flame, undulating gently though no breeze stirred the air. Most extraordinary were his eyes—large golden irises that emitted a soft, warm light of their own.
Around his shoulders flowed what at first glance appeared to be a cloak but on closer inspection resembled nothing so much as cloud or mist, constantly shifting and reforming as it draped his slender frame.
Raphael's hands dropped to his sides, defensive posture forgotten in his astonishment. "You're... Joy Boy," he whispered.
Everyone in Leicester had heard the stories by now—tales of a silent, white-haired youth who appeared when people needed help most, who performed impossible feats with casual ease, who never spoke yet somehow communicated perfectly. Raphael had dismissed such stories as exaggerations or misunderstandings, the kind of fantastical rumors that traveled with merchants and grew more elaborate with each retelling.
Yet here he stood, unmistakable and undeniable.
Joy Boy smiled—a gentle, radiant expression that somehow eased the tightness in Raphael's chest. He made no move to approach further, simply standing at the clearing's edge, regarding Raphael with those extraordinary golden eyes.
"Why are you here?" Raphael asked, his voice hushed. "I'm not... I don't need rescuing from anything."
The words rang false even to his own ears. Joy Boy's smile turned knowing, though not unkind. He raised one hand in a gesture that asked for patience, then stepped back into the shadows between the trees.
Before Raphael could protest his departure, Joy Boy returned—and the young merchant's son could only stare in disbelief at what he carried.
It was a tray, but not any ordinary serving tray. This one was comically oversized, spanning the width of Joy Boy's outstretched arms and laden with food in quantities that defied reason. Steaming roast pheasants nestled beside mountains of golden potatoes. Loaves of fresh bread, impossibly warm as if just pulled from an oven, were stacked alongside wheels of cheese and bowls of glistening berries. Pitchers of what appeared to be milk and fruit juice completed the impossible feast.
The scent reached Raphael's nostrils, and his stomach responded with a growl so loud it echoed through the clearing. He realized with some surprise that he hadn't eaten since early morning, before the terrible news had reached them.
Joy Boy advanced, still smiling, and carefully set the enormous tray down on a relatively flat area of forest floor. The tray should have been impossibly heavy, yet he handled it with the ease of someone carrying a single cup of tea.
"Where did you... How did you..." Raphael stammered, unable to form a coherent question in the face of this inexplicable abundance.
Joy Boy responded by sitting cross-legged beside the tray and patting the ground opposite him in clear invitation. After a moment's hesitation, Raphael joined him, sinking down with less grace than his companion.
"Thank you," he said, uncertain what else to say in such extraordinary circumstances. "This is... incredible."
Joy Boy's smile widened, and he gestured toward the food with an encouraging nod. Then, to demonstrate his intent, he tore a chunk from one of the bread loaves and bit into it with evident enjoyment.
Raphael's hunger, temporarily forgotten in his grief, returned with overwhelming force. He reached for a drumstick from the nearest pheasant, and after one tentative bite, began to eat with increasing enthusiasm.
The food was perfection—the meat succulent and flavorful, the bread warm and yeasty, the cheese sharp and creamy by turns. Even the berries burst with sweetness that seemed to exceed what nature typically provided. Raphael, always a hearty eater, found himself consuming portions that would normally feed three men, yet the abundance on the tray never seemed to diminish significantly.
As he ate, something else remarkable happened. With each bite, each swallow, the crushing weight of grief seemed to ease slightly. Not disappearing—nothing could accomplish that miracle—but becoming somehow more bearable, less overwhelming. It was as if the food nourished not just his body but something deeper, some essential part of him that had been wounded by his loss.
Throughout the meal, Joy Boy ate as well, though with more restraint than his larger companion. His golden eyes never left Raphael's face, watching with what seemed like genuine pleasure as the young man's color improved and his movements became more animated.
Finally, Raphael set aside a emptied bowl of berries and leaned back with a contented sigh. "I didn't realize how hungry I was," he admitted, a hint of embarrassment coloring his voice. "Thank you. I've never tasted food so good."
Joy Boy inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression suggesting he had expected no less. He studied Raphael thoughtfully for a moment, then pointed to him, made a lifting motion with his arms, and flexed one slender but surprisingly well-defined bicep.
"Strong?" Raphael interpreted, glancing down at his own substantial frame. "Yeah, I guess so. I've always been big for my age. Helps with loading the merchant carts and..." His voice faltered as reality intruded once more. "And that doesn't matter anymore, does it? The business is gone. My parents are gone."
Joy Boy's expression softened with sympathy. He touched his own chest, then extended his hand to touch Raphael's, right over his heart.
"Strong here too?" Raphael guessed, understanding slowly dawning. "You think I'm strong inside as well?"
A nod of confirmation, along with an encouraging smile.
Raphael sighed heavily. "I don't feel strong right now. I feel... lost. Scared." He looked down at his large hands, calloused from years of physical labor. "I have Maya to take care of now. Our grandfather will take us in, but he's not young anymore. I need to figure out what to do, how to support us."
Joy Boy listened attentively, his golden eyes reflecting the deepening shadows as evening approached. When Raphael fell silent, he reached out again, this time making a gesture that encompassed Raphael's entire body, followed by a questioning tilt of his head.
"What am I good at?" Raphael translated, growing more adept at interpreting the silent communication. He considered the question seriously. "Well, I am strong. I can lift heavy things, work long hours without tiring too much. I'm good with animals—horses especially. I can cook a little, simple stuff that tastes okay." He paused, thinking further. "I'm not book-smart like Ignatz. Numbers don't make much sense to me, and I can read but not very fast."
As he spoke, cataloging his abilities and limitations, something shifted in Raphael's thinking. He straightened slightly, his brow furrowing in concentration.
"Wait, that's it," he said slowly. "I'm not cut out to be a merchant like my parents. I'd be terrible at it—all those ledgers and calculations and negotiating prices. But maybe..." He flexed his hands, studying the strength in them with new eyes. "Maybe I could be a knight. Or a guard. Someone who protects people using strength."
Joy Boy's expression brightened, his golden eyes seeming to glow more intensely. He nodded vigorously, then mimed drawing a sword and standing protectively before an imaginary charge.
"You think that would work?" Raphael asked, hope kindling in his voice for the first time since the accident. "I could train, get even stronger. The local lord always needs guards, and they're paid well enough. Or maybe even..." He hesitated, a more ambitious thought taking shape. "Maybe even the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach. I've heard merchants talk about it—they train knights and leaders there. It costs a fortune, but if I worked and saved for a few years..."
Joy Boy smiled approvingly, then made a gesture that seemed to indicate the passage of time, followed by pointing to Raphael and then upward, his hand climbing an invisible staircase.
"Yeah, I'd have to work my way up," Raphael agreed, warming to the idea. "Start small, learn everything I can, grow stronger." His enthusiasm dimmed slightly as another thought occurred. "But what about Maya? I can't leave her alone while I'm training or working."
Joy Boy considered this, his flame-like hair shifting thoughtfully. After a moment, he stretched out his hand, palm down, at about waist height—clearly representing a child. Then he raised it gradually higher, indicating growth.
"She'll get older, more independent," Raphael acknowledged. "And Grandfather will help for now. You're right."
Joy Boy nodded, pleased that his meaning had been understood. He gazed at Raphael for a long moment, then tapped his own mouth and curved his lips into an exaggerated smile.
Raphael understood immediately. "Keep smiling? Even when things are hard?" He attempted to follow the advice, managing a small, tentative smile that felt strange on his grief-tightened face. "That's... not easy right now."
Joy Boy's expression turned serious. He touched his own chest, then drew his finger through the air in a zigzag pattern before placing his hand over his heart, which he then mimed beating strongly and steadily.
"Everyone has pain," Raphael translated slowly, "but the heart keeps going." He considered this wisdom, finding it surprisingly profound from someone who appeared so youthful. "You've helped a lot of people, haven't you? Seen a lot of suffering?"
A solemn nod confirmed his guess. Joy Boy's golden eyes held depths of compassion that seemed at odds with his apparently young age. Whatever—or whoever—he truly was, he clearly understood pain and resilience intimately.
Raphael took a deep breath, squaring his broad shoulders. "You're right. I have to keep going. For Maya's sake, if nothing else." His nascent smile strengthened slightly, becoming more genuine. "And I think... I think my parents would want that too. They were always so positive, even when business was bad or things went wrong. Always looking forward."
Joy Boy beamed at him, radiating approval and encouragement. The cloud-like substance around his shoulders seemed to brighten in response to his emotions, glowing softly in the gathering dusk.
"I should get back," Raphael said reluctantly, noting how low the sun had sunk. "Maya will be worried, and Ignatz's family is probably looking for me by now."
Joy Boy nodded in understanding. He gestured to the still-abundant food on the tray, then to Raphael, clearly offering him to take some with him.
"I don't have anything to carry it in," Raphael said regretfully. "And it would be hard to explain where it came from."
Joy Boy thought for a moment, then his face lit up with a new idea. He held up one finger in a "wait" gesture, then closed his eyes in concentration. The misty substance around his shoulders expanded slightly, flowing over the feast like a gentle fog. When it receded a moment later, the enormous tray and its contents had vanished, replaced by a neatly wrapped package about the size of a large book.
Raphael stared in amazement as Joy Boy handed him the package, which was surprisingly heavy for its size. "How did you...?" he began, then shook his head in wonder. "Never mind. Thank you. Again."
He rose to his feet, tucking the mysterious package under one arm. Joy Boy stood as well, his movements fluid and graceful in contrast to Raphael's more solid presence.
"Will I see you again?" Raphael asked, surprising himself with how much he hoped the answer would be yes.
Joy Boy's response was characteristically enigmatic—a small shrug, a mysterious smile, and a gesture that somehow conveyed "perhaps, when needed" without a single word being spoken.
Raphael nodded, accepting this non-answer. "Well, if I don't... thank you for today. For the food, and for..." he struggled to articulate the more intangible gift he had received, "...for helping me see things more clearly."
Joy Boy stepped forward then, and in a gesture that startled Raphael with its simplicity and power, placed both hands on the young man's broad shoulders. For a brief moment, their eyes met directly—warm amber meeting luminous gold—and something passed between them, a wordless communication of strength offered and accepted.
Then Joy Boy stepped back, the misty substance around his shoulders beginning to expand and envelop his form. He raised one hand in farewell, his smile bright in the deepening twilight.
"Goodbye, Joy Boy," Raphael said softly. "And thanks for the meal."
As he turned to begin the journey back to the village, Raphael heard no sound of departure behind him. Yet when he glanced back after a few steps, the clearing was empty, with no sign that anyone had been there save for a few flattened patches of grass where they had sat.
The package under his arm remained solid and real, however—tangible proof that the extraordinary encounter had not been a product of grief-stricken imagination.
"Raphael? Raphael! Where have you been?" Maya's voice, high with worry and tear-strained, cut through the evening quiet as he approached the village.
She ran to him, her small form barreling into his solid one with enough force to make him step back slightly. Her arms wrapped around his waist, clinging with desperate strength.
"I thought you were gone too," she sobbed against his chest. "Mr. Victor came back without you, and it was getting dark, and I thought—"
"Hey, hey," Raphael soothed, wrapping one arm around her shaking shoulders while keeping the package carefully concealed behind him. "I'm fine, Maya. I just needed some time to think, that's all."
She pulled back enough to look up at him, her eyes red-rimmed but accusing. "You shouldn't have gone off alone! Not today of all days!"
"You're right," he admitted, guilt settling heavily on his shoulders. In his own grief, he'd forgotten how terrified she must have been at his absence. "I'm sorry, Maya. I won't do it again."
Her expression softened slightly. "Promise?"
"Promise," he affirmed solemnly. "Now, let's get inside. It's getting cold."
Ignatz's family had taken them in temporarily, until arrangements could be made for their grandfather to collect them. The Victor household was quiet and subdued as Raphael and Maya entered, the normal bustling activity of the merchant family muted out of respect for their grief.
Mrs. Victor appeared from the kitchen, relief washing over her tired face. "There you are, Raphael. We were about to send out a search party." Her tone held no reproach, only understanding. "There's soup keeping warm if you're hungry."
"Thank you, ma'am," Raphael replied politely. "I, um, actually brought something back with me. For everyone." He produced the package from behind his back, suddenly uncertain how to explain its origins.
"Oh?" Mrs. Victor looked surprised. "What is it, dear?"
Raphael hesitated only briefly. "Just some food I was... given. In the forest. I thought maybe we could all share it."
If Mrs. Victor found this explanation odd, she didn't show it. "How thoughtful. Bring it to the kitchen, and we'll see what you have."
The package, when unwrapped at the kitchen table, revealed its contents: several neatly arranged portions of the feast he had shared with Joy Boy, somehow still warm and fresh despite the time that had passed. The savory aroma filled the kitchen instantly, drawing Ignatz and his father from their respective retreats.
"Goodness," Mrs. Victor exclaimed, examining the bounty with professional interest. "This is... quite remarkable food. Who gave this to you, Raphael?"
"A friend," he replied simply, deciding that the truth, while not a lie, need not be elaborated upon. "Someone who understood what we needed today."
That evening, the combined households shared what everyone agreed was an extraordinary meal. The food seemed to have the same effect on the others that it had on Raphael—not erasing their grief, but somehow making it more bearable, less sharp-edged. Conversation flowed more easily than it had all day, even including occasional smiles and one or two reminiscences about Raphael's parents that brought tears but also comfort.
Later, as he settled on the pallet prepared for him in Ignatz's room, Raphael found his friend watching him curiously.
"That food wasn't ordinary, was it?" Ignatz asked quietly, his perceptive gaze searching Raphael's face in the dim light. "There was something special about it."
Raphael considered denying it, but Ignatz had been his friend since childhood. If anyone would believe him—or at least not think him grief-mad—it would be Ignatz.
"I met someone in the forest," he admitted softly. "Joy Boy."
Ignatz's eyes widened behind his glasses. "The Joy Boy? The one people have been talking about? With the white flame-hair and golden eyes?"
Raphael nodded. "He found me when I was at my lowest point. Brought me this enormous feast out of nowhere. We ate together, and... I don't know how to explain it, Ignatz, but he helped me see things more clearly."
"What did he say?" Ignatz asked, fascination evident in his voice.
"That's the thing—he never spoke. Not a single word. But somehow, I understood what he was trying to tell me." Raphael stared up at the ceiling, recalling the silent conversation. "He made me realize that I'm not meant to follow in my parents' footsteps as a merchant. I need to use my strength differently—maybe become a knight or a guard, someone who protects others."
Ignatz was silent for a moment, absorbing this. "That... actually makes a lot of sense," he said finally. "You've never been particularly interested in the business side of your parents' work."
"Exactly," Raphael agreed, relieved by his friend's understanding. "Numbers and ledgers make my head hurt. But I'm strong, and I'm good in a fight when I need to be."
"So what will you do now?"
Raphael sighed, folding his hands behind his head. "For now, I'll go with Maya to live with our grandfather. I'll find work—any work that pays—and start saving. Maybe in a few years, when Maya's older and we're more settled, I can look into proper training."
"The Officers Academy," Ignatz suggested.
"Yeah, eventually. That's the dream." Raphael turned to look at his friend. "What about you? Still want to be an artist?"
Ignatz's expression clouded. "My parents want me to follow them into the merchant business. They say art is just a hobby, not a real future."
"But it's what you love," Raphael pointed out. "What makes you happy."
"What makes me happy isn't always what's practical," Ignatz replied with a resigned shrug. "We can't all follow our dreams, Raphael."
Something Joy Boy had communicated came back to Raphael then—the importance of smiling, of finding joy even in difficult circumstances. "Maybe not right away," he conceded. "But don't give up on it completely. Promise?"
Ignatz smiled faintly. "I promise if you do."
"Deal," Raphael agreed, extending his hand to clasp his friend's smaller one briefly.
As they settled into silence, each lost in his own thoughts, Raphael found himself returning to the clearing in his mind. The extraordinary feast, the warmth of Joy Boy's silent presence, the strange sense of peace that had enveloped him despite his grief—it all seemed almost dreamlike now. Yet the direction he had found, the clarity about his path forward, was undeniably real.
Tomorrow would bring difficult conversations with his grandfather, arrangements for the burial of his parents, decisions about the remnants of their business. The road ahead would not be easy. But as Raphael drifted toward sleep, he found himself holding onto the image of Joy Boy's encouraging smile and the memory of simple, profound wisdom offered without words.
'Keep smiling,' he reminded himself as consciousness began to fade. 'Stay strong—not just in body but in heart. And remember that food tastes better when shared.'
His last thought before sleep claimed him was a hope that someday, when he had become the protector he aspired to be, he might encounter Joy Boy again and thank him properly for the gifts given on this darkest of days—gifts of nourishment, clarity, and most precious of all, the strength to carry on.
Chapter 26: The Weight of Freedom
Summary:
Edelgard understanding what true freedom is.
Chapter Text
In the soft light of the Imperial Palace's east wing, Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg sat perfectly still as her lady's maid arranged her light brown hair with nimble fingers. Through the tall windows, morning sunlight spilled across the marble floor, catching on the silver brush that moved rhythmically through her locks. Nine years old and already carrying herself with the composure expected of Adrestian royalty, Edelgard watched her reflection with solemn lilac eyes.
"There we are, Your Highness," the maid said, securing the final ribbon. "Perfect for the Empire Day celebrations."
Edelgard nodded her thanks, studying the elaborate arrangement of ribbons and braids. Today marked the 981st anniversary of the founding of the Adrestian Empire, and the palace buzzed with preparations for the traditional ceremonies. Her father, Emperor Ionius IX, would preside over the festivities, with his children arranged around him in order of birth. As the ninth child and fourth daughter, Edelgard's position would be toward the end of the line, almost lost among her numerous siblings.
She didn't mind. The formal ceremonies bored her, with their endless speeches and rigid protocols. She far preferred the evening celebrations that would follow—the music, the dancing, the specially prepared sweets that appeared only on Empire Day.
A knock at her chamber door preceded the entrance of her favorite brother, Dominic, already dressed in his ceremonial attire.
"Ready, El?" he asked, using the nickname only family was permitted.
"Almost," she replied, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her crimson dress. "Is Father already in the throne room?"
Dominic's expression flickered briefly. "Father is... in conference with the ministers. We're to proceed to the anteroom without him. Mother will join us shortly."
Something in his tone made Edelgard pause. At nine years old, she was still learning to read the undercurrents of court conversation, but she recognized tension when she heard it.
"Is something wrong?" she asked directly.
Dominic hesitated, then smiled with forced brightness. "Just tedious politics, El. Nothing for you to worry about." He offered his hand. "Come along. We shouldn't keep the others waiting."
As they walked through the opulent corridors of the Imperial Palace, Edelgard noticed subtle signs that something was amiss. The usual contingent of Imperial Guards seemed diminished, replaced in places by soldiers bearing the crests of noble houses—Aegir, Vestra, Hevring, Bergliez. The servants they passed kept their eyes downcast, their movements hurried.
When they reached the royal anteroom, the atmosphere of unease intensified. Her siblings—all eight of them—huddled in small groups, their voices hushed. Her eldest brother, crown prince Wilhelm, stood apart, his face pale with fury as he conferred with their mother, Anselma von Arundel.
"What's happening?" Edelgard whispered to Dominic.
Before he could answer, the doors to the throne room burst open. Duke Ludwig von Aegir strode through, followed by six other nobles—the highest-ranking ministers of the Empire. Edelgard recognized Count Vestra among them, his hawk-like face set in grim determination.
"The Imperial family will remain here until summoned," Duke Aegir announced, his voice carrying none of the deference usually shown to royalty. "For your safety, of course."
Prince Wilhelm stepped forward, hand moving to the ceremonial sword at his hip. "How dare you speak to us with such insolence? Where is our father?"
"His Majesty is indisposed," Lord Arundel—Edelgard's maternal uncle—replied smoothly. "The Empire cannot afford his... erratic leadership any longer. The Seven have agreed to assume governance temporarily, until matters are stabilized."
"This is treason," Wilhelm hissed, drawing his sword partway from its scabbard.
Two palace guards immediately moved to flank him, their allegiance clearly no longer to the Imperial family. Edelgard felt Dominic's hand tighten around hers.
"This is necessity," Duke Aegir corrected coldly. "The Empire's treasury bleeds dry while the Emperor pursues his obsessions with centralized power. The noble houses will not stand for it. Your father has been relieved of his executive authority. He retains his title, of course."
The room erupted into chaos—her elder siblings shouting accusations, her younger ones crying in confusion. Edelgard remained frozen, watching as the world she knew crumbled around her. Guards now blocked all exits, their expressions impassive as they contained the Imperial family.
Then, cutting through the cacophony, came a sound unlike anything Edelgard had ever heard: a rhythmic pulsing that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. Doom, doom, doom. The marble floor beneath her feet trembled slightly with each pulse, as if the palace itself were breathing.
A strange golden light began to spill through the windows, though Edelgard knew it was barely past nine in the morning. The light intensified, bathing the anteroom in a warm glow that defied any natural source.
Duke Aegir faltered mid-sentence, his gaze drawn to the center of the room where—impossibly—a figure now stood who had not been there moments before.
The stranger wore garments of purest white, pristine and luminous in the golden light. His hair rose from his head like living flame, dancing and shifting though there was no breeze. Most striking were his eyes—large, golden irises that seemed to glow with their own inner light, surveying the room with an expression of mild curiosity. Around his shoulders floated a mantle of what appeared to be actual clouds, drifting and swirling like mist given form.
"Joy Boy," someone whispered, and Edelgard felt a ripple of recognition move through the room.
The Seven drew back involuntarily, shock evident on their faces. The guards seemed equally stunned, their weapons wavering uncertainly.
Joy Boy smiled—a warm, genuine expression that transformed his otherworldly features into something almost childlike in its delight. He made no move to speak, simply standing there, observing the tableau with those impossible golden eyes.
"What manner of sorcery is this?" Duke Aegir demanded, though his voice lacked its previous authority. "Remove this intruder at once!"
Two guards hesitantly approached Joy Boy, their spears extended. With movements too quick to follow, Joy Boy simply reached out and touched the metal tips of their weapons. Before Edelgard's astonished eyes, the steel spearheads transformed—one into a freshly baked loaf of bread, still steaming slightly; the other into a small, brilliantly colored bird that chirped once in confusion before flying to perch on a nearby curtain rod.
The guards dropped their now-useless wooden poles, stumbling backward in shock. Joy Boy's smile widened, and he turned his attention to Duke Aegir, who had gone deathly pale.
"Stay back," the Duke commanded, drawing his sword with trembling hands. "Whatever you are, I command you to depart immediately!"
Joy Boy tilted his head, considering the order with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
The sword in Duke Aegir's grip writhed and transformed, becoming a large, irritated goose that honked indignantly and flapped its wings in the Duke's face. Aegir fell backward with an undignified yelp, scrambling away from the irate bird as it pursued him across the anteroom floor.
A sound escaped Edelgard's lips—a half-strangled giggle that she quickly stifled with her hand. Around her, her siblings were reacting with varying degrees of shock and amazement. Even Wilhelm's fury had given way to stunned disbelief.
Joy Boy turned toward the Imperial children, his golden eyes seeming to assess each of them in turn. When his gaze fell on Edelgard, she felt a curious warmth—not unlike sitting beside a hearth on a winter evening. He winked at her, a conspiratorial gesture that made her feel, just for a moment, that everything might somehow be alright.
Then, with balletic grace, Joy Boy began to move. He walked not across the floor but up the nearest wall, his white-clad feet finding purchase on the vertical surface as easily as if it were level ground. The nobles and guards watched in horrified fascination as he strolled casually across a priceless tapestry depicting the founding of the Empire, then continued onto the ceiling, now moving upside-down with his cloud-mantle floating upward around his shoulders.
"Enough of this absurdity," Lord Arundel snarled, gesturing to the guards. "Archers!"
Several soldiers with bows stepped forward, nocking arrows and taking aim at the ceiling-walking figure. They released their shots in unison, the arrows whistling through the air toward Joy Boy.
Just before impact, Joy Boy made another casual gesture. The arrows transformed mid-flight—becoming butterflies, flower petals, and what appeared to be small, colorful candies that rained down harmlessly on the stunned onlookers below.
From her position near the wall, Edelgard could see that while Joy Boy's antics had captured everyone's attention, something else was happening at the room's periphery. The doors to a side passage had quietly opened, and familiar figures were beckoning to the Imperial children. Her mother's trusted handmaidens and several loyal guards—those few who had resisted whatever bribes or threats the Seven had employed to turn the palace guard.
Dominic noticed as well. With subtle movements, he began guiding Edelgard and their younger siblings toward the secret exit while Joy Boy continued his impossible performance, now walking in circles on the ceiling while periodically transforming random objects in the room—a candelabra became a bouquet of flowers, a guard's helmet turned into a nesting bird, Duke Aegir's boots transformed into heavy iron weights that anchored him to the floor as he shouted increasingly desperate orders.
"Move quietly," Dominic whispered, urging Edelgard toward the hidden door. "While they're distracted."
As they neared escape, a shout went up from Count Vestra. "The children! Stop them!"
Guards rushed to intercept them, cutting off their path to freedom. Joy Boy, still on the ceiling, observed this development with a slight frown—the first negative expression Edelgard had seen on his face. With a graceful flip, he dropped from the ceiling, somehow slowing his descent to land gently between the Imperial children and the approaching guards.
No longer smiling, Joy Boy raised both hands and clapped them together once, producing a sound like thunder. The room froze—not literally, but every person caught in whatever motion they had been making, their expressions fixed in surprise or determination. Only the Imperial family remained mobile, staring in wonder at the tableau of frozen nobles and guards.
Joy Boy turned to them, gesturing urgently toward the exit. The message was clear: Go, now.
Wilhelm hesitated only briefly before making his decision. "All of you, with me. Quickly!" He took the youngest child, five-year-old Pascale, into his arms and led the way toward the hidden passage.
Edelgard followed with the others, but at the threshold, something made her pause and look back. Joy Boy stood alone in the center of the room, surrounded by the frozen conspirators. His expression was solemn now, almost sad, as he watched them escape.
"Why don't you come with us?" she called impulsively.
Joy Boy shook his head gently. He pointed to the Imperial children, then to the door, making a "go on" motion with his hands. Then he pointed to himself and to the room at large, spreading his arms to indicate he was staying.
"But why?" Edelgard persisted, even as Dominic tugged at her hand. "You could stop them completely. You could fix everything!"
Joy Boy's golden eyes met hers, filled with an ancient knowledge that transcended his youthful appearance. He raised one finger, as if making an important point, then gestured to his heart, to her heart, and finally made a motion like turning a key in a lock.
Edelgard didn't understand. "What does that mean? Why won't you just finish it? They're trying to hurt Father, to take over the Empire!"
"El, we have to go now," Dominic insisted, pulling her toward the passage.
Joy Boy only blinked at her, his expression gentle but resolute. Then, with a gesture like closing a book, he vanished in a soft puff of white mist, leaving behind only a lingering scent of sea air and something sweet, like caramel.
The moment he disappeared, the room unfroze. The nobles and guards stumbled forward, disoriented by the sudden absence of both Joy Boy and several of the Imperial children.
"After them!" Duke Aegir bellowed, still struggling with his transformed boots. "Don't let them escape!"
But it was too late. Dominic pulled Edelgard through the secret door, sealing it behind them as they fled into the hidden passageways that honeycombed the ancient palace.
For hours, they moved through dark corridors, guided by Wilhelm and the few loyal servants who had orchestrated their escape. Edelgard's mind raced with questions, chief among them: Who—or what—was Joy Boy? Why had he helped them escape but not prevented the Insurrection entirely? And what had he been trying to tell her with those strange gestures?
By nightfall, they had reached a safe location—a hunting lodge on the outskirts of Enbarr, owned by a minor noble family still loyal to the Emperor. There, they received the full report of what had transpired: their father, Emperor Ionius IX, had been forced to sign documents ceding most of his executive powers to the noble houses. The Insurrection of the Seven, as it was already being called, had succeeded. Though the Emperor retained his title, real power now rested with Duke Aegir and his conspirators.
"What will happen to us now?" Pascale asked tearfully as they huddled in the lodge's main hall, the weight of their new reality settling over them like a shroud.
"We survive," Wilhelm answered grimly. "We maintain our dignity as the Imperial family. And we wait for an opportunity to restore Father's authority."
Edelgard sat apart from the others, staring into the crackling fire. In her mind, she kept seeing Joy Boy's farewell gesture—that closing of an invisible book, as if to say: This chapter ends here.
"Why didn't he stop it completely?" she whispered to herself. "He clearly had the power."
"Who are you talking about, El?" Her mother sat beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Joy Boy," Edelgard replied. "He could have defeated all of them. I saw what he could do—turning weapons into bread and birds, walking on ceilings. He could have fixed everything, but he just... left."
Anselma's expression grew distant. "Joy Boy is... not like us, Edelgard. His ways are not our ways. He intervenes, yes, but never completely. Never absolutely. It's as if he exists to... adjust things, not to overthrow them entirely."
"But why?" Edelgard demanded, a spark of anger flaring in her chest. "What good is power if you don't use it when it matters most?"
Her mother looked at her for a long moment, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and something deeper—a recognition that her daughter was asking questions most children never considered.
"Perhaps," she said carefully, "he believes some changes must come from within. That people must find their own strength, make their own choices." She squeezed Edelgard's shoulder gently. "And perhaps he sees paths forward that we cannot."
Edelgard frowned, unconvinced. In her nine-year-old mind, the solution seemed simple: if you had the power to fix a broken world, you used it. Joy Boy's half-measures felt like abandonment.
That night, as she lay awake in an unfamiliar bed, Edelgard made a silent vow to herself. If she ever obtained real power—the kind that could actually change things—she wouldn't hesitate as Joy Boy had. She would use it decisively, reshape the world as it needed to be reshaped. No half-measures, no cryptic gestures, no walking away when the work was only partially done.
The Insurrection had changed everything. She could feel it in the hollow silence of the hunting lodge, in the strained whispers of the adults when they thought the children weren't listening. The Empire would never be the same. Her family would never be the same.
And neither, Edelgard realized as she finally drifted toward sleep, would she.
The night air in the dungeons beneath the Imperial Palace was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smell of chemicals. Edelgard von Hresvelg lay on a cold stone slab, her once-brown hair bleached white from trauma, her small body wracked with tremors as the latest "procedure" wore off. Beside her, her younger siblings Emilia and Pascal slept fitfully, their faces contorted in pain even in unconsciousness.
For two months, they had endured the unimaginable—their bodies cut open, their blood drained and replaced, strange devices implanted beneath their skin that pulsed with an eerie red glow. All in the name of "creating the perfect ruler" as their captors claimed, though Edelgard understood even at eleven years old that this was merely a pretense for cruelty.
Through the haze of pain, Edelgard became aware of a change in the atmosphere. The constant dripping of water from the dungeon ceiling slowed, then stopped completely. The torches along the walls, which had been flickering weakly, suddenly burned with unusual brightness, casting a golden glow across the chamber that had no business in this place of suffering.
Then came the familiar rhythmic pulsing: doom, doom, doom. The stone beneath her trembled slightly with each pulse.
"You," Edelgard whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming during the day's experiments. "You're back."
Joy Boy appeared at the foot of her stone bed, his pristine white garments incongruous in the filthy dungeon. His cloud-like mantle swirled around his shoulders, and his flame-like hair seemed to dance in a breeze that didn't exist. His golden eyes—those impossibly large, luminous orbs—regarded her with an expression that might have been sorrow.
"Now?" Edelgard rasped, struggling to push herself up despite her body's protests. "You come back now? After everything?"
Joy Boy approached her bedside, his movements fluid and graceful despite the cramped confines of the dungeon cell. He looked around at the implements of torture that lined the walls, at the dried blood staining the floors, at the pale, unconscious forms of Emilia and Pascal. His expression darkened momentarily—the first negative emotion Edelgard had ever seen cross his face.
With deliberate care, he reached out and touched the strange device implanted in Edelgard's forearm. It pulsed once, twice, then went dark, the red glow fading completely. He repeated the process with her siblings, moving between them with silent efficiency.
"They're dying," Edelgard said, hating how her voice broke on the words. "Emilia and Pascal. They're weaker than me. The procedures—" She shook her head, unable to continue.
Joy Boy nodded solemnly, confirming her fears. He placed his hands gently on Pascal's forehead, then on Emilia's. Both children seemed to breathe easier at his touch, their pained expressions relaxing slightly.
"Can you save them?" Edelgard asked, desperation creeping into her voice despite her efforts to remain composed. "Like you saved us before?"
Joy Boy's expression grew contemplative. He made a balancing gesture with his hands, as if weighing two options. Then he pointed to the door of their cell, making a sweeping gesture that suggested escape.
"You'll help us get out?" Edelgard interpreted, hope flaring briefly in her chest.
Joy Boy nodded, but his expression remained grave. He pointed to Emilia and Pascal, then to Edelgard, then made a running motion with his fingers.
"They're too weak to run," Edelgard realized aloud. "And I can't carry them both."
A solemn nod confirmed her assessment. Joy Boy then did something that shocked Edelgard—he knelt beside her makeshift bed, bringing his strange, otherworldly face level with hers. His golden eyes bored into her lilac ones with an intensity that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't.
And then, his eyes began to change. The brilliant gold darkened, shifting through amber to crimson, until they glowed a deep, blood-red that seemed to pulse with each beat of Edelgard's heart.
Fear gripped her then—not of what he might do to her, but of what she saw reflected in those impossible eyes: her own anguish, her rage, her helplessness. It was as if Joy Boy was looking not at her but into her, seeing every hidden corner of her being.
She wanted to look away but found herself unable to break his gaze. The air between them seemed to thicken, pressure building as if before a storm. Edelgard gasped, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.
And then, for the first and only time, Joy Boy spoke.
His voice was unlike anything Edelgard had ever heard—musical and clear like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, yet simultaneously eerie and resonant, as if each syllable contained echoes of ancient power.
"You can't blame your fate on the shortcomings of others. You can't help someone who can't be helped. You can't fix something that people have claimed is already broken. But you can dream. Destiny, fate, dreams. These unstoppable forces are at the heart of humanity. As long as there are people who seek freedom, these things shall never vanish from the earth. That is freedom. So..."
He pointed gently at Edelgard's chest, directly over her heart.
"What is freedom to you, little one?"
The words hung in the air like physical things, each syllable seeming to vibrate with meaning that Edelgard couldn't fully grasp. Before she could respond—before she could even formulate a thought—Joy Boy stood, his eyes returning to their golden hue. He smiled at her then, not his usual bright grin but something smaller, sadder.
With a graceful step backward, he began to dissolve, his form becoming translucent until only his eyes remained visible in the darkness of the cell. And then, even those were gone.
At that moment, the cell door burst open. Hubert von Vestra stood in the doorway, fifteen years old and already wearing the grim determination that would become his trademark expression in later years. Behind him were Imperial soldiers—not the traitors who had helped capture the royal children, but men and women wearing the traditional armor of the Emperor's personal guard.
"Lady Edelgard," Hubert breathed, relief evident in his voice as he rushed to her side. "We've come to bring you home."
Edelgard stared at him, her mind still reeling from Joy Boy's words, her ears still filled with the otherworldly sound of his voice. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. The shock of what had just occurred, combined with two months of systematic torture, finally overcame her consciousness. She collapsed back onto the stone slab, the world fading to black around her.
When she awoke, Edelgard was in her own bed in the Imperial Palace, clean sheets soft against her skin, the familiar scents of lavender and rose replacing the dungeon's stench of blood and chemicals. Momentary confusion gave way to memory, and she sat up with a gasp.
"Emilia! Pascal!"
"Ease yourself, El." A gentle hand pressed her back onto the pillows. Her eldest sister, Sophia, sat beside her bed, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she had been keeping vigil for some time. "You're safe now. You're home."
"My siblings," Edelgard insisted, trying again to rise despite her body's protests. "The ones who were with me. Are they—"
Sophia's expression told her everything before words could. "Emilia and Pascal... they didn't survive the journey back to the palace. The doctors say whatever was done to them was simply too much for their bodies to bear."
The grief hit Edelgard like a physical blow, stealing her breath and sending fresh tears streaming down her face. She had known, somehow, that this would be the answer. Had seen it in Joy Boy's sorrowful expression, in the gentle way he had touched her siblings' foreheads—not healing, but comforting. A farewell.
"The others?" she managed to ask through her tears, dreading the answer.
"Alive," Sophia assured her quickly. "Hidden away. Father had us scattered to different safe locations when it became clear what Uncle Volkhard intended. Only you three were captured."
Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. Edelgard nodded, allowing herself to sink back into the pillows, exhaustion overtaking her once more.
"Rest, El," Sophia murmured, stroking her now-white hair. "We'll talk more when you're stronger."
But as Edelgard drifted back toward sleep, it wasn't her siblings, her captivity, or even her rescue that occupied her thoughts. It was Joy Boy's question, reverberating through her mind like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing:
"What is freedom to you, little one?"
The recovery was slow, painful, and incomplete. Certain wounds—both physical and psychological—would never fully heal. The experiments had left permanent marks: hair white as snow, scars crisscrossing her body, and two crests where nature had intended only one. But more than these visible reminders, it was the invisible wounds that haunted Edelgard most.
Nightmares plagued her sleep. Memories intruded during waking hours. And always, always, that question lingered at the edges of her consciousness:
"What is freedom to you, little one?"
She didn't speak for weeks after her rescue. The palace physicians attributed this to trauma, assuring the Emperor and his consort that their daughter's voice would return in time. They were right, but not in the way they expected. When Edelgard finally broke her silence, it was to ask a question of her own.
"Mother," she said one evening as Anselma brushed her daughter's white hair before bed, "what is freedom?"
The brush paused mid-stroke. "Freedom, El?"
"Yes. What does it mean? To be free?"
Anselma resumed brushing, her movements gentle as she considered the question. "Well, I suppose freedom means being able to make your own choices. To decide your own path in life without constraints."
Edelgard frowned slightly. "But everyone has constraints. Even Father, even though he's the Emperor."
"That's true," Anselma acknowledged. "Perhaps absolute freedom is more of an ideal than a reality. Why do you ask, darling?"
Edelgard hesitated, the memory of Joy Boy's red eyes and wind-chime voice too strange, too personal to share. "I was just thinking," she said instead, "about everything that happened. About why people do the things they do."
Anselma set down the brush and turned her daughter to face her. "What happened to you was evil, El. There's no justification for it, no explanation that would ever make it acceptable."
"I know," Edelgard said. "But that's not what I meant. I meant... the world is so broken. The system that let this happen, the people who thought they had the right to... to use us like tools. How do we fix something like that?"
Alarm flashed across her mother's face. "Edelgard, you're eleven years old. It's not your responsibility to fix the world's evils."
"But what if it is?" Edelgard pressed. "What if it becomes my responsibility someday? What if I'm the only one who can?"
Anselma gathered her daughter close, smoothing her white hair with trembling hands. "Then you'll face that day when it comes. But for now, my darling, please just focus on healing. On being a child for what time remains of your childhood."
Edelgard rested her head against her mother's shoulder, drawing comfort from the familiar embrace, but Joy Boy's question continued to echo in her mind. She knew instinctively that it was important—perhaps the most important question she would ever need to answer.
And so began her quest.
In the weeks and months that followed, Edelgard approached everyone who would speak with her, posing the same seemingly simple question: "What is freedom?"
The answers varied widely, revealing as much about the respondent as they did about the concept itself.
Her father, Emperor Ionius IX, considered the question from his sickbed, his once-powerful frame withered by illness and the stress of the Insurrection. "Freedom, my daughter, is having the power to protect what you love," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Without power, all other freedoms are merely theoretical."
Her older brother Wilhelm, who had assumed many of the Emperor's duties during his illness, offered a more pragmatic view. "Freedom is understanding the rules of the game and using them to your advantage," he told her as they walked through the Imperial gardens. "True freedom comes from mastering the system, not breaking it."
Her sister Sophia, who had become almost maternal in her protectiveness since Edelgard's return, suggested that "Freedom is peace of mind—knowing that you and those you love are safe from harm."
Even the palace staff had their perspectives. Her lady's maid believed freedom was "having enough coin to buy what you need without worrying about tomorrow." The palace librarian described it as "access to knowledge and the ability to think independently." An old gardener, tending roses as they spoke, simply said, "Freedom's when you can plant something and know you'll be there to see it bloom."
Only Hubert seemed to truly understand the depth of her question. When she asked him one afternoon as they sat in the palace library, he set aside the tome he'd been studying and gave her his full attention.
"This isn't merely an academic exercise for you, is it, Lady Edelgard?"
She shook her head. "I need to know, Hubert. I need to understand."
He considered her for a long moment, his pale green eyes unusually soft. "I believe freedom is different for each person," he said finally. "For some, it's the absence of constraints. For others, it's the presence of options. But perhaps most fundamentally, freedom is the ability to define oneself—to determine one's own path and purpose without having either imposed by another."
His answer resonated with something deep within her, but still felt incomplete. "And yet," she pressed, "we're all born into circumstances we didn't choose. We all have limitations we didn't ask for. How can anyone truly be free?"
"Perhaps complete freedom is impossible," Hubert acknowledged. "Perhaps what matters is the striving toward it—the continuous effort to expand one's agency despite inherent limitations."
Edelgard nodded slowly, absorbing his words. "Thank you, Hubert. That helps... somewhat."
As she rose to leave, Hubert's voice stopped her. "May I ask what prompted this line of inquiry?"
She hesitated at the doorway, one hand resting on the ornate frame. "Something someone said to me," she answered vaguely. "During... during that time."
Hubert's expression darkened with understanding. "One of your captors?"
"No," she said quickly. "Someone else. Someone... unexpected."
Hubert studied her face, clearly wanting to press further but respecting her reluctance. "If you ever wish to discuss it," he offered simply, "I am here."
Edelgard nodded her thanks and slipped away, her mind still churning with unanswered questions.
The years passed. Edelgard grew from a traumatized child into a guarded adolescent. The physical scars faded to thin white lines across her skin, visible only to those who knew where to look. The emotional wounds remained deeper, though she became adept at concealing them beneath a mask of composed determination.
Her siblings who had survived the Insurrection gradually returned to the Imperial Palace as security improved, though they were forever changed by their time in hiding. The royal family, once numerous and vibrant, was now a smaller, more somber group, bound together by shared tragedy.
Emperor Ionius IX never fully recovered from the combined effects of the Insurrection and the grief of losing two of his children. Though he regained some of his executive powers thanks to careful political maneuvering by his eldest son and the unexpected support of Duchess von Aegir, he remained a shadow of his former self, often confined to his private chambers for days at a time.
Through it all, Edelgard's question remained unanswered. She read philosophy texts from the palace library, studied historical accounts of rebellions and revolutions, observed the political maneuverings of the Imperial Court with increasingly critical eyes. Each new piece of information offered perspective but never quite satisfied the core of her inquiry.
At sixteen, she was sent to the Royal School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad—partly for education, partly for her safety as tensions within the Empire continued to simmer. The Kingdom of Faerghus was cold and unfamiliar, its people reserved in ways that differed markedly from the theatrical formality of Enbarr. Yet Edelgard found a strange comfort in the change of scenery, in the challenge of adapting to new surroundings.
It was in Fhirdiad that she met Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of Faerghus. There was something familiar about him that she couldn't quite place—a shared gravity, perhaps, or a similar understanding of the weight of responsibility. Whatever the connection, they formed a tentative friendship, finding in each other a rare peer who understood the complexities of royal duty.
One snowy afternoon, as they walked through the frost-covered gardens of the School of Sorcery, Edelgard found herself posing her persistent question.
"Dimitri, what does freedom mean to you?"
The blond prince looked surprised by the sudden philosophical turn. "Freedom? I'm not sure I've given it much thought." He was quiet for several moments as they continued walking, snow crunching beneath their boots. "I suppose... freedom is the luxury of considering others before oneself. When your own needs are secure, you can turn your attention outward."
Edelgard tilted her head, considering. "So freedom is altruism?"
"Not exactly," Dimitri said thoughtfully. "More that... true freedom enables altruism. When you're struggling for survival or trapped by circumstances, your focus necessarily turns inward. Only when those basic constraints are lifted can you truly choose to serve others."
It was an interesting perspective—one Edelgard hadn't encountered before. "And is that what you want?" she asked. "The freedom to serve others?"
Dimitri looked at her, his blue eyes surprisingly vulnerable. "Is that not what power is for? What else would be the purpose of the strength we're born with, the positions we inherit?"
Edelgard didn't answer, but the question stayed with her long after they parted ways. Was that what Joy Boy had been asking her, in his cryptic way? Was freedom not about breaking chains but about the purpose one chose once the chains were gone?
When Edelgard returned to the Empire at seventeen, she found the political landscape subtly altered. The Seven—those nobles who had orchestrated the Insurrection—were no longer the unified front they had once been. Duke Aegir had been replaced by his wife, who governed with unexpected wisdom and compassion. Count Vestra had vanished under mysterious circumstances, his duties assumed by his son, Hubert, who remained fiercely loyal to the Imperial family. The other conspirators maintained their positions but seemed increasingly isolated, their influence waning as Emperor Ionius gradually reclaimed aspects of his authority.
"Things are changing," Wilhelm told her one evening as they watched the sunset from the palace terrace. "Slowly, subtly, but changing nonetheless."
Edelgard studied her oldest brother's profile, noting the new lines around his eyes, the streaks of premature gray in his dark hair. The burden of managing the Empire's affairs during their father's weakened state had aged him beyond his thirty years.
"Is it enough?" she asked softly. "These small changes?"
Wilhelm sighed, a sound laden with years of frustrated ambition and pragmatic compromise. "It has to be, El. Revolution would tear the Empire apart, leave us vulnerable to Faerghus or the Alliance. Not to mention the Church."
"But the system itself is flawed," Edelgard pressed. "The concentration of power among nobles based on Crests, the Church's control over education and information, the suffering of commoners while the elite squabble over privileges... How can incremental change address such fundamental problems?"
Wilhelm turned to her, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation. "When did my little sister become such a radical?"
"When I watched two of our siblings die because of a system that values Crests above humanity," she replied, her voice steady despite the pain the memory still evoked. "When I realized that what happened to us wasn't an aberration but a symptom of a deeper disease."
Wilhelm reached out to touch her cheek gently. "Your passion does you credit, El. But passion without direction can be destructive. What would you have us do? Challenge the Church directly? Abolish the nobility overnight? Some changes can't be forced without causing more harm than good."
Edelgard leaned into her brother's touch briefly before straightening. "I don't have all the answers yet. But I know there must be a better way forward than simply accepting the world as it is."
Wilhelm studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps there is. And perhaps you'll be the one to find it." He smiled wryly. "You always were the most determined of us all."
After her brother departed, Edelgard remained on the terrace, watching as stars appeared in the darkening sky one by one. Joy Boy's question echoed in her mind, as it had countless times over the years:
"What is freedom to you, little one?"
She was no longer little—no longer the frightened, traumatized child in the dungeons beneath the palace. She had studied, observed, questioned, and reflected. She had witnessed suffering and kindness, cruelty and compassion. She had seen how systems could crush individuals, but also how individuals could, sometimes, change systems.
And suddenly, as she stood beneath the vast canopy of stars, the answer crystallized within her with such clarity that she wondered how she hadn't seen it before.
Freedom wasn't something you could take—it was something you inspired.
It wasn't about breaking chains but about showing others that the chains could be broken. It wasn't about imposing a new order but about creating conditions where people could discover their own agency, define their own purpose.
True freedom came not from the absence of constraints but from the presence of possibility—the chance for each person to become their fullest self, to contribute their unique gifts to a world that valued those contributions.
And to create such freedom required not just removing obstacles but building bridges—connections between people, ideas, possibilities. It required vision and determination, yes, but also compassion and understanding. The willingness to see others not as tools or obstacles but as fellow travelers on the path toward a better world.
Edelgard took a deep breath, feeling as if a weight she hadn't known she was carrying had finally been lifted. The path ahead was still uncertain, filled with challenges she could only dimly perceive. But for the first time since that terrible night in the dungeons, she felt a sense of clarity about her purpose, her direction.
"Thank you," she whispered to the night sky, knowing Joy Boy couldn't hear her but feeling the need to acknowledge the gift of his question nonetheless. "I understand now."
As if in response, a shooting star streaked across the heavens, burning bright for one glorious moment before fading back into darkness. Edelgard smiled at the coincidence, then turned to go inside, her mind already turning toward the future and the changes she would help bring about.
She would tell no one of her epiphany, keeping it as a private understanding between herself and the strange being who had set her on this path of questioning. But it would inform everything she did from this moment forward—every choice, every alliance, every confrontation.
Freedom wasn't something you claimed for yourself alone. It was something you created conditions for, something you demonstrated through your own actions, something you kindled in others until it caught fire in their hearts as well.
And with that understanding, Edelgard von Hresvelg stepped into her destiny, no longer defined by what had been done to her but by what she would choose to do—for herself, for the Empire, for a world that desperately needed to remember what freedom truly meant.
Chapter 27: Boundaries of the Heart
Summary:
In which a young prince from Almyra encounters Joy Boy for the third time, and learns that true strength lies not in walls that divide, but in bridges that connect. As Khalid prepares to become Claude and cross into Fódlan territory, he discovers that sometimes the greatest journeys begin with a single act of trust.
Chapter Text
The sun bore down mercilessly on the training grounds of the Almyran royal palace, its heat intensified by the cloudless sky that stretched endlessly above. Sweat trickled down Khalid's brow as he nocked another arrow, his emerald eyes narrowed in concentration. At sixteen, the young prince had grown into his lanky frame somewhat, though he still lacked the bulky musculature that characterized most Almyran warriors—a fact his half-brothers never tired of pointing out.
"Aiming for the target this time, little brother?" called Navid from where he lounged in the shade, his voice carrying the familiar edge of mockery that Khalid had learned to weather like a desert storm. "Or are you planning to shoot at the clouds again?"
Khalid didn't respond, keeping his breathing steady as he drew back the bowstring. The wooden target stood forty paces away—a distance that would have been challenging for most archers his age, but one that Khalid had mastered years ago out of necessity. In Almyra, weakness was not tolerated, especially not in a half-blood prince with Fódlan heritage.
He released the arrow with practiced precision, the shaft whistling through the air before embedding itself in the center of the target with a satisfying thunk. Without pause, he nocked another arrow and fired again. And again. And again. Each arrow landed within a finger's width of the first, forming a tight cluster that spoke of thousands of hours of dedicated practice.
Only when his quiver was empty did Khalid lower his bow and wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The sun-shaped medallion that hung from a leather cord around his neck caught the light, momentarily dazzling him with its reflected brilliance. He tucked it back beneath his training tunic out of habit—the medallion was one of his most closely guarded possessions, and not something he displayed openly.
"Not bad," conceded another of his half-brothers, Jahangir, who had been watching from the colonnade that bordered the training grounds. Unlike Navid, Jahangir's criticism usually contained at least a grain of genuine assessment. "Though I still say archery is a coward's way of fighting. Real Almyran warriors face their enemies up close."
Khalid flashed him a easy smile that revealed nothing of his inner thoughts. "Maybe so, brother. But dead is dead, whether from an arrow at forty paces or an axe at arm's length."
"Philosophy from the little scholar," Navid chuckled, rising from his shaded spot to saunter towards Khalid. At twenty, Navid was everything an Almyran prince should be—tall, broad-shouldered, with a face already bearing the scars of battles well-fought. "Let's see if those clever words help you when someone's blade is at your throat."
There was a time when such comments would have provoked Khalid into rash action—trying to prove himself through direct confrontation, only to end up battered and bruised. But years of being the outsider had taught him patience and strategy. Fighting on others' terms was a fool's game, and Khalid von Riegan was no fool.
"Maybe someday we'll find out," Khalid replied with a nonchalant shrug, already turning away to collect his arrows. "But not today. Father's expecting me for our discussion about the eastern border."
This wasn't strictly true—the meeting wasn't scheduled until later that afternoon—but it served its purpose. Navid's expression darkened at the reminder that it was Khalid, not him, who had been invited to participate in matters of state recently. For all Navid's physical prowess, King Rahim had begun recognizing that his youngest son possessed an analytical mind valuable for diplomatic matters.
"Of course," Navid said, his tone souring. "Run along to your maps and treaties. Leave the real fighting to those of pure Almyran blood."
Khalid collected his arrows methodically, carefully extracting each one from the target and returning it to his quiver. Only when his back was turned to his half-brothers did he allow himself a brief grimace. Twelve years of such comments had developed his thick skin, but some barbs still found their way through his defenses occasionally.
As he gathered the last arrow, his fingers brushed against the medallion beneath his shirt—a tiny, unconscious gesture of self-comfort. The sun-shaped amulet had been with him since he was four years old, a gift from the strangest encounter of his young life. Sometimes, when the weight of being neither fully Almyran nor fully Fódlanese became too heavy, he would take out the medallion and remember the figure who had given it to him: Joy Boy.
Even now, twelve years later, the memory remained vivid in his mind. The older boys who had cornered him during a diplomatic visit, their taunts about his "Fódlan eyes" and "weak foreign blood." The sudden appearance of Joy Boy—leaning casually against a tree with his arms crossed, white hair glowing like flame in the sunlight, golden eyes twinkling with mischief. The way Joy Boy had distracted the bullies with a series of impossible acrobatics, giving Khalid time to escape. And finally, the moment when Joy Boy had pulled the sun medallion from seemingly nowhere and pressed it into Khalid's small hand before vanishing like morning mist.
"Daydreaming again, little brother?" Jahangir's voice broke through his reverie. "Better hurry if you don't want to keep Father waiting."
Khalid straightened, the familiar easy smile returning to his face as he slung his bow over his shoulder. "Just thinking about trajectories," he lied smoothly. "The wind's picking up from the east. Makes for interesting adjustments."
Without waiting for a response, he strode across the training grounds, his gait relaxed despite the prickling awareness of his half-brothers' gazes following him. The royal palace sprawled across the highest hill in Khidr, Almyra's capital city, its white stone walls gleaming in the sunlight. Minarets and domes rose skyward, adorned with intricate geometric patterns in blue and gold that caught the light like jewels. Beyond the palace walls, the city spread outward in concentric circles, a testament to Almyra's power and prosperity.
From this vantage point, Khalid could just make out the distant line on the horizon that marked the beginning of Fódlan's Throat—the mountain range that served as the natural border between Almyra and the Leicester Alliance. Somewhere on the other side of those mountains lay his mother's homeland, a place he had never seen but had studied extensively through books and maps smuggled by traders willing to risk crossing the hostile border.
And soon—very soon now—he would be crossing that border himself.
The thought sent a familiar mixture of excitement and trepidation through him as he made his way through the palace corridors. The plan had been in motion for months now, ever since the letter had arrived from his grandfather, Duke Oswald von Riegan. The old man was dying and, finding himself without an heir after the mysterious death of Khalid's uncle Godfrey, had reached out to his daughter Tiana.
For Khalid, it represented an unprecedented opportunity. To establish himself in Fódlan as Claude von Riegan, heir to the leading house of the Leicester Alliance. To learn about the other half of his heritage firsthand, rather than through books and his mother's increasingly nostalgic stories. And perhaps, most importantly, to begin working toward the dream that had taken root in his heart years ago: to break down the walls between Almyra and Fódlan, to create a world where people like him—caught between two cultures—would no longer have to choose sides.
But first, he needed to survive long enough to reach Fódlan's shores. No small feat for a half-blood prince with numerous half-siblings who viewed him as an insult to Almyra's bloodline.
Rather than heading to the royal chambers where his father would be holding court, Khalid made his way to the eastern wing of the palace where his mother maintained her private gardens. The guards posted at the entrance nodded respectfully as he passed—whatever their personal feelings about their queen's foreign blood, none would dare show disrespect to the king's wife or son openly.
The garden was a curious blend of Almyran and Fódlan horticulture—desert blooms alongside carefully tended roses, fragrant jasmine climbing trellises next to Leicester lilies. Like its mistress, it existed in between worlds, neither fully one nor the other.
Tiana—or Queen Hadiya as she was known in Almyra—was pruning one of her prized rose bushes when Khalid entered. Despite having lived in Almyra for almost two decades, she maintained the straight-backed posture of Fódlan nobility, her movements precise and economical even in the simple act of gardening.
"There you are," she said without looking up, somehow always aware of her son's presence. "I expected you earlier. Were your brothers being difficult again?"
Khalid chuckled, settling onto a stone bench nearby. "No more than usual. Just the typical 'archery is for cowards' speech from Jahangir."
Tiana snipped a wilting bloom with more force than strictly necessary. "That boy wouldn't know strategy if it shot him in the backside. Your father didn't conquer half the eastern territories by charging blindly into battle with an axe."
"Try telling that to Jahangir," Khalid replied, leaning back to gaze up at the sky through the latticework of the garden pergola. "Or don't. I'd rather he continue underestimating the value of thinking before swinging."
His mother set down her pruning shears and turned to face him fully, her green eyes—so like his own—studying him intently. "The preparations are complete. The merchant caravan leaves at dawn tomorrow. Your father has spoken with the captain personally."
A flutter of nervous anticipation stirred in Khalid's chest, though his expression remained carefully neutral. "And my new identity? The documents?"
"All arranged." Tiana crossed the garden to sit beside him on the bench, her voice lowering though they were alone. "From the moment you cross the Throat, you must think of yourself only as Claude von Riegan. Khalid must remain here, in Almyra. Any slip, any hint of your true heritage..."
"Would mean certain death at worst, or expulsion at best," Khalid finished for her. "I know, Mother. I've been practicing introducing myself as Claude for weeks now."
"It's more than just a name," Tiana insisted, reaching out to touch his cheek gently—a rare display of maternal affection that spoke to the gravity of the moment. "It's a complete separation from everything you've known. The Fódlan nobility are... different. Their smiles hide daggers. Their courtesy conceals contempt. And their fear of outsiders runs bone-deep."
Khalid nodded, covering his mother's hand with his own briefly before she withdrew it. "I know. But I also know that nothing will ever change if someone doesn't take the first step. Why not me? I'm already half of each world. Maybe I'm the only one who can truly understand both sides."
Tiana's expression softened, pride mingling with concern in her eyes. "You have your father's ambition and my stubbornness. A dangerous combination." She sighed, rising to return to her roses. "Your grandfather's retainer will meet you at Fódlan's Locket. From there, you'll travel to Derdriu. Remember, Duke Oswald is expecting a properly educated Fódlan noble. Your manners must be impeccable."
"Don't worry," Khalid replied with a wry smile. "I've been studying the ridiculous Fódlan dining etiquette. Three different forks for one meal—who came up with that nonsense?"
His mother shot him a sharp look. "That 'nonsense' could be the difference between acceptance and suspicion. Leave the cynicism here with Khalid. Claude von Riegan must be charming, well-mannered, and above all, convincingly Fódlanese."
Khalid—no, Claude, he needed to start thinking of himself as Claude—rose from the bench, offering his mother an exaggerated bow that perfectly mimicked the formal Fódlan style. "Your humble servant, my lady. I shall endeavor to bring no shame upon the illustrious house of Riegan."
Despite herself, Tiana smiled. "Your accent still needs work. But the theatrics are convincing enough." Her expression grew serious again. "You should spend the rest of the day with your father and then rest early. The journey to the Throat will take three days, and you'll need your wits about you every step of the way."
Claude nodded, the playfulness fading from his demeanor. "I'll be ready."
As he left the garden, the weight of what he was about to undertake settled more firmly on his shoulders. Tomorrow, he would begin the journey that would split his life in two—Khalid remaining a secret memory, while Claude stepped forward into an uncertain future. The sun-shaped medallion felt suddenly heavy against his chest, a physical reminder of the first time he had felt caught between worlds.
The eastern border of Almyra was marked by a dramatic rise in elevation as the land began its ascent toward Fódlan's Throat—the mountain range that served as both natural barrier and namesake for the heavily fortified pass controlled by House Goneril. The merchant caravan with which Claude traveled had spent three days making its way from the capital, following ancient trade routes that skirted the more dangerous territories where bandit tribes made their homes.
Now, as the sun began its descent on the third day, Claude found himself standing atop a rocky outcropping, gazing eastward toward the mountains that separated him from his future. Behind him, the caravan was setting up camp for the night—their last on Almyran soil before attempting the crossing at dawn.
The landscape stretched before him like a painting: the rugged foothills gradually rising into the imposing mountains, their peaks still capped with snow despite the summer heat. Somewhere on the other side of those mountains lay the fortress known as Fódlan's Locket, the near-mythical defensive structure that had repelled Almyran invasions for generations. And beyond that, the Leicester Alliance—the land of his mother's birth and, soon, his new home.
Claude's hand unconsciously rose to touch the medallion beneath his traveling clothes. The past three days had been tense but uneventful. The caravan master—a gruff, practical man named Orhan who had traded with Fódlan merchants for decades—knew Claude's true identity but had been paid handsomely by King Rahim to ensure the prince's safe passage and, more importantly, his discretion.
The other merchants believed Claude to be simply another trader's son seeking opportunity across the border, a common enough occurrence that his presence raised few eyebrows. He had spent the journey learning the intricacies of Almyran silk trading—his supposed family business—while keeping largely to himself.
"Quite a view, isn't it?" Orhan's gravelly voice came from behind him as the caravan master climbed up to join Claude on the outcropping. "Those mountains have separated our worlds for centuries. Too many good men have died trying to cross them with swords instead of silks."
Claude nodded, not taking his eyes off the distant peaks. "My father says the border conflicts have been going on for so long that no one remembers how they started."
"Hmph," Orhan grunted, stroking his gray-streaked beard. "People always find reasons to hate what's different. Easier than understanding it." He glanced sideways at Claude. "You should get some rest, young master. Tomorrow will test you in ways you cannot prepare for."
"I know," Claude replied, though he made no move to return to the camp. "I just... wanted a moment to say goodbye, I suppose."
Understanding flickered in Orhan's weathered face. "To Almyra? Or to Khalid?"
The question caught Claude off guard, and for once, his carefully maintained facade slipped to reveal the uncertainty beneath. "Both, maybe. Once I cross that border, there's no going back. Not really. Even if I return physically someday, I'll never be the same person who left."
Orhan nodded sagely. "Boundaries change us all. Some harder than others." He hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "Your father asked me to give you something when we reached this point. Said you'd understand its meaning."
From within his robes, the caravan master produced a small package wrapped in silk and sealed with the royal insignia. Claude accepted it with a raised eyebrow, breaking the seal carefully to reveal... a chess piece. Specifically, a white king, carved from bone with incredible detail despite its small size.
"He said to tell you: 'In chess, the king cannot move freely until the end game, when the board has cleared. Patience, son.'" Orhan recited, clearly repeating words he had memorized without fully understanding their significance.
Claude's fingers closed around the chess piece, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His father's message was clear—though Claude would be operating behind enemy lines, so to speak, he must bide his time, building his position gradually rather than making bold moves too early. The game was just beginning.
"Thank him for me when you return," Claude said, tucking the chess piece into the small pouch at his belt where he kept his few personal treasures. "And thank you, Orhan, for risking this journey."
The caravan master waved away his gratitude. "I've crossed these mountains forty-seven times in my life. Almyran silk fetches triple its value in Derdriu markets. The risk is well worth the reward." He turned to head back to the camp, pausing only to add, "Though I suspect your reasons for crossing have little to do with profit margins."
Claude watched him go, then turned back to face the mountains once more, suddenly feeling the need to be alone with his thoughts. The sun was sinking rapidly now, painting the western sky in brilliant oranges and reds while casting the eastern mountains in deepening shadow—a visual representation of his own life, the bright clarity of his past giving way to the uncertain shadows of his future.
"Fódlan," he murmured, testing the word on his tongue. "What secrets are you hiding beyond those mountains?"
"Probably the same ones hiding on this side," came an unexpected reply—not in words, but in a sense of meaning that simply appeared in Claude's mind as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.
Claude whirled around, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger concealed in his boot—a reflex born from years of half-siblings' "pranks" that often turned dangerous. His eyes widened as they fell upon a figure sitting casually on a rock just a few paces away, as if he had been there all along.
Joy Boy.
Just as Claude remembered from their previous encounters—clothes of pure white that seemed to glow with their own inner light, hair like white flame that moved slightly despite the stillness of the air, and those unmistakable golden eyes that radiated warmth and understanding. The trail of cloud or mist that draped over his shoulders shifted and flowed like a living thing, catching the dying sunlight in ways that defied natural explanation.
"You," Claude breathed, straightening slowly as recognition replaced surprise. "It's been... what, two years?"
Joy Boy nodded, his smile widening. Though he didn't speak—he never did, at least not with words—there was a clear sense of greeting in his gestures as he patted the rock beside him in invitation.
Claude hesitated only briefly before approaching, his natural curiosity overcoming caution. He settled on the indicated spot, studying Joy Boy's face with undisguised fascination. "You have interesting timing, showing up just before I cross into Fódlan. Is this a coincidence, or do you make a habit of appearing at pivotal moments in people's lives?"
Joy Boy's eyes crinkled with amusement, and he shrugged in a way that somehow conveyed both "perhaps" and "does it matter?" simultaneously. Then he pointed to Claude's chest, right where the sun medallion hung beneath his clothes.
Claude's hand moved to touch the outline of the medallion through his shirt. "You remember giving me this? I was just a kid... four years old." He pulled the medallion out, letting it catch the fading sunlight. The simple design—a golden sun with eight rays extending outward—had been a comfort to him through countless difficult days. "It's helped me more than you probably know. Reminded me that I'm not alone in being caught between worlds."
Joy Boy nodded sagely, then made a series of gestures that took Claude a moment to interpret: pointing to the medallion, then to Claude's heart, then outward toward the distant mountains.
"You're saying... what's in my heart matters more than which side of the border I'm on?" Claude guessed, the familiar game of interpreting Joy Boy's pantomime coming back to him.
The brilliant smile that lit up Joy Boy's face confirmed he'd understood correctly. Joy Boy then stood, mimicking the postures of the Almyran warriors Claude had grown up around—chest puffed out, chin raised arrogantly, hand on an imaginary weapon. Then he switched to an exaggerated imitation of Fódlan nobility—nose lifted, gestures overly formal and stiff. Finally, he relaxed into his natural posture, pointing again to Claude's heart.
Claude laughed despite himself. "You're not wrong. Both sides have their share of posturing and prejudice." His smile faded as he looked back toward the mountains. "That's what I want to change. Somehow. The walls between our people run deeper than just those mountains. They're built of centuries of fear and misunderstanding."
Joy Boy nodded thoughtfully, then bent down to pick up a handful of soil. He held it up for Claude to see, then let it sift through his fingers slowly, pointing to each individual grain as it fell.
"One grain at a time?" Claude interpreted. "Small changes? That's... not exactly the dramatic solution I was hoping for."
Joy Boy's silent laughter shook his shoulders, his golden eyes twinkling with mirth. He held up a finger as if to say "watch," then placed his hands flat against the ground. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, gradually, a tiny green shoot pushed up between his palms, growing rapidly until a small but perfect sunflower stood where only bare rock had been moments before.
Claude stared, momentarily speechless. He had heard stories of Joy Boy's powers—who hadn't?—but seeing such magic firsthand was different from the tavern tales and children's rhymes.
"Point taken," he said finally. "Growth takes time and nurturing. But also the right conditions." He gestured toward the harsh, rocky ground around them. "A sunflower shouldn't be able to grow here at all."
Joy Boy nodded vigorously, clearly pleased with Claude's understanding. He pointed to himself, then to the sunflower, then made a series of gestures suggesting struggle and difficulty, followed by a triumphant pose.
"Some things seem impossible until someone does them anyway," Claude translated slowly. "Like breaking down centuries-old barriers between nations?"
The approving nod he received sent an unexpected warmth through Claude's chest. How strange that this enigmatic, silent figure should understand his deepest ambitions so clearly when even his own parents saw his dreams as naive idealism at best.
Joy Boy rose to his feet in a fluid motion, extending a hand to help Claude up as well. Standing face to face, Claude was struck by the ageless quality of Joy Boy's features—he could have been sixteen or sixty, his actual age impossible to determine beneath the otherworldly glow that seemed to emanate from within him.
With deliberate movements, Joy Boy reached out and tapped the sun medallion that still hung exposed on Claude's chest. Then he tapped Claude's forehead, and finally his heart, connecting the three points in a triangle.
"Mind, heart, and..." Claude looked down at the medallion. "The sun? Light? Truth?"
Joy Boy nodded to each suggestion, then spread his arms wide as if to encompass everything around them.
"All of it," Claude realized. "Wisdom to see clearly, courage to feel deeply, and... perspective to understand how it all connects." He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You know, for someone who doesn't speak, you manage to say quite a lot."
Joy Boy's silent laughter returned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. Then, with a more serious expression, he pointed toward the mountains, made a walking motion with his fingers, and gave Claude a questioning look.
"Am I ready to cross?" Claude guessed. "To become Claude von Riegan for real?"
A nod confirmed his interpretation.
Claude took a deep breath, considering the question seriously. "Ready? Probably not. But waiting won't make it any easier." He turned to gaze at the mountains again, their peaks now lost in the gathering twilight. "I've spent my whole life caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither. Maybe it's time I stopped seeing that as a weakness and started seeing it as my unique strength."
Joy Boy's expression brightened considerably at this, and he clapped his hands together in enthusiastic approval. Then, with swift, graceful movements, he pantomimed drawing a bow and firing an arrow—not just any archery, but Claude's distinctive style, complete with his habit of squinting his left eye slightly more than his right when aiming.
Claude laughed in genuine surprise. "You've been watching me practice? For how long?"
Joy Boy just winked mysteriously, then pointed to the medallion once more before tapping his own chest.
"Always with me?" Claude guessed. "Or... you're watching over me?"
Rather than confirming either interpretation directly, Joy Boy simply smiled and took a step backward. The misty substance around his shoulders seemed to expand slightly, beginning to envelop his form in swirling patterns.
"Wait," Claude said quickly, sensing that Joy Boy was preparing to leave as suddenly as he had appeared. "Will I see you again? In Fódlan, I mean?"
Joy Boy tilted his head contemplatively, then nodded once—a simple gesture that nevertheless filled Claude with unexpected reassurance. Then, with movements almost too swift to follow, Joy Boy reached into the swirling mist around him and seemed to pull something from it. He stepped forward once more, pressing a small object into Claude's palm before stepping back again.
Claude looked down to find himself holding a tiny, perfectly crafted golden arrow—no longer than his pinky finger but detailed down to the minute fletching at its end. When he looked up to thank Joy Boy, he found himself alone on the outcropping, the mysterious figure having vanished between one breath and the next.
"Just like last time," Claude murmured, examining the golden arrow with fascinated eyes. "Always leaving me with more questions than answers."
The sun had fully set now, the eastern mountains nothing more than a darker shadow against the night sky. Below, the campfires of the caravan glowed like earthbound stars, reminding Claude that he should return before his absence was noted. Yet he lingered a moment longer, holding the tiny golden arrow up to catch the first starlight.
Tomorrow he would cross the mountains into Fódlan, leaving Khalid behind and stepping fully into his role as Claude von Riegan, heir to the leading house of the Leicester Alliance. The path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty—navigating unfamiliar social customs, concealing his Almyran heritage, establishing himself in the cutthroat world of Alliance politics, all while working toward a dream of unity that most would consider impossible.
But now, with the weight of the sun medallion against his chest and the golden arrow cool in his palm, the impossible seemed merely difficult. And Khalid von Riegan—son of two worlds, heir to ancient enemies, future leader of the Alliance—had never been one to shy away from difficulty.
With a last look at the stars emerging above the eastern mountains, Claude tucked the golden arrow safely into the pouch at his belt alongside his father's chess piece. Then he turned and began making his way back down toward the waiting caravan, toward the journey that would begin at dawn, toward the future that awaited beyond the boundaries that had defined him for sixteen years.
Behind him, unseen in the gathering darkness, a single perfect sunflower continued to bloom where no flower should have been able to grow—a small, impossible miracle on the border between two worlds.
Chapter 28: Songs of Solace
Summary:
In which a lonely daughter of Edmund encounters Joy Boy for the first time, and learns that even in the darkest despair, there remains beauty worth witnessing. As Marianne struggles under the weight of her crest and adoption, she discovers that sometimes comfort comes from the most unexpected sources.
Chapter Text
The morning fog clung to the Edmund estate like a shroud, wrapping the gardens and grounds in a pearly haze that blurred the boundaries between earth and sky. It was early—too early for the household staff to have begun their daily routines, too early for anyone to notice the slender figure making her way across the dew-dampened lawns toward the chapel that stood at the edge of the property. But Marianne von Edmund preferred it this way, cherished these stolen moments of solitude before the weight of others' expectations settled once more upon her shoulders.
At sixteen, Marianne carried herself with a perpetual stoop, as if constantly attempting to make herself smaller, less noticeable. Her blue hair—the color of a winter sky at dusk—hung in loose waves around a face that might have been pretty had it not been so habitually arranged in an expression of quiet anguish. Dark circles shadowed eyes that rarely met those of others, and her pale hands were perpetually clasped together, either in prayer or in an unconscious gesture of self-comfort.
Two years had passed since Lord Edmund had taken her in after her parents' deaths—two years of adjusting to a new home, a new title, a new life altogether. Yet Marianne still felt like an intruder in the grand estate, a changeling child mistakenly placed among nobility. The weight of her secret—the Crest of the Beast that flowed in her blood, Maurice's curse that she believed herself to carry—pressed down upon her more heavily with each passing day.
The chapel door creaked softly as she pushed it open, the familiar scent of beeswax candles and old stone enveloping her like a well-worn blanket. Inside, the space was dim, illuminated only by the glow of eternal flames that flickered in sconces along the walls and the diffused light filtering through stained glass windows depicting scenes from the Church of Seiros's sacred history. Marianne had come to know each panel intimately over the past two years—Saint Seiros defeating Nemesis, Saint Cethleann healing the wounded, Saint Indech standing vigil against darkness.
None of the glass scenes showed Maurice, of course. The fallen Elite whose bloodline Marianne believed herself to bear was erased from the church's official histories, his name spoken only in whispers and warnings. Sometimes, standing before the colorful depictions of saints and heroes, Marianne wondered if there had once been a window showing Maurice too, before his fall from grace—before the curse that she now carried in her veins.
She made her way to her usual pew near the front of the chapel, kneeling on the worn cushion and bowing her head. Prayer had become her refuge, the one place where she could speak honestly, even if only to the goddess. Her adopted father did not understand her devotion, viewing religious observation as a mere social obligation rather than a desperate plea for salvation. But Marianne came here day after day, hour after hour, because she had nowhere else to turn with the burden she carried.
"Goddess," she whispered, her voice barely disturbing the chapel's silence, "please... take me to your side. I am not meant for this world. The blood in my veins brings only misfortune to those around me. I... I am tired of causing pain to others simply by existing."
The familiar prayer fell from her lips with practiced ease, a litany she had repeated countless times since coming to Edmund. Each morning, she asked the goddess to end her life; each evening, she returned to offer thanks that at least no new calamities had befallen those around her that day. It was a cycle of quiet desperation that had become the framework around which she built her days.
A shaft of early sunlight broke through the fog outside, sending a beam of golden light through the eastern window to illuminate the altar. Marianne watched the dust motes dance in the sunbeam, momentarily distracted from her prayers by their simple beauty. For a fleeting second, her shoulders relaxed, the perpetual tension easing as she traced the particles' random paths through the light.
The moment passed quickly, guilt replacing the brief wonder as she chastised herself for finding joy in anything when her very existence endangered others. She resumed her prayers with renewed fervor, fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
"I know I am not worthy to make requests of you, Goddess," she continued softly, "but please, if you have any mercy, do not let my curse harm Lord Edmund or the people of this territory. They have shown me kindness I do not deserve. If someone must suffer for the blood I carry, let it be me alone."
The silent chapel offered no response beyond the occasional creak of ancient timbers and the soft hiss of the eternal flames. Marianne remained kneeling until her legs ached and the sun had risen high enough to cast the colored light from the stained glass windows across the stone floor in jewel-toned patterns. Only then did she rise, crossing herself in the Seiros tradition before making her way back through the chapel's heavy doors.
Outside, the morning fog had burned away entirely, revealing a sky of such perfect blue that it almost hurt to look upon it. Spring had come late to the Edmund territory this year, but now it was asserting itself with an abundance that seemed almost defiant after the long winter. The gardens surrounding the chapel had erupted in color overnight, it seemed—crocuses and snowdrops giving way to tulips and daffodils, their bright heads nodding in the gentle breeze.
Marianne paused on the chapel steps, momentarily overwhelmed by the contrast between the day's vibrant beauty and the darkness of her own thoughts. A familiar sensation tightened in her chest—not quite pain, not quite sorrow, but a mixture of both that threatened to consume her from within. How cruel the world seemed in these moments, to continue producing such beauty when she could only bring misfortune wherever she went.
Rather than returning directly to the manor house, where breakfast would be waiting and with it Lord Edmund's well-intentioned but painful attempts at conversation, Marianne found herself drawn toward the small copse of trees that marked the boundary between the manicured gardens and the wilder lands beyond. The Edmund estate bordered on an ancient forest that local superstition claimed was home to spirits and fae creatures—tales that the logical, commerce-minded Lord Edmund dismissed as peasant nonsense but that resonated with something deep in Marianne's soul.
Her feet carried her to a massive oak tree at the edge of the copse, its lower branches creating a canopy that sheltered a natural alcove at its base. It had become her sanctuary over the past two years, a place she could retreat to when the demands of nobility and the fear of her curse became too overwhelming. The tree's massive trunk was wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder, its bark deeply furrowed with age. Marianne sometimes wondered how many other lost souls had sought comfort beneath its branches over the centuries it had stood guard here.
Settling at the base of the tree, her back against its sturdy trunk, Marianne closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind. But peace eluded her, as it so often did. Instead, memories of her parents flooded back—their mysterious illness that had taken them both within days of each other, the whispers among the servants that it was an ill omen, the distant relatives who had refused to take in the orphaned daughter for fear of the bad luck that seemed to follow her.
Only Lord Edmund, a merchant-turned-noble with no direct blood relation to speak of, had been willing to adopt her. Whether out of genuine compassion or political calculation—the Edmund territory needed the legitimacy that connection to older noble blood could provide—Marianne had never been certain. But she remained painfully aware that she was a burden, a potentially dangerous one at that, to the only person who had shown her kindness when all others turned away.
"It would be better for everyone if I simply disappeared," she whispered to the empty air, giving voice to the thought that haunted her daily. "The goddess must have some purpose in keeping me here, but I cannot see what good can come of it."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another and another until she was weeping silently, shoulders shaking with the effort of containing her sobs. She rarely allowed herself to cry—tears solved nothing, changed nothing—but here, alone beneath the ancient oak, the carefully maintained walls around her heart crumbled momentarily.
"Please," she pleaded to the empty air, to the goddess, to anyone who might be listening, "please just let me die before I bring calamity upon this house too."
The words hung in the air, seeming to echo in the stillness that had descended around her. Even the birds had fallen silent, she realized, the usual spring chorus absent from the branches above. For a moment, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, so subtly she might have imagined it, Marianne felt a presence beside her.
She opened her eyes, hastily wiping away tears with the back of her hand, and turned her head—only to freeze in astonishment at the sight that greeted her.
Seated cross-legged on the ground beside her, close enough to touch yet radiating a sense of gentle distance, was the strangest person Marianne had ever seen. He—for the figure seemed male in form, though there was an androgynous quality to his features—wore clothing of pure, pristine white that seemed to glow with its own inner light. His hair, defying all natural explanation, moved like a living flame atop his head despite the stillness of the air, its white color somehow both blazing bright and soothing to look upon.
But it was his eyes that captured Marianne's attention most completely—large golden irises that seemed to contain within them an impossible depth of warmth and understanding. They met her startled gaze directly, without demand or judgment, simply accepting her presence as naturally as the tree accepted the earth beneath it.
Around his shoulders draped what appeared to be a trail of cloud or mist, flowing and shifting like a living scarf, occasionally forming shapes before dissolving back into formlessness.
Marianne's breath caught in her throat. She had heard the stories, of course—who in Fódlan hadn't? Tales of a mysterious figure appearing in moments of great need or significance, leaving wonder and impossible occurrences in his wake. The common folk called him Joy Boy, a name that seemed simultaneously too simple and perfectly fitting for the being now sitting beside her.
"Y-you're..." she began, her voice a bare whisper, but found herself unable to complete the thought.
Joy Boy simply smiled, the expression transforming his already luminous face into something so radiant that Marianne had to resist the urge to shield her eyes. Yet despite its brightness, the smile contained no arrogance, no condescension—only a simple pleasure at being recognized.
He nodded once, acknowledging her unfinished statement, then raised a finger to his lips in a playful gesture of secrecy. The misty substance around his shoulders rippled in what Marianne somehow understood to be silent laughter.
"Why are you here? With... with me?" Marianne asked, her customary shyness momentarily overcome by sheer bewilderment. "I'm not... I'm nobody important."
Joy Boy's expression shifted to one of gentle disagreement. He pointed directly at her heart, then opened his hand above his palm as if releasing something precious into the air.
"I don't understand," Marianne said, shaking her head slightly. "My heart isn't... it's cursed. Damaged. You shouldn't be here. I bring misfortune to everyone around me."
A look of such profound compassion crossed Joy Boy's face that Marianne felt fresh tears welling in her eyes. Without warning, he reached into the sleeve of his white garment and, with a flourish reminiscent of a stage magician, produced a tiny bird no larger than his thumb.
Marianne gasped softly. The bird was exquisite—its feathers a deep blue that gradually lightened to a pale azure at the wingtips, its delicate head crowned with a crest of darker plumage that stood slightly on end. It perched perfectly balanced on Joy Boy's index finger, regarding Marianne with bright, curious eyes that seemed impossibly intelligent for such a tiny creature.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, momentarily forgetting her fears as wonder overcame caution. "What kind of bird is it? I've never seen its like in any of Lord Edmund's books on natural history."
Joy Boy's smile widened slightly, and he made a series of gestures with his free hand that Marianne interpreted as suggesting the bird was unique—one of a kind, perhaps, or at least rare enough to have escaped cataloging by Fódlan's scholars.
The tiny bird fluffed its feathers, settling itself more comfortably on Joy Boy's finger. Then, without preamble, it began to sing.
The sound that emerged from the diminutive creature defied all natural explanation. It was at once a single clear note and a complex harmony, as if multiple birds were singing in perfect synchronization. The melody shifted and flowed like water over stones, each phrase building upon the last to create a song of such haunting beauty that Marianne felt the hairs rise on her arms.
There was sorrow in the song—she could hear it clearly in the minor cadences and lingering notes—but woven through it was a thread of something else. Not happiness, precisely, but a kind of peaceful acceptance, a recognition of pain that neither denied nor surrendered to it. The bird sang of darkness, yes, but also of the stars that illuminated it; of winter's grip, but also spring's inevitable return.
Tears flowed freely down Marianne's cheeks now, but these were different from before—cleansing rather than depleting, releasing rather than draining. The song spoke directly to something deep within her, to the part of her soul that had been crying out unheard for so long.
When the final note faded into the morning air, Marianne found herself breathing more easily than she had in years, as if some constricting band around her chest had momentarily loosened. She looked at Joy Boy in wonderment, words failing her entirely.
He seemed to understand, nodding once before extending his hand toward her, the tiny bird still perched upon his finger. For a moment, Marianne thought he meant to offer the creature to her, but instead, he simply moved his hand closer, allowing her to observe the bird more carefully without frightening it away.
Now that it was nearer, Marianne could see that the bird's feathers weren't simply blue as she had first thought. Hidden within the azure plumage were streaks of silver that caught the light as the creature moved, creating an effect like moonlight on water. Its eyes, too, were extraordinary—deep and knowing, regarding her with what could only be described as gentle curiosity.
"Did you... make it?" Marianne asked hesitantly, her voice barely audible even in the stillness surrounding them. "Create it, I mean? The stories say you can do such things."
Joy Boy's expression shifted to one of thoughtful consideration. He made a gesture that Marianne interpreted as both yes and no—a paradoxical answer that somehow made perfect sense in the moment. He then pointed to his heart, to the bird, and finally to the world around them in a sweeping gesture that encompassed trees, sky, and distant mountains.
"It's... part of you, but also part of everything?" Marianne guessed, surprising herself with how easily she seemed to understand his unspoken communication. "A piece of the world's beauty given form?"
The brilliant smile that lit Joy Boy's face confirmed she had understood correctly, or at least closely enough. He nodded enthusiastically, the cloud-like substance around his shoulders rippling with what seemed like pleased approval.
The little bird chirped once, a brief echo of its earlier song, then suddenly took flight from Joy Boy's finger. Instead of flying away, however, it circled Marianne's head once, twice, three times before coming to rest on her shoulder. She froze, afraid that any movement might startle the delicate creature.
"Oh," she breathed, hardly daring to turn her head to look at the bird now perched so close to her cheek. Its tiny weight was barely perceptible, yet somehow felt more significant than any burden she had carried. "Why... why would it come to me?"
Joy Boy's answer came in the form of another series of gestures—pointing to the bird, then to her heart, then mimicking the action of listening with cupped hands beside his ear.
"It... hears my heart?" Marianne translated uncertainly. "It understands my sorrow?"
Joy Boy nodded, but then added another gesture—pointing to the bird, to her heart again, but then raising his hand upward in a lifting motion, his expression one of gentle encouragement.
"Not just understands, but... wants to help lift it?" Marianne's voice caught on the last words, a fresh wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "But I don't deserve—"
Joy Boy held up a hand, his expression suddenly serious though no less kind. He shook his head firmly, rejecting her self-deprecation before it could fully form. Then, with deliberate movements, he reached out and very gently touched the center of her forehead with one finger.
The contact lasted only a second, but in that moment, Marianne experienced a brief vision so vivid it took her breath away: herself as she might be, standing straight-backed and calm, blue hair caught up in a simple bun, hands steady as they tended to an injured horse, face serene with quiet purpose rather than anguished by unending fear. The image was fleeting but so real she could almost feel the future self's quiet confidence, the peace that came not from absence of struggle but from having weathered it and emerged stronger.
When the vision faded, Marianne found herself gasping softly, one hand reaching up instinctively to touch the spot where Joy Boy's finger had rested. "Was that—did you show me—?"
Joy Boy simply smiled, neither confirming nor denying, but his golden eyes held a depth of gentle certainty that answered her stammered question more clearly than words could have. He pointed to her, then made a growing gesture with both hands, like a plant pushing up from soil toward sunlight.
"A possibility," Marianne whispered, understanding flowing through her. "Not a promise, but... a path that exists, if I can find the courage to walk it."
The bird on her shoulder chirped softly, as if in affirmation, and Marianne felt an unexpected smile—small and hesitant, but real—tugging at the corners of her mouth. When was the last time she had smiled? She couldn't remember.
Joy Boy's expression brightened at the sight, his own smile widening until it seemed to illuminate the space beneath the oak tree. He clapped his hands together in silent but evident delight, the misty substance around his shoulders forming briefly into the shape of tiny birds that flew in circles before dissolving back into formlessness.
For a moment that felt suspended outside of ordinary time, Marianne sat in what could only be described as peaceful companionship with the mysterious figure and the tiny bird. No words were exchanged—none seemed necessary. The weight of her curse, her fears, her daily prayers for death still existed, but somehow they had been temporarily balanced by something else: a small, fragile hope that perhaps her existence was not entirely defined by Maurice's blood.
Eventually, Joy Boy stirred, unfolding his legs and rising to his feet in a movement so fluid it seemed he was being lifted by invisible hands rather than moving under his own power. He stood before Marianne, outlined against the morning sun that filtered through the oak's branches, his white clothing and flame-like hair seeming to absorb and refract the light in impossible ways.
Marianne looked up at him, realizing with a pang that he was preparing to leave. "Must you go?" she asked, surprising herself with the question. She, who always preferred solitude, who shrank from company out of fear for others' safety, found herself reluctant to see this strange being depart.
Joy Boy nodded, his expression apologetic but firm. He gestured toward the horizon, then made a circular motion with his finger, suggesting cycles or repetition, before pointing back to her.
"You'll... return? Someday?" Marianne interpreted, hope and doubt warring in her voice.
The answer came not in gestures but in feeling—a sudden certainty that blossomed in her mind like a flower opening to the sun. Yes, they would meet again, though perhaps not soon, perhaps not until she had traveled further along whatever path lay before her. But the connection formed today would not be severed by his departure.
Joy Boy bent down slightly, reaching into the swirling mist around his shoulders. From it, he seemed to pull a small object, though Marianne could not see clearly what it was until he extended his hand toward her, palm up, revealing a tiny pendant hanging from a slender silver chain.
Marianne hesitated before carefully taking it from his palm. The pendant was shaped like a feather—not just any feather, she realized, but one identical to those of the tiny bird still perched on her shoulder. Crafted from some material she couldn't identify, it seemed to shift colors as she turned it in her fingers, from deepest blue to silver and back again.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, looking up at Joy Boy with wide eyes. "But I don't understand... why would you give me such a gift?"
Joy Boy pointed to the pendant, then to her heart, then made a protective gesture with both hands curved as if cradling something precious.
"To... protect my heart?" Marianne guessed.
Joy Boy shook his head slightly, then repeated the sequence with a slight variation—pointing to the pendant, to his own heart, then to hers, before making the protective gesture again.
"Oh," Marianne breathed as understanding dawned. "A piece of your heart... watching over mine?"
The brilliant smile that lit Joy Boy's face confirmed she had understood correctly. He nodded once, then stepped backward, the mist around his shoulders beginning to expand and swirl more rapidly, gradually enveloping his form.
The bird on Marianne's shoulder suddenly took flight, circling her head once more before flying to Joy Boy, disappearing into the swirling mist that now surrounded him like a cocoon of cloud. For a moment longer, she could see his golden eyes shining through the vapor, fixed on her with that same expression of gentle understanding that had first captured her attention.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, both mist and figure were gone, leaving no trace of their presence save for the feather pendant now clutched in Marianne's trembling hand and the lingering echo of birdsong in her ears.
For several minutes, Marianne remained seated at the base of the oak tree, her mind struggling to process what had just occurred. Had it been real? A vision sent by the goddess? A hallucination born of grief and isolation? The solid weight of the pendant in her palm argued against the latter explanations, yet the encounter seemed too extraordinary to be accepted as simple reality.
One thing she knew with certainty: for the first time in longer than she could remember, the perpetual prayer for death that formed the background of her thoughts had fallen silent. In its place was not happiness, exactly—her burdens remained too heavy for that—but something like quiet wonder, a small space in which other possibilities might eventually take root and grow.
Slowly, Marianne rose to her feet, slipping the pendant around her neck and tucking it beneath the high collar of her dress where it would remain hidden from curious eyes. The silver chain felt cool against her skin, the feather-shaped pendant resting just over her heart as if it had always belonged there.
The sun had risen higher during her time beneath the oak tree, and in the distance, she could hear the estate's bell ringing to signal the midday meal. Lord Edmund would be wondering where she had gone, possibly worried in his distant, awkward way. The thought, which would normally have filled her with anxiety and guilt, now produced only a mild sense of obligation.
"Thank you," she whispered to the empty air where Joy Boy had stood, uncertain whether he could still hear her but feeling the need to speak the words aloud regardless. "I'll... try to remember what you showed me."
As she turned to make her way back to the manor house, a sudden breeze stirred the branches of the oak tree, sending a shower of new spring leaves drifting down around her. One landed on her shoulder, precisely where the tiny bird had perched, and Marianne carefully plucked it off, examining its perfect form for a moment before tucking it into her pocket alongside a pressed flower collection she had secretly been maintaining—small beauties preserved against darker days.
The path back to the house seemed somehow less daunting than it had earlier that morning, though nothing about her circumstances had changed. The Crest of Maurice still flowed in her veins, the belief that she was cursed still weighed upon her soul, and her daily prayers for death would likely resume on the morrow. But for now—for this one golden afternoon—Marianne carried within her the memory of impossible eyes filled with compassion, of music that spoke directly to her soul, and of a vision of herself standing unbowed by the weight she carried.
It was not happiness, not yet. But it was something like the first green shoot pushing through snow at winter's end—fragile, easily crushed, but stubbornly alive despite all odds against it. And for today, at least, that would be enough.
As she reached the manor's garden gate, Marianne paused, her hand rising unconsciously to touch the hidden pendant beneath her dress. A tiny bird—an ordinary sparrow, not the magical creature from earlier—alighted on the gate post beside her, regarding her with bright, curious eyes before bursting into song.
Marianne listened, really listened, to its simple melody. And for the first time in years, she did not immediately turn away from beauty out of fear that she did not deserve to witness it.
"Hello, little one," she whispered to the sparrow, the words feeling strange and new on her tongue. "Thank you for your song."
The bird chirped once more before flying away, leaving Marianne standing alone at the threshold between garden and house, between the encounter that had shifted something within her and the life that still awaited her return. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped through the gate, carrying her secret encounter tucked away safely beside her heart—a precious memory to sustain her through darker days, a spark of light to remember when shadows threatened to overwhelm her once more.
And as she walked toward the house, her shoulders remained straighter than they had been that morning, her eyes lifting occasionally to the bright spring sky instead of remaining fixed upon the ground. Small changes, nearly imperceptible to anyone who might be watching. But beginnings, nonetheless.
Chapter 29: Whispers in the Shadows
Summary:
In which the skittish daughter of House Varley discovers that even in the darkest corners, unexpected light can find its way through. As Bernadetta struggles under the weight of her father's oppressive expectations, she encounters a mysterious visitor who offers a moment of reprieve from her fears—and perhaps a glimpse of courage she never knew she possessed.
Chapter Text
The lock clicked into place with a soft, reassuring sound that made Bernadetta von Varley exhale for what felt like the first time in hours. She pressed her back against the heavy wooden door of her bedchamber, sliding down until she sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. Only then, in the sanctuary of her locked room, did she allow the tears to come—silent, practiced tears that wouldn't alert the servants passing in the hallway outside.
At thirteen, Bernadetta had perfected the art of invisible crying. No heaving sobs, no wailing, nothing that might draw attention or, worse still, summon her father. Count Varley had made his feelings on such displays abundantly clear: a noblewoman, particularly one being groomed as the future Countess Varley, did not indulge in unseemly emotional outbursts. A proper wife maintained composure at all times.
"A proper wife," Bernadetta whispered to herself, the words bitter on her tongue as she wiped furiously at her dampened cheeks. "A proper wife sits still and speaks only when spoken to and never, ever disgraces her husband with childish behavior."
The morning's "training session," as her father euphemistically called it, had been particularly grueling. Three hours bound to a chair in the study, practicing proper posture and silence while Count Varley entertained a visiting minor noble from a neighboring territory. Three hours of fighting the urge to fidget, to speak out of turn, to do anything that might catch her father's disapproving eye. Three hours of absolute stillness save for the occasional permissible nod or demure smile when directly addressed.
"You moved your foot seventeen times," Count Varley had informed her once their guest departed, his voice carrying the deadly calm that Bernadetta had come to fear more than his occasional shouting. "I counted each instance. And you spoke four words when Lord Bergliez asked about your needlework, when a simple 'thank you' would have sufficed. We will need to schedule additional sessions to correct these lapses."
Now, safe in her room, Bernadetta's hand absently rubbed her wrists where the restraints had left faint marks—marks that would fade before dinner but remained vivid in her mind long after they disappeared from her skin. Her father never tied the bindings tight enough to leave lasting evidence; Count Varley was too careful for that. Everything about her training remained within the bounds of what could be explained away as strict but proper noble upbringing.
"Bernie, you stupid, stupid girl," she murmured, addressing herself in the third person as had become her habit during moments of self-reproach. "You know better than to smile too widely. You know better than to offer opinions. Why can't you just—just—be what he wants?"
A beam of late afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and casting long shadows across Bernadetta's bedchamber. Unlike the grand, imposing rooms typical of Varley Manor, Bernadetta had been permitted to keep her childhood bedroom—a concession her mother had wrested from the Count years earlier. The familiar space was modest by noble standards, with walls painted a soft lavender and furnishings chosen for comfort rather than display.
Every corner held evidence of Bernadetta's carefully hoarded happiness: a bookshelf stuffed with volumes of poetry and adventure stories, some borrowed clandestinely from the manor's library; a writing desk cluttered with half-finished stories scribbled on parchment; a collection of small, carved wooden animals given to her by her grandmother before she passed; embroidery hoops displaying increasingly skilled needlework that transformed thread into delicate flowers and woodland creatures.
And there, tucked between the pillows on her bed where the maids had been instructed never to disturb it, sat a small, worn sock puppet with mismatched button eyes and yarn hair that had once been bright red but had faded to a soft rust color. Three years had passed since the strange visitor had left it behind, yet Bernadetta kept it close, a reminder that not all unexpected encounters ended in pain.
Pushing herself up from the floor, Bernadetta crossed to her bed and retrieved the puppet, slipping it onto her right hand with practiced ease. For a moment, she simply stared at it, remembering that bizarre afternoon when a stranger had somehow slipped past her father's strict household security and found her hiding beneath a table in the rarely-used music room.
"Hello, Mr. Sockington," she whispered to the puppet, making it bow slightly in greeting. "Bernie had another bad day. Father says we need more training. He says I'll never find a suitable husband if I can't learn to be still and quiet."
Her voice shifted slightly as she made the puppet bob its head. "But Bernie is wonderful just as she is! Bernie is creative and kind and doesn't need to change for anyone!"
A sad smile curved her lips. "That's a nice thought, Mr. Sockington. But you know it's not true. Father says no one will ever want Bernie unless she learns to be proper. And Mother just looks away when he says these things, so it must be true."
Bernadetta sighed, letting the puppet drop to her lap. These little one-sided conversations had become her ritual after difficult days, a way of voicing the reassurances she never heard from others. She knew it was childish—her father would be furious if he discovered her talking to a tattered sock puppet at her age—but in the privacy of her locked room, such small comforts were all she had.
Rising from the bed, puppet still on her hand, Bernadetta moved to the window and looked out over the formal gardens of Varley Manor. Spring had arrived early this year, coating the carefully manicured grounds in a riot of color that seemed almost rebellious against the estate's austere gray stone architecture. In the distance, she could see gardeners at work, preparing beds for summer blooms under the watchful eye of the head groundskeeper.
"They get to be outside," she murmured, the puppet momentarily forgotten as she pressed her palm against the cool glass. "In the sunshine and fresh air. No one ties them to chairs or tells them they're unmarriageable disappointments."
The thought of marriage sent a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through her. At thirteen, she was still years away from her formal introduction to society, but Count Varley had already begun mentioning potential matches—older men from wealthy families who might overlook her "deficiencies" in exchange for the Varley name and fortune. The very idea made her stomach twist into knots.
A sudden knock at her door made Bernadetta jump, the puppet sliding from her hand to the floor as she spun around, heart pounding wildly in her chest.
"Lady Bernadetta?" called a maidservant's voice. "Your mother requests your presence in the east drawing room. She has received a delivery of new embroidery silks from the capital and thought you might like to see them before dinner."
Bernadetta exhaled shakily. "J-just a moment," she called back, bending to retrieve the fallen puppet and tucking it quickly beneath her pillow. Her mother's summons were rare but generally safe—Countess Varley maintained a careful distance from her husband's "educational methods," neither openly supporting nor opposing them, but occasionally creating small pockets of reprieve like this one.
Checking her appearance in the vanity mirror—no visible tear tracks, hair neatly combed—Bernadetta unlocked her door and slipped into the corridor, keeping close to the wall as she made her way through the manor. Years of avoiding unwanted attention had taught her which floorboards creaked, which corridors were likely to be empty at what hours, which servants might report her movements back to her father and which could be trusted to look the other way.
The east drawing room was mercifully vacant save for her mother, a slender woman whose beauty had hardened over the years into something brittle and distant. Countess Varley looked up from the small wooden box open before her, offering a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Bernadetta, darling. Come see what's arrived from Enbarr. The most exquisite silks in shades I've never seen before. This violet would complement your coloring beautifully."
Bernadetta approached cautiously, always uncertain of where she stood with her mother. The Countess had once been her chief protector, intervening when the Count's methods grew too harsh, but as Bernadetta aged, that protection had gradually withdrawn, replaced by a resigned acceptance that Bernadetta must simply learn to navigate her father's expectations.
"Th-thank you, Mother. They're lovely," Bernadetta murmured, fingering the smooth threads with genuine appreciation. Embroidery had become her favorite escape—one approved by her father as appropriately feminine, yet allowing her mind to wander freely as her hands created something beautiful.
"I thought you might use them for your sampler. The one with the woodland scene?" Countess Varley kept her voice light, carefully avoiding any mention of the morning's incident. "Your needlework has improved considerably. Your father mentioned that Lord Bergliez commented on it quite favorably."
Bernadetta's throat tightened. Of course her mother knew about the morning session—everyone in the household likely knew—but they all participated in the polite fiction that nothing unusual had occurred.
"Yes, Mother," she replied simply, selecting a few skeins of thread and clutching them tightly in her palm. "May I take these to my room? I'd like to work on the sampler before dinner."
Countess Varley nodded, her eyes softening momentarily. "Your father will be dining with associates in Enbarr tonight. He left an hour ago and won't return until tomorrow afternoon. I thought we might take dinner in the small parlor, just the two of us. Would you like that?"
Relief flooded through Bernadetta so intensely she felt momentarily lightheaded. A night without her father's critical gaze, without the constant fear of saying or doing the wrong thing—it was the closest thing to freedom she could hope for within these walls.
"Yes, please," she whispered, managing a genuine smile. "Thank you, Mother."
The rest of the afternoon passed in rare tranquility. Dinner with her mother was quiet but not oppressively so, with the Countess even inquiring about the story Bernadetta had been writing—another small acknowledgment of her daughter's interests that would never have been permitted in the Count's presence. By the time Bernadetta returned to her room for the night, some of the day's tension had eased from her shoulders.
Sleep, however, proved elusive. Bernadetta lay awake long after the manor had fallen silent, staring at the ceiling and listening to the occasional hooting of an owl somewhere in the gardens. Her father's absence should have been soothing, yet anxiety still prickled beneath her skin, a constant companion so familiar she sometimes couldn't remember life without it.
"Tomorrow will be better," she whispered to herself, a mantra repeated so often it had lost most of its meaning. "Tomorrow, Bernie will be braver and better and make Father proud."
When sleep finally claimed her, it was fitful and filled with dreams of being bound to a chair while faceless nobles circled, pointing and laughing at her inability to remain perfectly still. She woke with a start just before dawn, sheets tangled around her legs and heart racing. Rather than attempt to return to sleep, Bernadetta rose and dressed in the gray pre-dawn light, selecting a simple dress that required no assistance from her lady's maid.
The manor was silent at this hour, suspended in that liminal space between night and day when even the servants had not yet begun their duties. Bernadetta moved quietly through the corridors, making her way to the library—a journey she would never dare during daylight hours when her father might question why she needed books beyond those appropriate for young ladies, but safe enough now when the household slumbered.
The library door opened with a faint creak that seemed thunderous in the silent hallway. Bernadetta froze, counting heartbeats as she waited to see if anyone had heard. When no response came, she slipped inside, closing the door carefully behind her.
Varley Manor's library was an impressive chamber, two stories tall with a wrought-iron spiral staircase connecting the levels. Early morning light filtered weakly through tall windows, casting long shadows between the towering bookshelves. Bernadetta moved with purpose toward the far corner of the upper level, where a small collection of botanical texts was shelved—ostensibly reference materials for garden planning but containing beautiful illustrations that she longed to replicate in her embroidery.
Selecting a particularly promising volume, she retreated to a window seat partially hidden by heavy velvet curtains. This had been her secret reading spot since childhood, sheltered from view yet blessed with ample light. Settling cross-legged on the cushioned bench, Bernadetta opened the book with reverent fingers, immediately becoming absorbed in detailed renderings of wildflowers native to the Adrestian Empire.
So engrossed was she in the text that the faint sound of footsteps didn't register until they were alarmingly close. Panic seized her—none of the servants should be in the library at this hour, which meant it could only be—
"Father," she gasped, the book tumbling from her lap as she scrambled to her feet. "But he's in Enbarr, he can't be—"
The footsteps paused, then continued, drawing inexorably closer to her hiding place. Bernadetta pressed herself against the wall, eyes darting frantically for an escape route, finding none. The curtain beside her window seat twitched slightly, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from screaming.
The fabric parted slowly, revealing not her father's stern face, but something so unexpected that Bernadetta could only stare in mute astonishment.
There, peering around the edge of the curtain in an exaggerated manner, was a face unlike any she had ever seen. Snow-white hair moved like a living flame atop his head, defying gravity and the still air of the library. Large golden eyes regarded her with unmistakable mischief, practically glowing in the dim light. A trail of what appeared to be cloud or mist draped over his shoulders, shifting and swirling like something alive.
It was him—the strange visitor who had left her the sock puppet three years earlier. Joy Boy, the common folk called him, though she had only learned his name months after their encounter, overhearing servants trading stories about the mysterious figure who appeared and disappeared throughout Fódlan, leaving wonder and impossibility in his wake.
He pressed a finger to his lips, eyes widening comically as if they were conspirators in some grand adventure. Then, with fluid grace that seemed too smooth to be natural, he slipped around the curtain and settled on the window seat beside her dropped book, patting the space next to him in clear invitation.
Bernadetta remained frozen, back pressed against the wall, torn between instinctive terror of the unknown and the strange, inexplicable certainty that this being meant her no harm. Memory flashed back to their first meeting—how he had found her hiding under a table after a particularly brutal argument with her father, how instead of dragging her out as the servants would have done, he had simply joined her in her hiding place and produced sock puppets from seemingly nowhere.
"Y-you," she whispered, scarcely able to believe her eyes. "You're... real. I thought maybe I'd imagined you."
Joy Boy's expression shifted to one of mock offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest as if wounded by her doubt. The misty substance around his shoulders formed briefly into a question mark before dissolving back into formlessness.
"I'm sorry," Bernadetta found herself apologizing, her voice still barely audible. "It's just—you left so suddenly last time, and no one else saw you, and Father said I was making up stories when I tried to tell Mother about the puppet show and..."
She trailed off as Joy Boy reached into his pristine white clothing and, with a flourish reminiscent of the street magicians Bernadetta had once watched through the carriage window on a rare trip to Enbarr, produced a familiar sock puppet—the mate to the one hidden beneath her pillow.
A small, startled laugh escaped her before she could stifle it. "You—you kept it? All this time?"
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, making the puppet bow toward her with exaggerated formality. Then, with his free hand, he gestured to the space beside him once more, his expression so entreating that Bernadetta found herself moving forward despite her lingering fear.
"I should run," she murmured, even as she carefully sat on the edge of the window seat, maintaining as much distance as the small space allowed. "I should scream for the guards. You're a stranger in our house, and Father would be furious, and—"
Joy Boy held up a finger, silencing her nervous babble. He pointed to himself, then to her, then made a zipping motion across his lips before placing a hand over his heart. The message was clear enough: he wouldn't tell anyone he had seen her.
"Why are you here?" Bernadetta asked, curiosity momentarily overpowering anxiety. "In our library, I mean. Are you... looking for something?"
Joy Boy's expression turned thoughtful. He glanced around the library before turning back to her with a smile that somehow managed to convey both mischief and reassurance. He pointed directly at her, then mimed turning pages of a book.
"You... came to read with me?" Bernadetta guessed, bewildered by the very idea. "But that doesn't make any sense. How did you even know I would be here? How did you get past the guards?"
Instead of attempting to answer, Joy Boy simply picked up the fallen botanical tome, dusting it off with exaggerated care before opening it to the page she had been studying. He examined the illustration—a detailed rendering of a blue periwinkle flower—with obvious appreciation, tracing the delicate lines with one finger before turning the book toward her with a questioning tilt of his head.
"It's for my embroidery," Bernadetta explained, momentarily forgetting her fear in the face of his apparent interest. "I'm working on a sampler with wildflowers, and I wanted to get the details right. Father says a proper lady should excel at needlework, so it's one of the few things I'm allowed to enjoy, but—"
She stopped abruptly, realizing she was rambling to a complete stranger—and a decidedly strange stranger at that. "I'm sorry. You probably don't care about my silly hobbies."
Joy Boy's golden eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically. He pointed to her, then mimed sewing, then pressed both hands to his heart before giving her a thumbs-up gesture so enthusiastic it made the cloudy substance around his shoulders ripple and swirl.
Despite herself, Bernadetta felt warmth blooming in her chest at his evident sincerity. "You really want to see my work?"
He nodded eagerly, leaning forward with such apparent interest that Bernadetta found herself wishing she had brought her current project to show him. It was oddly liberating, this interaction with someone who seemed genuinely interested in her creative pursuits without any underlying agenda or criticism.
"I don't have it with me," she said regretfully. "It's in my room. I can't exactly take you there—I mean, not that I would anyway! That would be completely improper and if anyone saw a strange man in my bedchamber, Father would—"
She broke off, heat rising to her cheeks as she realized how her words might be interpreted. "Not that you're—I didn't mean—oh, Bernie, you stupid girl, stop talking!"
Joy Boy's expression shifted to one of gentle concern. He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement so clearly that Bernadetta, though she tensed, did not flinch away when he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. The touch was light, barely there, yet somehow conveyed a depth of understanding that made her throat tighten with unexpected emotion.
After a moment, he withdrew his hand and reached once more into his white garment. This time, when his hand emerged, it held what appeared to be a small sketch pad and a piece of charcoal. With quick, deft movements, he began to draw, angling the pad so Bernadetta could watch as an image took shape beneath his fingers.
She gasped softly as the drawing emerged—it was her, but not as she saw herself in the mirror each day. This Bernadetta stood straight-backed and confident, one hand extended toward a cardinal perched on her finger, her expression serene and unafraid. The sketch was simple but captured something Bernadetta scarcely recognized in herself—a possibility, perhaps, of who she might become if fear didn't clip her wings.
"That's not me," she whispered, both drawn to and unsettled by the image. "I could never be so... brave."
Joy Boy tapped the drawing gently, then pointed to her heart, his golden eyes serious despite his perpetually whimsical appearance. The message seemed clear: this potential existed within her already.
Bernadetta shook her head, unable to accept such an optimistic view. "You don't understand. My father says I'm hopeless—too skittish, too odd, too... too much of everything that makes a bad noblewoman and not enough of what makes a good one."
Joy Boy's expression darkened at the mention of her father, the flame-like hair atop his head seeming to flare briefly with a real inner fire. He set the sketchpad aside and made a series of gestures that Bernadetta interpreted as dismissive of Count Varley's assessment. Then he pointed to her, then to his own head, then mimed breaking something—snapping an invisible object between his hands.
"Break... my thoughts?" Bernadetta guessed, frowning. "I don't understand."
Joy Boy tried again, pointing to her, then to his head, then making a cage with his fingers before pretending to break the cage apart.
Understanding dawned. "Break free of... of the cage in my mind? The one Father put there?"
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, looking pleased that she had understood. He retrieved the sketchpad and quickly added to the drawing—the Bernadetta figure now stood with what appeared to be a broken chain at her feet, her face turned upward toward a sky filled with birds in flight.
"That's a nice thought," Bernadetta said softly, studying the amended drawing. "But I don't know how. I've been this way for as long as I can remember. Scared of everything, hiding from everyone. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just... disappear entirely."
The words emerged without conscious intent, revealing a depth of despair she rarely acknowledged even to herself. Joy Boy's expression shifted to one of profound compassion. He set the sketchpad aside completely and reached for her hand, not quite touching her but holding his own palm up in clear invitation.
Bernadetta hesitated, years of conditioning screaming that she should never willingly touch a stranger, especially a male stranger. But something about those golden eyes, so filled with kindness and lacking any hint of the calculation she was accustomed to seeing in the faces of her father's associates, compelled her to slowly, cautiously, place her trembling hand in his.
The moment their palms touched, something extraordinary happened. The cloudy substance that had been draped around Joy Boy's shoulders expanded, enveloping both of them in a swirling cocoon of mist. Within this strange space, images began to form—not solid like reality but not as ephemeral as imagination either, occupying some middle ground that Bernadetta's mind struggled to categorize.
She saw herself—older, perhaps seventeen or eighteen—standing in what appeared to be a classroom filled with other young people in uniforms she didn't recognize. This older Bernadetta still looked nervous, still kept slightly apart from the others, but she was there, in the room with them, not hiding behind a locked door.
The image shifted, showing her drawing a bow with steady hands, loosing an arrow that flew true to its target. Another shift revealed her sitting beneath a tree with an open book, looking up to smile tentatively at someone approaching—not hiding, not running away.
More scenes flickered past: Bernadetta tending to a small garden plot; Bernadetta presenting a piece of embroidery to an impressed-looking woman with green hair; Bernadetta laughing—actually laughing—as she shared a meal with people who seemed to be friends rather than the carefully vetted social connections her father deemed appropriate.
Throughout all these visions, there remained evidence of her anxiety—she still startled easily, still sought quiet corners rather than the center of activity—but she was functioning, living, connecting with others despite her fears rather than allowing those fears to imprison her completely.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the misty cocoon dissolved, leaving Bernadetta gasping on the window seat, her hand still clasped in Joy Boy's. She pulled away reflexively, pressing her palm against her chest as if she could somehow hold the visions she had seen within herself.
"Was that—did you show me my future?" she asked, voice trembling with emotion and confusion.
Joy Boy tilted his head, making a gesture that suggested "perhaps" rather than certainty. He picked up the sketchpad again and quickly drew a branching path, pointing to one fork and then another, before circling back to Bernadetta.
"A possibility," she translated slowly. "One possible path, if I... if I choose it?"
He nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression at her understanding. Then, with deliberate movements, he tore the page with the drawing from the sketchpad and offered it to her, holding it out like a gift.
Bernadetta accepted the paper with reverent care, staring at the image of herself—standing tall, broken chains at her feet, face turned toward possibility rather than cowering from fear. It wasn't a promise, she understood, but a glimpse of what might be if she could find even a fraction of the courage depicted on the page.
"Thank you," she whispered, carefully folding the drawing and tucking it into the pocket of her dress. "I don't know if I can ever be her, but... but maybe I can try?"
Joy Boy's smile was radiant, lighting his entire face with such genuine pleasure that Bernadetta couldn't help but offer a small, hesitant smile in return. He clapped his hands silently, the misty substance around his shoulders forming briefly into tiny stars that sparkled before dissolving back into formlessness.
The sound of distant voices suddenly penetrated their secluded corner—servants beginning their morning duties, the household stirring to life. Panic flashed across Bernadetta's face as she realized how long she had been away from her room.
"I have to go," she said urgently, gathering the botanical book to return it to its shelf. "If anyone finds me here, especially with you, I'll—"
Joy Boy held up a reassuring hand, then pointed to himself and made a vanishing gesture, mimicking disappearance. Before Bernadetta's eyes, the misty substance began to expand again, gradually enveloping his form like a living cocoon.
"Wait!" she called softly, a sudden thought striking her. "Will I—will I see you again?"
Through the swirling mist, Joy Boy's golden eyes remained visible for a moment longer. He nodded once, a promise in that simple gesture, before the mist contracted and then—between one heartbeat and the next—dispersed entirely, leaving no trace of his presence save for the folded drawing in Bernadetta's pocket and the lingering sense of possibility he had awakened within her.
For several seconds, Bernadetta stood frozen, half-convinced she had imagined the entire encounter. But the weight of the paper against her side was real, as was the sock puppet he had produced—which now lay on the window seat where he had been sitting moments before.
Quickly, Bernadetta snatched up the puppet and tucked it into her pocket alongside the drawing. She returned the book to its proper place with trembling hands, then peered cautiously around the edge of the bookshelf to ensure the library remained empty.
Seeing no one, she slipped from her hiding place and made her way swiftly toward the door, heart pounding with each step. The encounter had left her shaken, confused, yet somehow lighter than she had felt in years—as if some burden she had carried for so long she no longer noticed its weight had been partially lifted from her shoulders.
Back in the safety of her bedchamber, door once again locked securely, Bernadetta withdrew the drawing and the puppet from her pocket, setting them carefully on her writing desk. Side by side, they created a strange tableau—one image of possibility, one tangible reminder that she had not imagined the extraordinary encounter.
"It won't be easy," she whispered to herself, tracing the outline of the drawn figure with a gentle fingertip. "Bernie can't just stop being afraid overnight."
She picked up the new sock puppet, slipping it onto her hand and making it nod in agreement. "But maybe... maybe I can be a little braver today than I was yesterday. And a little braver tomorrow than I am today."
Outside her window, the sun had fully risen, casting golden light across the Varley estate. In a few hours, her father would return from Enbarr, and the weight of his expectations would settle once more upon her shoulders. The fear would return—it never truly left—and she would likely retreat back into the safety of silence and invisibility.
But for now, in this quiet moment between night and day, Bernadetta allowed herself to hold the image Joy Boy had shown her: not as a certainty, not even as a likely outcome, but as a possibility worth preserving against darker moments. A seed of hope, fragile but stubbornly alive, that might one day grow strong enough to break through the walls her father had built around her heart.
She carefully tucked both puppets together beneath her pillow, where they would remain hidden from servant eyes and Count Varley's critical gaze. The drawing she slipped between the pages of her private journal, a secret treasure to revisit when courage flagged.
Standing before her mirror, Bernadetta studied her reflection—the hunched shoulders, the downcast eyes, the habitual tension evident in every line of her body. Then, with conscious effort, she straightened her spine slightly, raised her chin a fraction of an inch, and met her own gaze directly.
"Hello," she whispered to her reflection, the word emerging uncertain but determined. "I'm Bernadetta. And maybe... maybe I'm braver than I think."
The posture felt unnatural, uncomfortable, and she could maintain it for only a few seconds before her shoulders slumped once more into their accustomed position. But for those brief moments, she had glimpsed a shadow of the girl from Joy Boy's drawing—not a complete transformation, but a beginning, a possibility, a tiny act of rebellion against the cage built around and within her.
Outside in the hallway, footsteps approached—a maid, most likely, coming to help her dress for breakfast. Bernadetta turned from the mirror, the moment of defiance passing as quickly as it had come. But as she moved to unlock her door, her hand brushed against her pocket where the drawing had been, and she found herself standing a fraction straighter as she prepared to face the day ahead.
Not a dramatic change, not a miraculous transformation—just a seed, newly planted, that might one day grow into something stronger. And for today, at least, that would be enough.
Chapter 30: The Prince Who Remembered Joy
Summary:
Five years before attending the Officers Academy, Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd encounters Joy Boy twice during pivotal moments in his young life. The first meeting occurs during the chaotic Tragedy of Duscur, where the divine being's intervention saves Dimitri and his father from certain death. The second encounter, three years later, breaks through the prince's grief-hardened shell in an unexpected moment of levity. Through these experiences, Dimitri grapples with trauma, duty, and the mysterious connection between himself and the enigmatic Joy Boy—a connection that will shape his future path as the Crown Prince of Faerghus.
Chapter Text
Dimitri could still hear the screams.
Even three years later, they would wake him in the night, phantom cries that lingered long after his eyes had snapped open, his body drenched in sweat despite the perpetual chill of Fhirdiad Castle. Sometimes he would find himself standing before his window, with no memory of having left his bed, staring out at the moon as if it might offer some explanation for the horrors he had witnessed. For the nightmares that refused to release him from their grip.
But tonight, he was not in his bed. Tonight, he sat stiffly in an ornate chair in the royal council chamber, surrounded by men who spoke too quietly about matters too grave for a sixteen-year-old to properly comprehend—even if that sixteen-year-old was the Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.
"...further incursions at the western border," Lord Rodrigue Fraldarius was saying, his deep voice barely audible as he pointed to a marker on the map spread across the massive oak table. "The people of Duscur have been largely contained, but there are still pockets of resistance that refuse to acknowledge Kingdom authority."
"They were innocent," Dimitri said, not for the first time. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—too flat, too controlled. Nothing like the passionate objection he felt burning in his chest.
His words created a momentary pause in the proceedings. The adults exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of pity and discomfort. Only his father, King Lambert, met his gaze directly, the lines around his eyes deepening with a sorrow that mirrored Dimitri's own.
"We know, Dimitri," Lambert said gently. "That's why we're working to establish peaceful relations with the survivors. But the situation remains... complex."
Complex. Dimitri had come to hate that word. It was the word adults used when they didn't want to say the truth plainly: that innocent people continued to suffer because powerful men found it more convenient to blame Duscur than to admit their own culpability in the tragedy that had unfolded three years earlier.
The tragedy that had nearly claimed both his and his father's lives.
Dimitri's mind drifted from the droning voices of the council, back to that day—the day that had both destroyed and reshaped his young life.
The royal caravan had been traveling through a forested passage just within the borders of Duscur territory. At thirteen, Dimitri had been excited for the diplomatic mission—his first significant journey as Crown Prince, a chance to observe his father's statesmanship firsthand. Lambert had been explaining the importance of the upcoming trade negotiations when the first arrows struck their escort guards.
What followed was chaos. Armed men poured from the forest on both sides of the road. Horses screamed, soldiers shouted orders, and the metallic ring of steel on steel filled the air. Glenn Fraldarius, the young Shield of Faerghus, had immediately pushed Dimitri down behind the royal carriage, sword already drawn.
"Stay down, Your Highness," Glenn had ordered, his eyes scanning for threats in every direction. "I need to get you and His Majesty to safety."
But safety had proven elusive. The attackers were many, and they fought with the coordinated precision of trained soldiers, not common bandits. When Dimitri peeked around the carriage, he saw Kingdom uniforms among the attackers—men who should have been protecting them, now turning their weapons against their own sovereign.
"Traitors," Glenn had hissed, cutting down a man who rushed their position. "This is no random ambush."
The realization had struck Dimitri like a physical blow. This was an orchestrated attempt on his father's life—perhaps on his own as well. A coup disguised as a foreign attack.
"Father," he gasped, scrambling to his feet despite Glenn's protests. "We have to find my father!"
The next few minutes blurred in Dimitri's memory, fragmented into disjointed images of violence: Glenn's blade flashing as he cut a path through the attackers; the royal banner torn and muddied beneath trampling boots; his father's voice somewhere ahead, shouting commands even as he fought for his life.
Then came the moment that would haunt Dimitri's nightmares for years to come. Breaking free from Glenn's protection, he had rounded the overturned royal carriage just in time to see his father surrounded by six men, fighting valiantly but clearly outnumbered. Lambert had always been a formidable warrior—the strongest man in the Kingdom, many said—but even he could not hold out indefinitely against such odds.
"Father!" Dimitri had screamed, his voice cracking with terror.
Lambert's momentary distraction at his son's cry had been enough. One of the attackers seized the opening, driving his blade toward the King's unprotected side.
It was then that the world changed.
A sound unlike anything Dimitri had ever heard before rolled across the battlefield—a rhythmic drumming that seemed to come from the earth itself, from the sky above, from within his own chest. The air grew suddenly thick, charged with an energy that raised the hair on his arms and made breathing difficult.
And then, impossibly, the clouds directly above the carnage began to swirl, forming a perfect spiral that darkened at the edges while brightening at its center. From within that radiant core, a figure emerged—descending slowly as if walking down an invisible staircase, wreathed in light so brilliant that many of the combatants paused mid-strike, shielding their eyes from the glare.
Joy Boy.
Even at thirteen, Dimitri had heard the whispered stories—of the divine visitor who appeared in times of great need, who performed miracles that defied explanation, who never spoke yet somehow communicated profound truths to those he encountered. The Church of Seiros regarded him with suspicion, declaring his appearances unsanctioned and potentially heretical. But the common people told different tales: of healing, of justice, of impossible kindness shown to those who suffered most.
Now he stood amidst the ruins of the royal caravan, his white hair flickering like flame despite the absence of wind, his golden eyes surveying the battlefield with an expression that combined sorrow and determination in equal measure. The cloud-like substance that draped his shoulders expanded outward, darkening and crackling with silent lightning as he took in the scene of betrayal and bloodshed.
The effect on the attackers was immediate and dramatic. Several dropped their weapons, falling to their knees in terror or awe. Others backed away, making signs against evil. A few—the most hardened or desperate—attempted to continue their assault, only to find their movements bizarrely impeded, as if reality itself had turned against them.
An archer loosed an arrow at Joy Boy, only to watch in disbelief as the projectile transformed mid-flight into a small, brightly colored bird that circled his head once before flying away. Another attacker charged with his sword raised high, but each step seemed to sink him deeper into the ground until he was mired to his waist in what had been solid earth moments before.
Amid this surreal disruption of the battlefield, Joy Boy moved with purposeful grace toward King Lambert, who stood frozen in astonishment, his sword still raised defensively. When he reached the monarch, Joy Boy simply placed a gentle hand on Lambert's shoulder and smiled—not just with his mouth but with his entire being, a smile so radiant and genuine that it seemed to push back the very concept of violence that had engulfed them.
Then his gaze shifted, golden eyes finding Dimitri where he stood paralyzed with fear and wonder. With a gesture that somehow conveyed both invitation and reassurance, Joy Boy beckoned the young prince forward.
Dimitri's legs moved of their own accord, carrying him across the blood-soaked ground toward this impossible figure who had appeared in their moment of greatest need. As he drew closer, he realized that despite the aura of power that surrounded Joy Boy, there was something profoundly approachable about him—a warmth and playfulness that reminded Dimitri, oddly enough, of the court jesters who had entertained him as a small child.
When he reached his father's side, Joy Boy's smile broadened. He placed one hand on Lambert's shoulder and the other on Dimitri's, creating a connection between father and son. Then, with a movement almost too quick to follow, he gathered them both into an embrace that lifted them clear off the ground.
What happened next defied all logic. The world around them seemed to blur, stretching like taffy being pulled in multiple directions at once. Dimitri felt a sensation of immense speed combined with perfect stillness, as if they were simultaneously racing through space and remaining exactly where they stood. His stomach lurched, his vision swam, and then—
They were somewhere else entirely.
The three of them—Joy Boy still holding father and son securely—stood on a hillside overlooking a Duscur village that appeared untouched by the violence unfolding elsewhere. Below, people moved about their daily tasks, unaware of the coup attempt or the miraculous transportation that had just occurred.
Joy Boy set them gently on the ground, releasing them from his embrace but keeping one hand on each of their shoulders. His expression had grown serious, his golden eyes intense as he looked first at Lambert, then at Dimitri.
Without words—yet somehow with perfect clarity—Dimitri understood what Joy Boy was trying to communicate: The attack had been orchestrated to frame the people of Duscur. Innocent lives were at stake. Action must be taken quickly to prevent a retaliatory massacre.
Lambert seemed to receive the same message, for he nodded gravely, his face set with determination. "I understand," he said aloud, though Joy Boy had not spoken. "We will stop this before it spreads further."
Joy Boy's smile returned, brilliant with approval. He patted Lambert's shoulder once more, then turned his full attention to Dimitri. Kneeling to bring himself to the prince's eye level, he reached out and gently wiped away tears that Dimitri hadn't even realized he was shedding.
In that touch—impossibly gentle for a being of such power—Dimitri felt a wave of comfort wash over him, easing the terror and confusion of the past hour. Joy Boy's golden eyes seemed to look beyond his face, deep into his very being, seeing everything that Dimitri was and everything he might become.
Then, with a playful wink that seemed incongruous with the gravity of the situation, Joy Boy tapped Dimitri lightly on the nose—a gesture so unexpected and childlike that the young prince couldn't help but give a startled laugh despite his fear.
Joy Boy's face lit up at the sound, his smile widening to almost comical proportions. He stood, ruffled Dimitri's hair affectionately, and took three steps backward.
As he had appeared, so did he depart—not with fanfare or dramatics, but with a simple fading of his form into motes of golden light that dispersed on the breeze. The last to vanish were his eyes, which remained fixed on Dimitri with an expression of absolute confidence and... was it affection? Whatever the emotion, it left Dimitri with the profound certainty that this had not been a random encounter, that Joy Boy's appearance in their moment of need was somehow part of a greater design.
In the days that followed, the full scope of the conspiracy became clear. Cornelia Arnim, the royal court mage, had orchestrated an elaborate coup attempt aimed at eliminating King Lambert and framing Duscur for the assassination. Only Joy Boy's timely intervention had prevented the plot from succeeding, though not before significant damage had been done.
Glenn had survived, though gravely wounded, having been saved and cared for by a Duscur family at Joy Boy's direct instruction. Others in the royal party had not been so fortunate. Many good knights had fallen in the initial ambush, their sacrifices ensuring that the King and Prince had survived long enough for divine intervention to arrive.
In the immediate aftermath, Lambert had moved with unprecedented speed and decisiveness. Using the knowledge somehow imparted by Joy Boy, he had identified and neutralized the conspirators within his own court, while simultaneously extending protection to the people of Duscur, preventing the wholesale slaughter that Cornelia's plan had intended.
Yet despite Lambert's efforts, damage had been done. Tensions between Faerghus and Duscur remained high. Many in the Kingdom, unaware of the true nature of the conspiracy, continued to harbor suspicions and resentments toward the Duscur people. The work of healing these divisions would take years, perhaps generations.
And Dimitri... Dimitri found himself changed by the experience in ways he couldn't fully articulate. The violence he had witnessed, the betrayal by those sworn to protect them, the near loss of his father—these had left scars on his young psyche. Yet alongside these traumas was the memory of Joy Boy's intervention, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, hope could arrive in unexpected forms.
It was a complex legacy to carry forward into his role as Crown Prince. One that would shape his actions and decisions in the years to come.
"Your Highness? Did you hear the question?"
Dimitri blinked, pulling himself back to the present moment, to the council chamber where Lords and advisors now stared at him expectantly. He had been lost in memories again—a habit that both worried and frustrated those around him.
"I apologize," he said formally. "My thoughts were elsewhere. Could you repeat the question?"
Lord Rodrigue's expression softened slightly. Of all his father's advisors, Rodrigue understood best what Dimitri had endured. After all, his own son Glenn had nearly died in the Tragedy, and his younger son Felix had never quite forgiven Dimitri for returning from Duscur physically unharmed while Glenn had suffered wounds that ended his knighthood.
"We were discussing the proposed officer training program," Rodrigue explained patiently. "Given your upcoming eligibility for the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach, His Majesty thought you might have insights to share."
Dimitri nodded, attempting to focus on the matter at hand rather than the ghosts that perpetually haunted his thoughts. "Yes, of course. I believe—"
He stopped mid-sentence, the words dying in his throat as his eyes widened in disbelief.
There, sitting cross-legged atop his uncle Rufus's head, was Joy Boy.
The divine visitor had appeared without fanfare or dramatic entrance—he was simply there, perched impossibly on Rufus's balding pate, his legs folded neatly, his expression one of exaggerated attentiveness as he pretended to listen to the proceedings.
No one else seemed to notice the addition to their gathering. Rufus continued his pontification about border security without any indication that he felt the weight of a divine being using his head as a seat. The guards at the door maintained their stoic poses. Even his father, usually so perceptive, showed no reaction to Joy Boy's presence.
Joy Boy caught Dimitri's stare and winked, placing one finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of secrecy. Then, with theatrical slowness, he unfurled a small scroll he produced from within his cloud-like mantle and began to read it with comically intense concentration, occasionally nodding as if the contents were of profound significance.
The sheer absurdity of the scene—the solemn council discussing matters of state while an unnoticed divine entity performed silent comedy atop the King's brother's head—struck Dimitri with unexpected force. For three years, he had carried the weight of that day in Duscur: the violence, the betrayal, the narrow escape. For three years, he had tried to be the perfect prince, the worthy survivor, the son his father could rely on despite the nightmares that plagued him.
And now, in the midst of this gravest of meetings, Joy Boy was performing what could only be described as a divine pantomime.
A snort of laughter escaped Dimitri before he could stop it—a most unprincelike sound that immediately drew every eye in the room. He clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified, but it was too late. Another laugh bubbled up, and then another, until he was doubled over in his chair, shoulders shaking with mirth he couldn't contain.
"Dimitri?" His father's voice held more concern than censure. "Are you well?"
Dimitri tried to respond, but each time he looked up, he caught sight of Joy Boy, who had now adopted a pose of scholarly contemplation, one hand stroking an imaginary beard as he continued to balance perfectly atop the oblivious Rufus's head.
"I'm—I'm sorry," Dimitri managed between gasps for air. "It's just—" Another peal of laughter overtook him.
The council members exchanged worried glances. Lord Gustave, ever the stern protector, moved toward Dimitri as if concerned the prince might be experiencing some sort of fit. Lambert raised a hand to stop him, his own expression a mixture of confusion and—was that relief?
"Let him laugh, Gustave," the King said quietly. "It's been too long since any of us has heard the sound."
Joy Boy, clearly pleased with the reaction his antics had produced, gave an exaggerated bow from his perch, nearly toppling off before catching himself with impossible grace. He then proceeded to mime offering tea to an invisible companion, complete with raised pinky finger and exaggerated sipping motions.
Dimitri was beyond help now, tears streaming down his face as years of tension found release in unstoppable laughter. It felt both painful and cleansing, like lancing a wound that had festered too long.
"Perhaps His Highness should take some air," suggested Lord Matthias, the elderly Minister of the Interior. "The strain of these discussions—"
"No," Dimitri managed, finally gaining enough control to speak. "No, I'm quite well. Better than I've been in—" He broke off as Joy Boy produced a tiny fishing rod and pretended to cast it toward Lord Halden's impressive beard. "—in some time."
Joy Boy caught his eye again and gave him a thumbs-up gesture, his golden eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure at having provoked such mirth. Then, with casual disregard for physics or propriety, he hopped down from Rufus's head and strolled toward Dimitri, visible apparently only to the prince himself.
When he reached Dimitri's chair, he knelt beside it, his expression growing momentarily serious as he placed a gentle hand on the prince's arm. The touch was warm and reassuring, carrying with it the same sense of comfort Dimitri had experienced three years earlier during their first encounter.
Without words, yet with perfect clarity, Joy Boy conveyed a simple message: It's alright to remember joy, even after sorrow. Especially after sorrow.
Dimitri's laughter subsided, though his smile remained—the first genuine smile to grace his features in longer than he could remember. "Thank you," he whispered, too quietly for the others to hear.
Joy Boy's answering smile was radiant. He patted Dimitri's arm once more, then rose to his feet and took three steps backward—just as he had done in Duscur before departing. This time, however, he added a flourish, tipping an imaginary hat before dissolving into those now-familiar motes of golden light.
The council chamber fell silent as the others watched Dimitri's expression shift from uncharacteristic mirth to something softer, more contemplative. No one spoke for several moments, as if afraid to break whatever spell had momentarily transformed their somber prince into the laughing boy he had once been.
It was Lambert who finally broke the silence, his voice gentle with understanding. "Would you like to share what amused you so, my son?"
Dimitri considered the question carefully. How could he explain what he had witnessed? The divine visitor balancing on Rufus's head, performing silent comedy for his eyes alone? It sounded like madness—perhaps it was madness, a manifestation of the trauma he had experienced, of the guilt he carried for surviving when others had not.
Yet the warmth of Joy Boy's touch still lingered on his arm, too real to be dismissed as mere imagination.
"I was reminded," he said finally, choosing his words with care, "of something important that I had forgotten."
"And what was that?" Lambert asked, his expression open and curious.
Dimitri met his father's gaze directly, feeling something shift within him—some hard knot of grief and duty beginning, ever so slightly, to loosen its grip. "That even in times of darkness, there remains the possibility of joy. That perhaps the greatest defiance in the face of tragedy is to remember how to laugh."
A thoughtful silence followed his words. Dimitri half-expected dismissal or concerned glances, but instead, he saw something unexpected in the faces around the table: recognition. As if his words had touched on a truth they all needed to be reminded of.
"Well said, Your Highness," Rodrigue offered after a moment, inclining his head respectfully. "Perhaps that is wisdom we would all do well to remember."
Lambert's smile was tinged with pride and something else—a shadow of the same sorrow that Dimitri carried, but tempered now with renewed hope. "Indeed," the King agreed softly. "Perhaps it is."
The meeting resumed, turning back to matters of state and security, but something had changed in the atmosphere of the council chamber. The tension that had gripped them all had eased, if only slightly. Discussions flowed more naturally, solutions presented themselves more readily.
And Dimitri, for the first time in three years, felt as if a window had been opened in a room too long sealed against fresh air. The nightmares would not vanish overnight. The trauma and responsibility he carried would not simply disappear. But Joy Boy's silent message had taken root within him: it was possible to honor the past without being imprisoned by it. To remember those lost while still embracing life.
To find joy, even in the aftermath of tragedy.
As the council meeting drew to a close, Dimitri found himself lingering in the chamber after the others had departed, his thoughts still dwelling on Joy Boy's unexpected appearance and the laughter it had provoked. His father approached, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I haven't heard you laugh like that since before Duscur," Lambert said quietly. "I had begun to fear I never would again."
Dimitri looked up at his father—the man who had carried the weight of a kingdom while also bearing the burden of nearly losing his son, his life, his people's trust. "I'm sorry if I caused concern."
Lambert shook his head, dismissing the apology. "Never apologize for joy, Dimitri. Especially when it comes so rarely." He hesitated, then asked, "What truly happened just now? I know you well enough to recognize there was more to your reaction than you've shared."
For a moment, Dimitri considered telling his father everything—about Joy Boy's appearance, his silent comedy routine, the message of hope he had imparted. But something held him back. Not fear of disbelief, but rather the sense that this encounter had been meant specifically for him, a personal reminder at precisely the moment he needed it most.
"Let's just say," he replied carefully, "that I was reminded of a promise made to me once—that even after the darkest times, light returns if we remain open to receiving it."
Lambert studied his son's face, seeming to sense the deeper meaning behind the words. After a moment, he nodded, accepting the explanation without pushing for details. "A wise reminder," he acknowledged. "And one that bears repeating, especially for those of us who carry the weight of command."
As they left the council chamber together, walking side by side through the stone corridors of Fhirdiad Castle, Dimitri felt a curious lightness in his step that had been absent for far too long. The ghosts of Duscur still walked with him—they likely always would—but they no longer seemed to crowd so close, to demand his exclusive attention.
Joy Boy's visit had created a space for something else to exist alongside the sorrow: the possibility of healing, of moving forward, of finding purpose beyond mere survival.
That night, for the first time in three years, Dimitri slept without nightmares. And when he woke, he found on his bedside table a small, perfect flower unlike any that grew naturally in Faerghus—its petals a luminous blue that seemed to glow from within, its center a perfect golden circle.
A reminder that joy could bloom in the most unexpected places, if only one remained open to its possibility.
Chapter 31: The Knight-To-Be Dancing in the Rain
Summary:
Four years before enrolling at the Officers Academy, fourteen-year-old Ingrid Brandl Galatea finds herself increasingly burdened by her family's expectations. During a diplomatic visit to Fhirdiad Castle, she encounters Joy Boy during a fierce storm. As she watches the ethereal being dance carefree in the downpour, Ingrid confronts her conflicting desires—duty to her financially struggling noble house versus her dream of knighthood. Through this unexpected encounter, she discovers a kindred spirit in the silent divine visitor, whose unabashed freedom inspires her to preserve her own dreams despite mounting pressure to sacrifice them for an advantageous marriage.
Chapter Text
The rain hammered against the castle walls with such ferocity that Ingrid wondered if the heavens themselves were trying to wash Fhirdiad away. Storms in northern Faerghus were never gentle affairs, but this one seemed determined to set records. Lightning split the sky in jagged bursts, illuminating her guest chamber in stark, momentary brightness before plunging it back into shadow.
She should have been asleep hours ago. Tomorrow would bring another full day of tedious diplomatic meetings that her father had insisted she attend—"for the experience," he'd said, though Ingrid knew perfectly well what kind of "experience" he meant. At fourteen, she was already being paraded before potential suitors and their families like a prized mare at auction.
With a frustrated sigh, Ingrid pushed back the heavy furs that covered her bed and padded to the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingertips as she traced the paths of raindrops racing down the outer pane. Below, the castle courtyard had transformed into a series of reflecting pools, the carefully maintained gardens now partially submerged under the deluge.
"Better than marriage negotiations," she muttered to herself, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.
It wasn't that Ingrid didn't understand her duty. House Galatea was struggling financially—had been for generations. Their territory, once prosperous, had grown increasingly infertile, leaving them dependent on alliances and goodwill to maintain their noble standing. As the only child to bear a Crest in her family, Ingrid represented their best hope for a favorable marriage connection that might restore their fortunes.
She knew all this. Had it explained to her repeatedly since she was old enough to understand the concept of duty. And yet...
Her gaze drifted to the sword propped against the wall beside her traveling trunk—a training blade gifted to her by Glenn Fraldarius three years ago, before the Tragedy of Duscur had nearly claimed his life. Though he had survived, his injuries had ended his promising career as a knight, a fact that still caused Ingrid's heart to ache whenever she thought of it.
"I'll become a knight worthy of your legacy," she had promised him during her last visit to Fraldarius territory, where Glenn now served as an advisor to his father. He had smiled at that—a shadow of his former cocky grin—and ruffled her hair as if she were still a child.
"I believe you will, Ingrid," he'd said. "If anyone has the determination to overcome the obstacles ahead, it's you."
Obstacles. A diplomatic word for what they both knew stood in her path: her father's plans for her future, which involved a politically advantageous marriage rather than a knight's armor.
A particularly brilliant flash of lightning drew Ingrid's attention back to the window, followed almost immediately by a thunderclap so powerful it seemed to shake the very stones of the castle. As the rumble faded, something caught her eye—movement in the courtyard below, where no sane person should be during such a violent storm.
Squinting through the rain-streaked glass, Ingrid could just make out a figure—slender and pale against the darkness—spinning in circles with arms outstretched beneath the downpour. At first, she thought perhaps it was one of the castle's younger residents, a child who had snuck out to play in the forbidden storm. But another lightning flash revealed details that made her breath catch in her throat.
The figure's hair moved like a living flame despite being drenched by rain, and even from this distance, she could see the golden glow of eyes that seemed impossibly bright against the night. A misty substance that resembled clouds flowed from the figure's shoulders, undisturbed by the torrential downpour.
"Joy Boy," Ingrid whispered, the name falling from her lips with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
Everyone in Fódlan had heard stories of the divine visitor—the silent being who appeared in times of need, who had reportedly saved King Lambert and Prince Dimitri during the Tragedy of Duscur. Some Church officials regarded him with suspicion, labeling his appearances as potential heresy against the teachings of Seiros. Others, particularly among the common folk, spoke of him with reverence bordering on worship.
Ingrid herself had never formed a strong opinion. The tales seemed too fantastical to be entirely true, yet too widespread to be complete fabrication. And now, improbably, impossibly, here he was—dancing in a raging storm in the courtyard of Fhirdiad Castle as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Without conscious thought, Ingrid found herself throwing a cloak over her nightgown and slipping into the hallway. The guards stationed there gave her curious looks but didn't stop her—as a noble guest and childhood friend of the prince, she was afforded certain freedoms within the castle walls.
"Lady Galatea," one acknowledged with a respectful nod. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, just... restless," she replied, hoping the dim corridor hid the flush she could feel spreading across her cheeks. "I thought a short walk might help."
The guard's expression suggested he found her choice of timing odd, but he merely inclined his head. "Stay within the inner sections, my lady. This storm's making the outer corridors treacherous."
Ingrid nodded her agreement, then hurried down the hallway before he could reconsider or offer to accompany her. Her heart pounded a rapid rhythm against her ribs as she navigated the familiar path toward the courtyard. She wasn't entirely sure what she intended to do—approach Joy Boy? Observe from a distance? The impulse that drove her forward was undefined yet insistent.
The covered walkway that encircled the courtyard provided some shelter from the rain, though occasional gusts drove stinging droplets beneath the stone arches. Ingrid pressed herself against a column, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders as she peered out at the extraordinary scene before her.
Joy Boy continued his dance, oblivious to—or perhaps simply unconcerned by—his audience. There was something both childlike and ancient in his movements, a combination of uninhibited joy and elemental grace. He splashed through puddles with deliberate steps, creating concentric ripples that glowed faintly gold in his wake. When lightning flashed overhead, he would throw his arms wider as if embracing the sky itself.
The rain plastered his white garments to his slender frame, yet the cloud-like mantle around his shoulders remained somehow dry, swirling gently as he moved. His face—what Ingrid could see of it between the cascades of water streaming down—wore an expression of pure, unadulterated delight, as if this violent storm were a personal gift created solely for his amusement.
"You're going to catch your death," Ingrid found herself saying, then immediately felt foolish. Joy Boy was clearly no ordinary being; the concerns of mortality probably didn't apply to him.
To her surprise, he paused mid-spin at the sound of her voice, golden eyes finding her instantly despite the darkness and the rain. For a moment, they simply regarded each other—the solemn noble girl sheltering in the shadows and the luminous figure standing fearlessly in the heart of the tempest.
Then Joy Boy smiled—a wide, infectious grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and seemed to brighten the very air around him. With an exaggerated gesture, he beckoned to her, inviting her to join him in the downpour.
Ingrid shook her head firmly. "I can't," she called over the sound of the rain. "I'll be soaked through. My father would—"
She stopped, realizing the absurdity of explaining social proprieties to a being who danced in thunderstorms. Joy Boy tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of exaggerated contemplation. Then, with theatrical slowness, he looked down at his own drenched clothing, held out his arms to examine the water streaming from them, and looked back at Ingrid with an expression that clearly communicated: And?
Despite herself, Ingrid felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It's different for you," she protested. "You're... well, you're Joy Boy. I'm the heir to House Galatea. I have responsibilities. Expectations."
Joy Boy's smile dimmed slightly at that, something like understanding flickering across his features. He lowered his arms and took a step toward her, his movements suddenly more measured, more deliberate. When a fresh bolt of lightning illuminated the courtyard, Ingrid caught a glimpse of unexpected depth in his golden eyes—a knowing wisdom that belied his playful demeanor.
He stopped a few paces away, just at the edge where the rain still fell between them. With careful movements, he extended one hand, palm up, toward her—not pulling or insisting, merely offering.
Ingrid stared at that outstretched hand, water pooling in its palm and spilling over the edges. Something about the gesture struck her as profoundly significant, though she couldn't have articulated why. It was as if Joy Boy was offering more than just an invitation to dance in the rain—he was offering a moment of choice, of possibility.
Before she could decide how to respond, a voice called from behind her, startling her so badly she nearly stumbled into the rain.
"Lady Ingrid? What are you doing out here at this hour?"
She turned to find Gustave, the knight commander, regarding her with concern from further down the covered walkway. When she looked back toward Joy Boy, the courtyard was empty—no sign remained of the divine visitor except for faintly glowing ripples in a puddle that were already fading as she watched.
"I—I couldn't sleep," she stammered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "The storm..."
Gustave's stern features softened slightly. "It is quite impressive," he agreed, moving to stand beside her. "Though perhaps better appreciated from behind glass than in the open air, especially at this hour."
Ingrid nodded, hoping the darkness hid the disappointment she feared was written plainly across her face. "I was just heading back to my chambers."
"Allow me to escort you," Gustave offered, in a tone that made it clear this was not truly a request. As they walked in silence through the stone corridors, Ingrid found her thoughts returning to Joy Boy's outstretched hand, to the invitation it represented.
What would have happened if she had accepted? If she had stepped out into the rain and let go of the constraints that bound her so tightly to her duty, even for just a few moments?
The question lingered in her mind long after she had returned to her chamber, long after she had changed out of her damp clothes and slipped back beneath the heavy furs of her bed. It was still there when she finally drifted into sleep, where she dreamed of dancing in the rain with golden light trailing from her fingertips.
"You're not focusing, Ingrid."
Felix's blunt assessment cut through her distraction like a well-honed blade. Three days had passed since the storm, since her encounter with Joy Boy, and Ingrid had found it increasingly difficult to keep her thoughts from straying back to that moment whenever her mind was not fully occupied.
"Sorry," she muttered, raising her training sword back to a proper guard position. They were in one of Fhirdiad Castle's smaller practice yards, taking advantage of a break in the diplomatic proceedings to maintain their skills. Felix, two years her junior but already showing remarkable talent with a blade, had suggested the session with his typical brusque efficiency.
"If you'd rather be inside discussing dresses and marriage prospects with the other noble girls, don't let me keep you," he added, his amber eyes narrowed with the particular brand of disdain that Felix reserved for anything he deemed frivolous.
The barb struck closer to home than he likely intended. That morning, Ingrid had indeed been closeted with several young noblewomen—not by choice, but at her father's insistence. The conversation had revolved almost exclusively around upcoming social events and potential matches, with particular emphasis on the eligible sons of prominent Alliance and Kingdom families.
"Shut up and attack," Ingrid snapped, her irritation providing a welcome focus for her scattered thoughts. When Felix lunged forward, she was ready, parrying his strike with more force than was strictly necessary for a training exercise.
A rare smile flickered across Felix's face at the ferocity of her response. "Better," he acknowledged, disengaging smoothly and circling left. "Now maintain it."
For the next half hour, Ingrid lost herself in the rhythm of their sparring. Felix was faster, but she had the advantage of height and reach—a temporary edge, as they both knew he would eventually outgrow her. In the meantime, it made their matches relatively even, with victory depending more on strategy and endurance than raw strength.
By the time they called a halt, both were breathing hard, shirts damp with sweat despite the cool northern air. Ingrid felt more centered than she had in days, the physical exertion having burned away some of the restless energy that had plagued her since the night of the storm.
"You fought well today," came a deep voice from the edge of the training yard. They turned to find King Lambert himself watching their practice, Prince Dimitri at his side. Both Ingrid and Felix immediately bowed, though Felix's gesture contained a stiffness that suggested he performed it more out of obligation than genuine deference.
"Your Majesty," Ingrid acknowledged, suddenly acutely aware of her disheveled appearance. "Your Highness. We didn't realize we had an audience."
Lambert smiled warmly. "We only just arrived. Dimitri was hoping to convince both of you to join him for a ride while the weather holds." He glanced skyward, where heavy clouds threatened another downpour. "Though I fear you may get caught in the rain if you tarry too long."
"I don't mind a little rain," Dimitri said, his blue eyes lighting up with an enthusiasm that had been all too rare since the Tragedy. Something in his expression reminded Ingrid of Joy Boy's carefree dance in the storm, though she couldn't quite identify the connection.
Felix shrugged, already moving to return his training sword to the rack. "Better than being stuck inside all day."
"Ingrid?" Dimitri prompted, turning that hopeful gaze toward her. "Will you join us?"
She hesitated, thinking of her father's expectations for the afternoon—another round of introductions to potential suitors, another performance of the perfect, demure noblewolf. The thought filled her with a weariness that settled in her bones like winter frost.
"I... should probably return to my father," she began reluctantly.
"I've already spoken with Count Galatea," Lambert interjected, his tone casual but his eyes knowing. "He agrees that fresh air would do you good after so many days of indoor diplomacy."
Relief washed over Ingrid in a wave so powerful she had to resist the urge to hug the King of Faerghus. "In that case," she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice, "I'd be delighted to join you, Your Highness."
Within the hour, the three childhood friends were galloping across the open fields north of Fhirdiad, with a small contingent of royal guards following at a discreet distance. The wind whipped Ingrid's golden braid behind her as she urged her mount faster, reveling in the temporary freedom. This—the pounding of hooves beneath her, the rush of air against her face, the endless sky above—this was what she lived for.
"Race you to the ridge!" Dimitri called, already spurring his stallion ahead. Felix cursed and gave chase, never one to back down from a challenge, especially not from the prince.
Ingrid followed, laughing as she bent low over her mare's neck and whispered encouragement in the animal's ear. They thundered across the grassland, three noble children momentarily unburdened by their titles and responsibilities, by the tragedies that had touched their young lives, by the uncertain futures that awaited them.
They reached the ridge nearly simultaneously, though Dimitri claimed victory by a nose. As they reined in their mounts, breathing hard and flushed with exertion, Ingrid felt a pang of bittersweet joy. These moments grew increasingly rare as they aged, as duty began to pull them in different directions. Dimitri toward kingship, Felix toward... whatever path his anger and grief would eventually forge for him, and Ingrid toward a marriage that would save her family but bury her dreams.
"It's going to rain soon," Felix observed, nodding toward the western horizon where dark clouds had begun to coalesce into an ominous mass.
"We should head back," Ingrid agreed reluctantly, though part of her wondered what it would be like to ride through the storm, to feel the rain against her skin and imagine, just for a moment, that she was as free as Joy Boy had appeared that night.
As they turned their mounts back toward Fhirdiad, Dimitri fell in beside Ingrid, allowing Felix to ride slightly ahead. "You seem troubled," the prince observed quietly. "More so than usual."
Ingrid glanced at him, surprised by his perception. Since the Tragedy, Dimitri had often seemed lost in his own thoughts, his once-bright spirit dimmed by the horrors he had witnessed. To have him notice her distress was unexpected.
"It's nothing, Your Highness," she demurred. "Just the usual concerns."
"Dimitri," he corrected gently. "We've known each other since we could barely walk, Ingrid. There's no need for titles between friends." He paused, then added with unusual hesitation, "Is it... marriage negotiations again?"
Ingrid sighed, seeing no point in denial. "My father means well. He wants security for our territory, for our people. A good match would provide that."
"At the cost of your dreams," Dimitri observed, his voice soft but his gaze piercing. "Your knighthood."
"Dreams are luxuries for those who can afford them," Ingrid replied, repeating words her father had spoken countless times. "House Galatea cannot."
They rode in silence for several moments, the only sounds the steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the distant rumble of approaching thunder. When Dimitri spoke again, his tone had shifted, becoming almost contemplative.
"I saw Joy Boy recently," he said, the apparent non sequitur catching Ingrid by surprise. "In the council chamber, of all places. No one else could see him. He was... being ridiculous, actually. Made me laugh during a very serious discussion about border security."
Ingrid stared at him, unsure how to respond to this confidence. "I... I saw him too," she admitted finally. "During the storm three nights ago. He was dancing in the courtyard."
Dimitri's eyes widened. "You did? Did he speak to you?"
"No. He doesn't speak, does he? At least, that's what the stories say." Ingrid hesitated, then added, "He invited me to join him in the rain. I... declined."
"Why?" The question was simple, direct, without judgment.
Ingrid gestured vaguely at herself, at the neat riding clothes, the carefully braided hair, the composed demeanor she worked so hard to maintain. "This is who I'm supposed to be. The perfect daughter. The ideal match. Dancing in storms doesn't exactly fit that image."
Dimitri was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful as he gazed toward the approaching storm. "Do you know what Joy Boy did for me?" he finally asked.
"Saved your life during the Tragedy?" Ingrid ventured, the widely-known story being the only reference point she had.
"Yes, but more than that." Dimitri's voice dropped lower, as if sharing a sacred confidence. "He reminded me that it's possible to find joy even after unimaginable loss. That laughter isn't a betrayal of those who suffered, but a way of honoring the life they would want for us." He turned to meet her gaze directly. "Perhaps his invitation wasn't just about dancing in the rain."
The first fat droplets began to fall as they crested a rise that gave them a clear view of Fhirdiad in the near distance. The castle stood proud against the darkening sky, its stone walls a physical manifestation of duty, tradition, and unchanging expectations.
"We should hurry," Felix called back to them, already increasing his pace.
Dimitri nodded his agreement, but before they spurred their mounts forward, he added quietly, "Joy Boy appears to different people for different reasons, Ingrid. Maybe you should consider what message he might have been trying to convey to you specifically."
The rain began in earnest as they approached the city gates, quickly soaking through their riding clothes despite their increased pace. By the time they clattered into the castle courtyard—the same courtyard where Ingrid had watched Joy Boy dance—they were thoroughly drenched.
Stable hands rushed to take their horses as they dismounted. Dimitri and Felix headed immediately for shelter, but Ingrid hesitated, letting the rain wash over her for a moment longer. It was cold and uncomfortable, nothing like the ecstatic dance she had witnessed. And yet, there was something freeing about standing there, already soaked through, with nothing left to preserve.
"Lady Ingrid!" A servant hurried toward her with a cloak held above his head. "Please, come inside at once! Your father is looking for you—there's someone he wishes you to meet before the evening meal."
Reality crashed back with the force of the thunder that rolled overhead. Of course. Another suitor. Another careful evaluation of her worth as a marriage prospect. Another step toward the future that had been planned for her since birth.
With a resigned nod, Ingrid accepted the cloak and followed the servant inside, leaving wet footprints across the stone floor. As they passed a tall window overlooking the courtyard, she paused, drawn by a flash of movement glimpsed from the corner of her eye.
There, just for an instant, she thought she saw a familiar white-clad figure spinning through the rain, golden eyes turned toward her with an expression of gentle encouragement. But when lightning flashed again, illuminating the courtyard in stark clarity, it was empty save for the falling rain.
"He's quite taken with you," Count Galatea observed later that evening as they returned to their guest chambers after dinner. "Lord Edmund's nephew is an excellent match—young, well-positioned, and heir to significant territories in the Alliance. His offer would more than restore our house's fortunes."
Ingrid murmured something noncommittal, her mind still dwelling on the phantom glimpse of Joy Boy she had—or perhaps hadn't—seen earlier. The evening had passed in a blur of polite conversation and careful maneuvering, with her father positioning her before yet another potential husband like a prized possession on display.
"Ingrid," her father's voice sharpened slightly, drawing her attention back to the present. "Did you hear what I said? This alliance could secure House Galatea's future for generations to come."
"Yes, Father. I heard."
They had reached the door to her chamber, but Count Galatea made no move to leave, his expression growing increasingly concerned as he studied his daughter's face. "You don't seem appropriately enthusiastic about this prospect."
Ingrid straightened her shoulders, summoning the dutiful mask she had perfected over years of similar conversations. "I understand the importance of a good match. I won't disappoint House Galatea."
"That's not what I asked." To her surprise, her father's tone softened, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his usually resolute features. "Ingrid, are you... happy?"
The question caught her completely off guard. Happiness had rarely factored into their discussions of her future; duty, honor, and necessity had always been the guiding principles. To have her father suddenly inquire about her emotional wellbeing was so unexpected that for a moment, she could only stare at him in confusion.
"I... I want what's best for our house," she finally managed, falling back on the safe response.
Count Galatea sighed, suddenly looking older than his years. "That's not an answer, my daughter." He hesitated, then added with uncharacteristic gentleness, "I saw you riding today, with the prince and the Fraldarius boy. You looked... free. It reminded me of how your mother used to look when she rode across our lands, before the soil turned barren and our concerns became so... pressing."
Ingrid swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat. Her mother had been gone for nearly a decade, taken by illness during a particularly harsh winter. The comparison was unexpected and oddly painful.
"I enjoy riding," she said simply, unsure how else to respond.
"You enjoy freedom," her father corrected quietly. "The open sky. The feeling of something powerful under your control, carrying you toward horizons of your own choosing. I see it in your eyes when you train in the yard, when you speak of knighthood." He paused, looking down at his hands—once strong and sure, now beginning to show the first signs of age. "I have asked much of you, Ingrid. Perhaps too much."
"You've asked what duty requires," Ingrid said, the words automatic, rehearsed, though they felt increasingly hollow each time she repeated them.
"Duty." Count Galatea repeated the word as if testing its weight, its substance. "Yes, we all have our duties. Mine is to ensure the survival of our house, the welfare of our people. Yours..."
He trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging incomplete between them. In the silence that followed, Ingrid found herself thinking of Joy Boy's outstretched hand, of the invitation it represented, of the question Dimitri had posed: What message might he have been trying to convey to you specifically?
"I want to be a knight," she said suddenly, the words escaping before she could reconsider them. "I always have. Not just because of Glenn, or childhood fancies, but because there's nothing that feels more right to me than protecting others, than standing between harm and those who cannot defend themselves." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet her father's gaze directly. "I understand our house needs me to marry well. I accept that duty. But I need... I need to know that some part of my dream can survive, too."
Count Galatea's expression was unreadable for several long moments. Then, with gentle fingers, he reached out to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear—a gesture so tender, so reminiscent of her childhood, that Ingrid felt tears threaten at the corners of her eyes.
"My brave daughter," he said softly. "Always so determined to carry burdens far heavier than you should bear at your age." He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I have been so focused on securing our house's future that perhaps I've lost sight of whose future I'm truly fighting for."
"Father?" Ingrid questioned, uncertain where this conversation was heading.
"Go to bed, Ingrid," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual firmness. "We'll speak more of this tomorrow. For now... for now, know that I am proud of you, regardless of whom you may eventually marry."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead—another gesture from her childhood that she had almost forgotten—and then turned to go, leaving Ingrid staring after him in bewildered silence.
When she finally entered her chamber and closed the door behind her, she found herself drawn once more to the window that overlooked the courtyard. The storm had passed, leaving the night sky washed clean, stars emerging between scattered clouds like diamonds spilled across black velvet. The full moon cast enough light to illuminate the puddles that still dotted the courtyard below, their surfaces mirror-calm now that the rain had ceased.
As she watched, one puddle's reflection seemed to shift, the moonlight in its depths coalescing into a familiar pair of golden eyes that winked once before dissolving back into ordinary ripples.
Ingrid gasped, pressing closer to the glass, but the momentary vision was gone. Yet the message—if it had indeed been a message rather than a trick of exhaustion and moonlight—lingered, as did her conversation with her father, and Dimitri's words about finding joy even in difficult times.
Perhaps Joy Boy's dance in the storm hadn't been merely about embracing momentary freedom or childlike abandon. Perhaps it had been about finding balance—between duty and desire, between obligation and aspiration, between the person others needed her to be and the person she longed to become.
Ingrid turned from the window and crossed to where her sword leaned against the wall. Picking it up, she moved through a simple practice form—smooth, controlled movements that required both strength and grace. In the moonlight streaming through her window, the blade caught and reflected the light, momentarily glowing with a hint of gold.
"I can be both," she whispered to the empty room, to the memory of Joy Boy's smiling invitation, to the future that stretched before her with all its complexities and contradictions. "Knight and noblewoman. Daughter and defender. I can honor my duty without sacrificing my dream."
She couldn't know if this was truly the message Joy Boy had intended to convey. She couldn't even be certain that what she had seen in the courtyard that stormy night was real and not some product of her imagination, her subconscious conjuring a symbolic representation of her inner conflict.
But as she continued her practice forms, moonlight gleaming on her blade and determination settling like armor around her heart, Ingrid found herself smiling—a genuine smile that contained both acknowledgment of the difficult path ahead and newfound resolve to walk it on her own terms.
Outside, the clouds parted fully, bathing Fhirdiad in silver light. And if anyone had been watching the courtyard at that precise moment, they might have glimpsed a flash of white, a hint of flame-like hair, a pair of golden eyes that observed the young knight-to-be with unmistakable approval before vanishing into the night—leaving nothing behind but a single perfect flower, luminous blue with a golden center, floating in a puddle directly beneath Ingrid's window.
Chapter 32: A Phantom in the Night
Summary:
Felix and his brother.
Chapter Text
Felix Fraldarius couldn't sleep. It had been three days since the news arrived that the diplomatic mission to Duscur had been attacked. Three days of uncertainty about his brother's fate. Three days of watching his father's face grow progressively more haggard as messengers came and went, bringing reports of casualties but no definitive word about Glenn.
In the stillness of his chamber, the young heir to House Fraldarius lay awake, staring at the ceiling as moonlight cast elongated shadows across the stone floor. At thirteen years old, Felix was no stranger to worry—his position as the second son of Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius had ensured that he understood the dangers knights faced from an early age. But this was different. This time, the gnawing fear in his stomach wouldn't subside.
Glenn was more than just his older brother. He was Felix's idol, his measuring stick, the standard against which he judged his own progress with a blade. Glenn was supposed to be invincible.
Outside, a cold wind howled against the castle walls, carrying with it the first hints of winter's approach. Felix pulled his blankets tighter, trying to ignore the persistent thought that somewhere, Glenn might be lying wounded or worse, with no shelter against the elements.
"He's fine," Felix whispered to himself, a ritual he had begun repeating whenever doubt threatened to overwhelm him. "He's the best swordsman in Faerghus. He's fine."
The words rang hollow in the empty room.
With a frustrated sigh, Felix threw off his covers and padded across the cold stone floor to the window. The Fraldarius estate sprawled below him, its buildings dark save for the occasional guard post. Beyond the walls, rolling hills disappeared into the night, the road to the capital barely visible in the moonlight.
That road should have brought messengers by now. It should have brought Glenn home.
Felix pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the pane. He'd overheard the servants whispering—about a massacre, about bodies too charred to identify, about the King's own life hanging in the balance. They fell silent whenever he entered a room, their pitying glances telling him everything he needed to know about Glenn's presumed fate.
But his father refused to believe the worst. "Glenn is resourceful," Duke Rodrigue had assured him just that morning, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his own fears. "We must have faith."
Faith. It seemed a flimsy thing to rely on when faced with reports of such carnage.
Felix was about to return to his futile attempt at sleep when something in the room changed. The air pressure shifted subtly, and the moonlight reflecting off the stone floor seemed to waver, as if passing through water.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Felix turned slowly, one hand instinctively reaching for the training sword that wasn't there.
What he saw froze him in place.
Glenn—or what appeared to be Glenn—was sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling wearily. His brother's familiar features were illuminated by an otherworldly light that seemed to emanate from within him rather than from any external source. There was a translucent quality to his form, as if Felix could see the wall behind him if he looked hard enough.
"Glenn?" Felix's voice came out barely above a whisper, cracking with disbelief.
His brother's smile widened. He raised a hand in greeting, the gesture so achingly familiar that Felix felt his knees weaken.
"Is this—" Felix swallowed hard. "Are you a ghost?"
Glenn shook his head, then gestured to his side where Felix noticed, for the first time, another figure.
The being sat calmly beside Glenn, regarding Felix with curious golden eyes that seemed to contain galaxies within them. Its hair rose upward like a pale flame, defying gravity, and a trail of cloud-like gas draped across its shoulders like a regal mantle. The being wore clothing of pure white that seemed to shift and flow as if alive.
Felix had heard stories of this entity—whispered accounts from traders, rumors among the servants, and stern warnings from Church officials. Joy Boy. The one some dared to call a god, though the Church of Seiros condemned such talk as heretical.
The being—Joy Boy—gave Felix a thumbs up, his smile radiating a warmth that seemed to penetrate directly into Felix's chest, momentarily displacing his fear with a strange sense of reassurance.
"I don't understand," Felix said, taking a tentative step forward. "What is happening? Are you really here?"
Glenn opened his mouth to speak, and though his lips moved, his voice seemed to come from very far away, as if traveling across a vast distance to reach Felix's ears.
"Only for a minute or two," Glenn's voice echoed strangely. "Joy Boy is helping me... reach you."
Felix moved closer, afraid that if he blinked, the apparition would vanish. "Everyone thinks you're dead," he blurted out, his usual stoicism forgotten in the shock of the moment.
Glenn shook his head. "Tell Father... I'm alive. Being cared for in Duscur. A family... the Molinaros. The blacksmith's son saved me."
Questions tumbled through Felix's mind faster than he could articulate them. He reached out, his fingers passing through Glenn's arm with nothing but a slight chill to mark the contact.
Glenn looked down at where Felix's hand had attempted to touch him, his expression momentarily sad before he continued. "It wasn't Duscur that attacked us. It was a conspiracy... from within the Kingdom. Father needs to know."
Felix nodded rapidly, committing every word to memory. "Are you hurt? When will you come home?"
"Still recovering," Glenn admitted. "Joy Boy healed the worst of it, but..." He gestured to his leg, where Felix could now see a dark stain that must have been blood. "The Molinaro family is taking care of me. The son—Dedue—he's about your age. Strong as an ox."
Joy Boy, who had been watching this exchange quietly, nodded in apparent agreement with Glenn's assessment of Dedue. The divine visitor pointed to Glenn, then made a gesture like hands cradling something precious, before directing his golden gaze back to Felix with that same reassuring smile.
"He's saying Dedue's family is protecting me," Glenn translated, though Felix wasn't entirely sure how his brother could interpret the being's silent communication. "They're good people, Felix. Remember that. Not what you'll hear people saying about Duscur."
The edges of Glenn's form seemed to waver, like a reflection disturbed by ripples in water. Joy Boy placed a gentle hand on Glenn's shoulder, and the momentary distortion stabilized.
"Not much time," Glenn said urgently. "Tell Father where to find me. The village of Moriah, central Duscur. The blacksmith's home near the eastern well."
Felix nodded again, fighting back unexpected tears. He had spent the last three days in a state of numb disbelief, refusing to cry even when alone. Now, faced with his brother's spectral form, the dam threatened to break.
"I will," he promised, his voice steadier than he felt. "We'll come for you."
Glenn's smile turned softer, more vulnerable than Felix was accustomed to seeing on his typically confident brother. "I love you, little brother. I'm proud of how strong you're being."
Before Felix could respond, Joy Boy stood, his movement graceful and somehow dissonant with normal human motion, as if he existed partially in another dimension. The divine visitor approached Felix, who found himself rooted to the spot, caught between fear and fascination.
Up close, Joy Boy's features were both youthful and ancient simultaneously, his expression playful yet knowing. He raised his hand and, with a gentleness that belied the obvious power contained within his form, tapped Felix once on the forehead.
A cascade of images flooded Felix's mind—a burning village, soldiers in Kingdom colors attacking civilians, Glenn fighting against his own comrades, a massive young man of Duscur carrying his wounded brother to safety, Joy Boy descending from the clouds in a blaze of golden light that froze the attackers in their tracks. The visions came too quickly to fully comprehend, yet Felix understood their meaning: the truth of what had happened in Duscur.
When the flood of images receded, Felix gasped, staggering slightly. Joy Boy stepped back, giving him another thumbs up before returning to Glenn's side.
"Felix," Glenn said, his voice growing fainter as his form began to fade, "don't let them twist this. Don't let them blame Duscur for what Kingdom nobles did."
"I won't," Felix promised fervently. "I'll tell Father everything."
Joy Boy made one final gesture—pointing to Felix, then to his heart, then outward toward the direction of Duscur—before both figures began to dissolve into motes of golden light.
The last thing Felix saw was his brother's smile before the room returned to normal, moonlight once again casting ordinary shadows across the stone floor.
For several long moments, Felix stood motionless, wondering if he had dreamed the entire encounter. But the lingering warmth on his forehead where Joy Boy had touched him and the crystal-clear memory of Glenn's instructions convinced him otherwise.
Moving with sudden purpose, Felix threw on his clothes and bolted from his room. The castle corridors were dark and quiet at this late hour, but he knew exactly where his father would be—in his study, as he had been every night since the news from Duscur arrived, poring over reports and dispatches by candlelight.
Felix didn't bother knocking. He pushed open the heavy oak door to find Rodrigue slumped over his desk, having finally succumbed to exhaustion. Maps of Duscur covered the surface, along with letters bearing the royal seal.
"Father," Felix called, shaking Rodrigue's shoulder. "Father, wake up!"
Rodrigue startled awake, blinking in confusion before focusing on his younger son. "Felix? What's wrong? It's the middle of the night."
"Glenn is alive," Felix declared without preamble. "I know where he is."
Rodrigue stared at him, grief and hope warring in his tired eyes. "Felix, I understand you want to believe—"
"No," Felix interrupted, something he rarely dared to do. "I saw him. Just now, in my room. Joy Boy brought him—or some version of him. Like a ghost, but not dead."
At the mention of Joy Boy, Rodrigue's expression changed from sympathetic concern to sharp attention. "What did you say?"
Felix took a deep breath and recounted everything exactly as it had happened—the strange visitation, Glenn's message, the visions Joy Boy had shared. As he spoke, Rodrigue rose from his chair, moving to stand by the window as if needing physical distance to process what he was hearing.
"The village of Moriah," Rodrigue repeated when Felix had finished. "The blacksmith's family. Molinaro."
"Yes," Felix confirmed. "Glenn said it wasn't Duscur that attacked the diplomatic party. It was a conspiracy from within the Kingdom."
Rodrigue turned to face his son, studying him with an intensity that would have made Felix uncomfortable under any other circumstances. "This is not something to fabricate, Felix. Even out of grief or hope."
"I'm not making it up," Felix replied, meeting his father's gaze steadily. "I saw them both. Joy Boy showed me visions of what really happened."
After a long moment, Rodrigue nodded, a decision clearly made. "We leave at first light," he declared, already moving toward the door. "I'll wake the captain of the guard. We'll need a small, fast-moving party—no more than ten men."
Felix followed his father into the hallway. "I'm coming with you."
Rodrigue paused, looking back at his son. Under normal circumstances, he might have refused, citing the potential dangers. But something in Felix's expression—a new steel that hadn't been there three days ago—seemed to give him pause.
"Very well," he agreed. "But you stay close to me at all times. If Glenn truly is alive and being sheltered in Duscur, we must handle this delicately. The situation is... politically volatile."
"I don't care about politics," Felix stated flatly. "I care about bringing Glenn home."
Rodrigue's expression softened momentarily. "As do I, son. As do I."
Dawn found them riding hard along the northern road, a small company of Fraldarius knights accompanying Rodrigue and Felix. They had dressed in inconspicuous traveling clothes rather than the distinctive blue and silver of House Fraldarius, hoping to avoid drawing attention as they crossed into Duscur territory.
Felix rode just behind his father, spine rigid despite the bone-jarring pace they maintained. He hadn't slept after the visitation, too keyed up with a mixture of hope and anxiety. Now, as the rising sun burned away the morning mist, he fought to keep his focus, replaying Glenn's words in his mind to maintain his determination.
The landscape gradually changed as they traveled northward—rolling hills giving way to rockier terrain, the vegetation becoming sparser and more hardy. By midday, they had crossed the unofficial border into Duscur, marked only by a change in the style of the occasional farmhouses they passed.
Rodrigue called for a brief rest to water the horses, using the opportunity to address the small company.
"We are guests in Duscur now," he reminded them, his voice low but carrying. "Whatever you may have heard about recent events, we will reserve judgment. Our mission is to locate my son, nothing more, nothing less."
The knights nodded, their expressions solemn. Many had trained alongside Glenn; all respected him as their future lord.
Felix, drinking deeply from his waterskin, observed the men's faces. There was skepticism there, underlying their obedience. They had heard the rumors—everyone had—of Duscur's supposed treachery. Yet they followed Rodrigue without question, a testament to the respect House Fraldarius commanded.
"Are we close?" Felix asked as they remounted, the brief rest having done little to alleviate his impatience.
Rodrigue consulted a rough map he had hastily commissioned before their departure. "The village of Moriah should be another two hours' ride northeast, assuming the roads remain passable."
The "roads" in question were little more than dirt tracks at this point, winding between scattered clusters of windswept trees. As they continued their journey, Felix noticed increasing signs of recent violence—abandoned carts, occasional scorch marks on trees, and once, ominously, a pile of discarded weapons half-hidden in a roadside ditch.
The knights grew tenser, hands never straying far from their swords. Felix felt the weight of his own training blade—a concession his father had made to his insistence on being prepared—against his hip.
"Something terrible happened here," Felix observed quietly, riding alongside his father as they passed a small shrine that had been desecrated, its carved wooden figures splintered and scattered.
Rodrigue's jaw tightened. "Yes. And I fear we have only begun to understand the true scope of it."
The village of Moriah appeared on the horizon shortly after midday—or what remained of it. Even from a distance, the signs of destruction were evident: collapsed roofs, walls blackened by fire, fields trampled by the passage of many feet.
Felix felt his stomach twist with dread. If the village had been this thoroughly attacked, what hope was there that the blacksmith's family—and Glenn—had survived?
Rodrigue must have harbored similar fears, for he urged his horse to a faster pace as they approached the settlement.
As they drew closer, however, Felix noted signs of recovery amid the devastation. People moved among the damaged structures, clearing debris and rebuilding. Temporary shelters had been erected in what once might have been a central square. What caught his attention most, however, was a banner flying above the largest of these temporary structures—an open hand, palm upward.
"The Liberator's Hand," Rodrigue identified the emblem, surprise evident in his voice. "A trading company from the Alliance. What are they doing here?"
They received their answer upon entering the village proper. Men and women in the distinctive garb of merchants worked alongside Duscur natives, distributing supplies and coordinating reconstruction efforts. At the appearance of armed riders, several locals stopped their work, watching warily.
A broad-shouldered man with russet hair streaked with gray detached himself from a group of workers and approached them, his posture cautious but not outright hostile.
"State your business, travelers," he called, one hand resting casually on the pommel of a short sword at his hip. "We've had our fill of uninvited visitors lately."
Rodrigue dismounted smoothly, motioning for the knights to remain on their horses. Felix, ignoring his father's implied instruction, dismounted as well, standing at Rodrigue's side.
"I am Rodrigue Fraldarius," his father introduced himself without artifice. "I seek news of my son, Glenn, who we have reason to believe survived the recent attack and is being cared for in this village."
The man's expression changed at the name, recognition and wariness warring in his features. "Fraldarius. The Shield's son." It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Rodrigue confirmed. "We mean no harm to anyone here. I only wish to find my son."
The man studied them for a long moment before nodding once. "I'm Miklan, leader of The Liberator's Hand. We arrived shortly after the attack to provide aid." His gaze shifted to Felix. "And this would be the younger brother Glenn spoke of?"
Felix's heart leapt at this confirmation that Glenn was indeed alive and had mentioned him. "Where is he?" he demanded, stepping forward. "Where's my brother?"
"Felix," Rodrigue cautioned, placing a restraining hand on his son's shoulder.
Miklan's stern expression softened slightly. "The boy's concern does him credit." He turned, gesturing for them to follow. "This way. The Molinaro family has been caring for him. Their home was one of the few that survived the worst of the destruction."
As they followed Miklan through the village, Felix took in the extent of the damage with growing horror. Some buildings were nothing more than charred ruins, others stood with walls partially collapsed. Yet amid the destruction, there was purposeful activity—people working together to salvage what could be saved, to rebuild what couldn't.
They approached a solid stone building set slightly apart from the others, its walls blackened by smoke but largely intact. A workshop adjoined the main structure, its forge apparently still operational judging by the smoke rising from the chimney.
Miklan knocked on the door, calling out in a language Felix didn't understand—presumably the native tongue of Duscur. After a moment, the door opened to reveal a woman with silver-streaked dark hair and keen eyes that assessed the newcomers quickly.
"Amalie," Miklan said in the common tongue, "Lord Rodrigue Fraldarius has come seeking his son."
The woman—Amalie—nodded in understanding. "We have been expecting you," she said, her accent thick but her words clear. "Joy Boy indicated you would come."
Felix couldn't contain himself any longer. "Is Glenn here? Is he alright?"
Amalie's expression warmed as she looked at Felix. "Yes, young one. Your brother is here and improving daily." She stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. "Come. He will be overjoyed to see you."
The interior of the home was modest but well-kept, with sturdy wooden furniture and walls adorned with woven tapestries in the geometric patterns characteristic of Duscur craftsmanship. The scent of medicinal herbs hung in the air, mingling with the more mundane aromas of cooking and woodsmoke.
Amalie led them through a short hallway to a room at the back of the house. She knocked once before opening the door, revealing a simple chamber with a window overlooking a small herb garden.
On a bed beneath the window lay Glenn, propped up on pillows, his leg heavily bandaged. Beside him sat an enormous young man who could only be the blacksmith's son Dedue—his massive frame making the chair he occupied seem almost comically small.
For a moment, Felix stood frozen in the doorway, the reality of seeing his brother alive overwhelming him after days of fearing the worst. Glenn was paler than Felix had ever seen him, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but unmistakably, gloriously alive.
"Felix?" Glenn's voice was weaker than in the spectral visitation, but held the same warmth. "Father?"
Rodrigue moved first, crossing the room in three long strides to embrace his elder son carefully, mindful of his injuries. "Glenn. Thank the goddess."
Felix remained rooted in place, suddenly unsure. The young man beside Glenn's bed—Dedue—rose to his feet, his height and breadth even more impressive standing than sitting.
"I will give you privacy," Dedue offered, his deep voice surprisingly gentle for someone of such imposing stature.
The movement broke Felix's paralysis. He rushed forward as Dedue stepped aside, practically throwing himself at his brother. Glenn winced slightly at the impact but returned the embrace fiercely.
"You came," Glenn murmured, one hand coming up to ruffle Felix's hair as he had done since they were children. "I wasn't sure if Joy Boy's projection would work."
"Of course we came," Felix replied, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. "I told you we would."
Over Glenn's shoulder, Felix caught sight of Dedue watching from near the door, his expression unreadable. This was the person Glenn had mentioned—the blacksmith's son who had saved him. The one Joy Boy had entrusted with Glenn's care.
Felix pulled back from the embrace, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand before turning to face Dedue directly. "Thank you," he said simply. "For helping my brother."
Dedue seemed momentarily surprised by the direct acknowledgment. He inclined his head in a respectful nod. "Joy Boy brought him to us. I merely followed his guidance."
Rodrigue, who had been examining Glenn's injuries with a father's worried eye, looked up at this. "This Joy Boy... he intervened directly in the attack? You saw him?"
"Everyone saw him," Glenn confirmed, shifting to a more comfortable position with a grimace. "He descended from the clouds like something out of a legend, stopped the soldiers in their tracks. I was already wounded by then, fighting against my own comrades who had turned on the civilians." He paused, his expression darkening with the memory. "It wasn't Duscur, Father. It was a planned coup—certain Kingdom nobles working with the Royal Mage, Cornelia."
Rodrigue's expression hardened. "I suspected as much when reports began to conflict. Some claimed the King had been killed, others that he had escaped. The lack of clear information reeked of deliberate confusion."
"The King lives," Dedue spoke up from his position by the door. "He was here, in this village, three days ago. He has declared Duscur under his personal protection while the conspiracy is investigated."
This news appeared to both relieve and trouble Rodrigue. "Then the situation is even more complex than I feared. If the King himself is involved, this goes beyond a simple diplomatic incident."
"It's genocide, Father," Glenn said bluntly. "Or it would have been, if Joy Boy hadn't intervened. They meant to wipe Duscur from the map and blame them for the King's assassination—a perfect pretext for annexing the territory completely."
Felix listened to this exchange with growing confusion and anger. The politics were beyond his immediate understanding, but the basic injustice was clear enough: innocent people had been attacked for political gain, his brother nearly killed in the process.
"We should bring you home," Felix interjected. "You can heal properly at Fraldarius territory."
Glenn exchanged a look with Dedue before responding. "I'm not sure that's wise yet, Felix. Those behind the conspiracy still have power in the Kingdom. My testimony about what really happened could put me in danger." He gestured to his bandaged leg. "Besides, I'm not exactly in condition for a long journey."
"Then we'll stay here until you are," Felix declared, unwilling to be separated from his brother again so soon after finding him alive.
Rodrigue placed a calming hand on Felix's shoulder. "We cannot all remain indefinitely. I must return to coordinate with His Majesty and those nobles we can trust." He looked to Dedue and Amalie, who had returned to stand quietly in the doorway. "But perhaps Felix could stay, if the Molinaro family is willing. He could help with Glenn's care, and it would ease my mind to have family watching over my son."
Felix held his breath, surprised and hopeful at his father's suggestion. The prospect of remaining in this strange land, among people so different from those he knew, was both daunting and somehow exciting.
Amalie and Dedue conferred briefly in their native tongue before Amalie nodded. "The younger brother is welcome to stay. We have room, and another pair of hands is always useful in times of rebuilding."
Felix felt a surge of gratitude toward these strangers who had already done so much for his family. "I can help," he assured them. "I'm stronger than I look."
Dedue's serious expression flickered with what might have been amusement. "I do not doubt it. You have the look of a fighter, like your brother."
"The best compliment you could give him," Glenn remarked with a weak laugh. "Felix has been trying to catch up to me with a sword since he could walk."
The conversation continued, arrangements made for Felix's extended stay and plans laid for maintaining secure communication between Duscur and Fraldarius territory. Throughout it all, Felix found his attention returning to Dedue—this quiet, massive youth who had apparently followed the direction of a divine being to save his brother's life.
Later, as Rodrigue prepared to depart with the knights, promising to return with reinforcements once he had conferred with the King, Felix found himself momentarily alone with Dedue in the herb garden behind the house.
"Did you see him too?" Felix asked abruptly. "Joy Boy, I mean. Not just during the attack, but... after?"
Dedue looked at him curiously. "Yes. He visits sometimes, though never for long. He seems particularly interested in Glenn's recovery." The larger boy hesitated before adding, "And in you, I think."
"In me?" Felix frowned. "Why would he care about me?"
Dedue shrugged his massive shoulders. "Joy Boy's purposes are not always clear at first. But he sees connections—between people, between events—that others miss. If he brought Glenn's spirit to you that night, it was because you are part of whatever path he is creating."
Felix considered this, unsure how to feel about being part of some divine being's plans. He had been raised in the traditions of the Church of Seiros, which regarded Joy Boy as, at best, a benevolent but lesser spirit, and at worst, a heretical intrusion into the established order.
Yet there was no denying what he had seen with his own eyes, both in his bedroom at Castle Fraldarius and here in Duscur—the aftermath of Joy Boy's intervention, lives saved, his brother among them.
"He doesn't speak," Felix observed. "How does anyone know what he wants?"
"He communicates in other ways," Dedue replied. "Through gestures, through the feelings he imparts with his touch. Sometimes through visions." He regarded Felix thoughtfully. "You saw something when he touched you, didn't you? The night he brought Glenn's spirit to you."
Felix nodded slowly. "I saw... the attack. Glenn fighting to protect people. You carrying him to safety." He paused, the memory still vivid. "And Joy Boy himself, coming down from the clouds, stopping the soldiers with just his presence."
"He showed you truth," Dedue said simply. "That is one of his gifts—cutting through deception to reveal what actually is."
There was something appealing about this directness, this clarity of purpose. Felix, who had always valued straightforwardness over diplomacy, found himself warming to both Dedue and the strange deity he described.
"I'm going to stay and help Glenn recover," Felix stated, making the decision final in his own mind. "And I'm going to learn the truth about what happened here."
Dedue nodded, approval evident in his expression. "Truth is a worthy pursuit. As is standing by family." He extended a hand—not the formal gesture of Faerghus nobility, but the simple clasp of one young warrior to another. "Welcome to Duscur, Felix Fraldarius."
Felix accepted the handshake, feeling the calluses on Dedue's palm that spoke of hours at the forge, so similar to the ones he himself had earned through sword practice. Different worlds, different paths, yet somehow connected—by Glenn, by circumstance, and perhaps by the silent deity with golden eyes who had brought them together.
As they returned to the house, Felix caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision—a brief dance of white among the herb plants, there and gone too quickly to be certain. But the momentary sense of warmth that accompanied it left him with the distinct impression that Joy Boy was watching, and that he approved.
Chapter 33: The Silent Muse
Summary:
Ten-year-old Ignatz Victor's life changes forever during Leicester's Spring Festival when he encounters the enigmatic Joy Boy dancing unnoticed among the crowd. Torn between his merchant family's expectations and his secret passion for art, Ignatz finds unexpected inspiration when the mysterious white-haired youth draws a simple but profound image in the dirt. As Ignatz navigates his parents' disapproval of his artistic pursuits and struggles with his own self-doubt, this chance meeting plants the seed of courage that will shape his future path. Five years before his enrollment at the Officers Academy, this pivotal childhood memory reveals how a silent encounter gave voice to Ignatz's deepest aspirations.
Chapter Text
The Spring Festival in Leicester was always Ignatz Victor's favorite day of the year. It wasn't the sweet honey cakes his mother let him eat until his stomach ached, or the cheerful music that filled the village square, or even the rare opportunity to stay awake past his usual bedtime. No, what Ignatz loved most was the colors—vibrant banners fluttering above the marketplace, rainbow garlands draped between buildings, and the kaleidoscope of clothing as villagers abandoned their usual practical browns and grays for their brightest finery.
"Ignatz, keep up!" his mother called, her hand firmly grasping his younger brother's wrist as they navigated through the crowded market square. "Your father is counting on us to help at the stall before midday."
"Yes, Mother," Ignatz replied dutifully, quickening his small steps despite the overwhelming urge to stop and stare at everything around him.
At ten years old, Ignatz Victor was small for his age, with thin limbs that seemed perpetually tangled in whatever task he was assigned. Wire-framed spectacles perched on his nose—a rarity for a child in their village, but necessary since he'd begun squinting at objects more than an arm's length away. His hair, a light green that caught the sunlight in interesting ways, was neatly combed in anticipation of meeting important customers at his family's stall.
The Victors were respected merchants in Leicester, their business focused primarily on specialty inks, pigments, and papers imported from across Fódlan. It was steady, respectable work that had supported their family for generations—and would one day be Ignatz's responsibility, as his parents frequently reminded him.
His father had already set up their stall near the center of the market square, arranging bottles of richly colored inks in neat rows and stacking reams of paper from the finest mills in the Alliance. Nearby, the Kirsten family's much larger display of textiles and spices dominated one corner of the square. Raphael, five years Ignatz's senior and already broader than most grown men, was helping his father hoist a protective awning over their goods.
"Good morning, Victor family!" Mr. Kirsten called jovially, waving a massive hand in their direction. "Beautiful day for the festival, isn't it?"
"Indeed it is," Ignatz's father replied, always genial with business associates. "I see you've brought your full inventory. Expecting good sales?"
As the adults fell into comfortable conversation about market prices and seasonal trading routes, Ignatz's attention drifted. His hand slipped into the pocket of his best festival tunic, fingers brushing against the folded piece of paper and stub of charcoal he'd smuggled out of the house. Drawing at the festival would earn him a stern lecture about proper priorities, but the urge to capture the day's vibrant scenes was nearly irresistible.
"Ignatz," his mother's voice cut through his thoughts, "arrange those ledgers on the display table, please. And mind you don't smudge the covers."
"Yes, Mother," he said, reaching for the stack of bound volumes with careful hands.
His father gave him an appraising look. "Perhaps this year you can try your hand at serving customers. You need to develop confidence if you're to take over the business someday."
Ignatz nodded, trying to ignore the heavy feeling that settled in his stomach whenever the future was mentioned. The merchant's life was respectable, practical, secure—everything his parents valued. But when Ignatz imagined himself grown and standing behind this same stall decades from now, something inside him withered like a flower deprived of light.
"I can help," he said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. "Should I arrange the sample cards?"
The sample cards were small squares of paper, each displaying a different ink color from their inventory. Arranging them gave Ignatz secret pleasure—organizing the colors from deepest midnight blue to palest turquoise, from rich burgundy to delicate rose. Sometimes, when his parents were occupied, he would mix samples on scrap paper, watching with fascination as crimson and ochre blended into sunset orange, or ultramarine and umber created a perfect storm-cloud gray.
As the morning progressed, Ignatz dutifully assisted his parents, fetching items for customers and carefully wrapping purchases. But his eyes continually drifted to the festivities unfolding throughout the square—dancers twirling to the lively music, children playing games with painted wooden hoops, elders sharing stories beneath flowering trees planted specifically to celebrate the goddess's bounty.
"Mother," he asked during a lull between customers, "might I have a short break? Just to stretch my legs?"
His mother glanced around the stall, assessing their workload. "Very well, but return before the midday bell. Your father will need help when the noble families arrive to make their purchases."
Freedom granted, Ignatz slipped away from the stall, weaving between festival-goers with practiced ease. His destination was a small, quiet corner of the square where several oak trees provided shade from the increasingly warm spring sun. It was his favorite spot—secluded enough to grant privacy yet close enough to observe all the festival's colorful activity.
Settling against a tree trunk, Ignatz extracted his smuggled paper and charcoal. For a moment, he simply watched the scene before him, deciding what to capture first. Should it be the dancers with their swirling skirts? The jugglers tossing colored balls high into the air? Or perhaps the flower-crowned children running between stalls?
He had just begun sketching the outline of the central pavilion when movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Ignatz adjusted his spectacles, blinking to ensure his eyes weren't deceiving him.
Among the crowd, a figure danced—but not with the organized steps of the festival performers. This dance was fluid and improvisational, as natural as wind moving through grass. The dancer spun and weaved between festival-goers with extraordinary grace, yet strangely, no one seemed to notice him.
And it was definitely a him, Ignatz realized with growing fascination. A youth who appeared perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, with a slender build and movements that defied the normal constraints of human limbs. But what truly captured Ignatz's attention was the dancer's appearance—hair like white flame that moved and flickered despite the still air, garments of pure white that somehow repelled the dust of the festival ground, and most remarkably, eyes that glowed with golden light.
"Joy Boy," Ignatz whispered, his charcoal forgotten in his suddenly trembling hand.
The stories had been circulating through Leicester for months now—tales of a silent youth with impossible abilities who appeared to those in need. Some called him a spirit, others a demigod, while the more practical villagers insisted he must be a particularly skilled mage from some distant land. Whatever the truth, sightings were rare enough that many dismissed them as fanciful rumors.
Yet there he was, dancing through the festival crowd, a figure of impossible grace and otherworldly beauty. As Ignatz watched, transfixed, Joy Boy spun between a merchant and his customer without either noticing his presence. He leaped over a sleeping dog without disturbing a single hair on its body. He weaved through a ring of playing children who continued their game without acknowledging the extraordinary being in their midst.
"Why can't they see him?" Ignatz murmured to himself, instinctively ducking lower behind his tree when Joy Boy's golden gaze swept across the square.
Then those impossible eyes locked directly with his.
Ignatz froze, his breath catching in his throat. Joy Boy's dance paused mid-step, his head tilting slightly as he regarded the small boy hiding behind the oak tree. A smile bloomed across his face—not the practiced smile of adults humoring a child, but something radiantly genuine that seemed to brighten the very air around him.
And then, to Ignatz's astonishment, Joy Boy changed direction and began moving directly toward him.
Panic fluttered in Ignatz's chest. Should he run? Call out to his parents? But curiosity and wonder overcame his fear, rooting him to the spot as the extraordinary being approached his hiding place with flowing, dance-like steps.
Joy Boy stopped a few paces away, his white flame-hair rippling gently despite the absence of wind. He offered Ignatz a friendly wave, then made an exaggerated show of peering at the partially completed sketch still clutched in the boy's hand.
"I—I was just drawing the festival," Ignatz explained nervously, unsure why he felt compelled to justify himself to this silent visitor. "My parents don't really approve, but I like to capture things I see." He hesitated, then added in a smaller voice, "They say art is just a hobby, not something serious people devote time to."
Joy Boy's expression shifted to something Ignatz couldn't quite identify—part sympathy, part mischief. He crouched down to Ignatz's eye level and pointed at the sketch, then gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up, his golden eyes crinkling with genuine appreciation.
"You... like it?" Ignatz asked, surprised and pleased despite himself.
Joy Boy nodded vigorously, then held out his hand in a clear request.
After a moment's hesitation, Ignatz handed over his charcoal stub. "Do you want to draw something too?"
Instead of using Ignatz's paper, Joy Boy turned to a patch of bare earth beside the tree. With graceful movements, he began sketching in the dirt. His lines were swift and confident, creating shapes that quickly merged into a recognizable image—a radiant sun with pronounced rays, shining down upon a small stick figure. The figure—clearly meant to represent Ignatz with its small stature and a suggestion of spectacles—held something in its hand.
"Is that... a paintbrush?" Ignatz asked, leaning closer to study the drawing.
Joy Boy nodded, pointing from the drawing to Ignatz and back again with an encouraging smile.
"Me? As a painter?" The concept seemed both thrilling and impossible. "But my parents want me to be a merchant. They say the business has been in our family for generations."
Joy Boy's response was to tap his own chest directly over his heart, then gesture to Ignatz's chest with a questioning tilt of his head.
The meaning was unmistakable even to a ten-year-old: What does your heart want?
Ignatz swallowed hard, unaccustomed to being asked such a profound question. Adults typically told him what he should want, what was practical, what was expected. But in the golden gaze of this strange visitor, he found himself answering with painful honesty.
"I want to paint," he admitted in a whisper, as if speaking a forbidden truth. "Not just sketches or copies, but real paintings that show people how beautiful the world is. I want to capture all the colors and shapes and feelings that I see." His voice grew stronger, warmed by his own conviction. "I want to be an artist."
Joy Boy's smile widened into something radiant. He pointed to the sun in his drawing, then to Ignatz, and made a gesture of something growing taller and stronger.
"You think I could?" Ignatz asked, hope blooming in his chest. "You think I could really be an artist someday?"
The silent youth nodded with absolute certainty, then pressed his palm flat against the earth beside his drawing. When he lifted his hand, a tiny green sprout had impossibly pushed through the packed festival ground. Joy Boy pointed to the sprout, then to Ignatz's heart, and finally to the stick figure beneath the shining sun.
The message was clear: Like a seed needs sunlight, your talent needs nurturing to grow.
"But my parents..." Ignatz began, the familiar weight of expectation settling back onto his small shoulders.
Joy Boy's expression grew thoughtful. He added to his dirt drawing, sketching what appeared to be a winding path leading from the stick figure toward an uncertain horizon. Along the path, he drew small obstacles—rocks, perhaps, or challenges. Then he drew a second stick figure further along the path, taller than the first but unmistakably the same person, still holding the paintbrush but now standing before an easel.
"A journey," Ignatz interpreted, studying the illustration with growing understanding. "You're saying it won't be easy or straightforward, but I can still get there?"
A confirming nod, accompanied by a gesture that somehow conveyed both patience and determination.
"I don't have to choose right now," Ignatz realized aloud. "I can learn my parents' business but keep practicing my art too. And maybe someday..."
Joy Boy placed a gentle hand on Ignatz's shoulder—the first physical contact between them—and Ignatz gasped softly at the sensation. It wasn't quite like being touched by another person; there was an ethereal quality to it, like being brushed by sunlight given solid form.
In that touch, Ignatz felt a certainty he couldn't explain: his path would not be direct, but if he remained true to the spark within him, he would find his way eventually.
The distant toll of the midday bell shattered the moment. Ignatz jumped to his feet, suddenly remembering his promise. "I have to go! My parents will be looking for me."
Joy Boy stood as well, his movements fluid and graceful. He pointed to his dirt drawing once more, then mimed the action of tucking something precious into Ignatz's heart.
"I won't forget," Ignatz promised, gathering his sketching materials hurriedly. "Thank you, Joy Boy."
The mysterious youth bowed slightly, his white flame-hair cascading forward like a living curtain. When he straightened, he pointed to himself, then to Ignatz, and then held up five fingers before spreading his hands wide in a gesture that somehow suggested the broader world.
"You think we'll meet again?" Ignatz guessed. "In five... years? When I'm older?"
Joy Boy's smile turned enigmatic, neither confirming nor denying this interpretation. He simply raised one hand in farewell, then spun on his heel and danced back toward the festival crowd, his form seeming to grow less substantial with each step.
By the time Ignatz reached the edge of the trees, Joy Boy had vanished entirely, leaving no trace of his presence except for the drawing in the dirt—a drawing that Ignatz knew would be erased by the trampling feet of festival-goers long before evening fell.
"Ignatz! There you are!" His mother's voice cut through his thoughts. "The Gloucester representative has arrived to place their seasonal order. Your father needs you at the stall immediately."
"Coming, Mother," he replied automatically, casting one last glance toward the spot where Joy Boy had disappeared.
For the remainder of the festival day, Ignatz performed his duties with outward diligence, but inwardly, his mind kept returning to the strange encounter and the dirt drawing that had spoken directly to his secret dreams. Each time he handed a customer a bottle of ink or a ream of paper, he imagined these tools in his own hands, creating art instead of merely facilitating it for others.
As twilight fell and his family began packing up their unsold merchandise, Ignatz found himself studying his father with new eyes.
"A good day's business," Mr. Victor was saying to Mr. Kirsten as they compared sales figures. "Though I notice your silk prices continue to undercut mine on specialty papers."
"Supply and demand, my friend," Mr. Kirsten laughed, his booming voice carrying across the now-emptying square. "Perhaps next season we should consider a joint venture. Your inks, my textile dyes?"
The men continued their good-natured bargaining while Ignatz carefully wrapped leftover ink bottles in protective cloth. Nearby, Raphael was effortlessly hoisting crates that would have taken two normal men to lift.
"Need any help with those, Ignatz?" the older boy called, noticing him struggling with a particularly awkward box.
"I've got it," Ignatz insisted, not wanting to appear weak despite his arms already beginning to tremble from the weight.
Raphael chuckled and took the box anyway, adding it to his own stack with ease. "No shame in asking for help when you need it. That's what my father always says."
"Thanks," Ignatz mumbled, both grateful and slightly embarrassed. "You're really strong."
"And you're really smart," Raphael countered without hesitation. "My father says your family's ledger system is the best in Leicester. Says you'll make a fine merchant someday."
The familiar weight settled in Ignatz's stomach again, but this time, it felt slightly different—less crushing, more like a challenge to be faced rather than a sentence to be served.
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. Then, gathering his courage, he added, "Did you always know you wanted to follow in your father's footsteps, Raphael?"
The older boy considered this seriously. "I guess I never really thought about doing anything else. I'm good at lifting things, talking to people. Merchant work suits me." He gave Ignatz a curious look. "Why? Do you have other ideas?"
Ignatz hesitated, Joy Boy's dirt drawing vivid in his mind. "I like to draw," he admitted quietly. "And paint, when I can get colors. I'm not very good yet, but..."
"I bet you're better than you think," Raphael said with characteristic generosity. "You notice details others miss. That probably helps with art, right?"
Before Ignatz could respond, his father called him to help load their cart for the journey home. But Raphael's casual acceptance lingered in his mind, a small additional ray of light reinforcing Joy Boy's encouraging message.
That night, in the quiet of his shared bedroom while his younger brother slept soundly in the adjacent bed, Ignatz carefully removed the folded paper from his pocket. His festival sketch remained unfinished, but on the reverse side, he began a new drawing from memory—Joy Boy's dirt illustration, with its shining sun and stick figure artist.
It wasn't an exact replica; his childish skills couldn't capture the fluid grace of Joy Boy's lines. But it preserved the essence of the message, and that was what mattered.
As he worked by the dim light of a single candle, careful not to wake his brother, Ignatz found himself adding details absent from the original—small flowers growing along the path, clouds shaped like paintbrushes in the sky above, and most significantly, a second figure standing beside the artist. This addition was tall and strong, with flame-like hair and an encouraging smile.
"A guardian spirit," Ignatz whispered to himself, the idea taking root in his imagination. Not a god, as some claimed, but perhaps something just as powerful—a messenger or guide who appeared when most needed, offering silent wisdom to those at crossroads.
When the drawing was complete, Ignatz studied it with critical eyes. It was childish, certainly, lacking the technical skill he aspired to develop. Yet it contained something genuine—a spark of inspiration and hope that felt more valuable than technical perfection.
Carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it between the pages of his prayer book, where it would remain hidden from casual discovery. Then, settling into bed, he found himself imagining conversations with Joy Boy—questions he might ask if given another chance, techniques he might learn from watching those fluid, precise movements.
"Five years," he murmured, recalling Joy Boy's five outstretched fingers. "I wonder where I'll be then. If I'll be any closer to becoming an artist."
The practical part of his mind—the part that sounded much like his father—reminded him that five years would still find him helping at the family stall, learning accounting methods and inventory management, preparing to eventually take over the business.
But now, alongside that pragmatic future, another possibility existed—a sun-drenched path with challenges to overcome and growth to achieve. Not an easy path, perhaps not even a likely one, but visible now where it had been unimaginable before.
Ignatz removed his spectacles and placed them carefully beside his bed. Without them, the world lost its sharp edges, transforming into shapes and colors that blended softly into one another. There was something appealing about this blurred vision—it forced him to see essences rather than details, feelings rather than facts.
"Thank you," he whispered into the darkness, unsure if Joy Boy could hear him but feeling the need to express his gratitude nonetheless. "I'll remember what you showed me."
Sleep came gradually, and with it, dreams filled with dancing figures and drawings that came to life beneath a radiant sun. In these dreams, Ignatz held brushes that never trembled, creating images that captured not just what the world looked like, but how it felt to experience its beauty with an open heart.
He awoke the next morning to his mother's call, the ordinary demands of daily life quickly reasserting themselves. There were chores to complete, lessons to attend, merchant skills to practice. The magic of the festival—and his extraordinary encounter—receded like morning mist before the sun.
Yet something had changed within him. As he dressed and prepared for the day, Ignatz found himself noticing things differently—the precise shade of morning light filtering through his window, the interesting pattern of shadows cast by his water pitcher, the geometric precision of the floorboards beneath his feet. Each observation he mentally cataloged as something to remember, to perhaps capture in a future drawing.
Over breakfast, his father discussed plans for expanding their paper inventory to include products from eastern Fódlan, potentially requiring a longer trading journey the following spring.
"You'll come along, Ignatz," he announced, buttering his bread with businesslike efficiency. "You're old enough now to learn the negotiation aspects of our trade. Important skills for your future."
"Yes, Father," Ignatz replied dutifully, though internally, his thoughts diverged in an unexpected direction: Eastern Fódlan would mean new landscapes, different architecture, unfamiliar faces—all wonderful subjects for sketching, if he could find moments of privacy during the journey.
This dual perspective—seeing through both the merchant's practical lens and the artist's appreciative one—felt strange but not impossible. Perhaps, Ignatz reflected as he helped clear the breakfast dishes, this was the beginning of the path Joy Boy had drawn—learning to balance obligation with aspiration, responsibility with passion.
Later that day, as he sorted through leftover festival inventory in the family storeroom, Ignatz discovered a small wooden box that had been missed during unpacking. Opening it revealed six pots of pigment—vibrant colors that ordinarily would have been displayed prominently at their stall.
"Father," he called, carrying the box to where his father was updating their ledger. "I found these in the storeroom. They must have been overlooked yesterday."
His father frowned at the box. "Odd. These should have been with our primary display." He examined each pot carefully. "They appear undamaged, thankfully. These are premium pigments from the Adrestian Empire, quite valuable."
"They're beautiful colors," Ignatz observed, unable to keep the admiration from his voice as he gazed at the rich azure blue, deep vermilion red, and sunny golden yellow among others.
His father gave him a considering look. "You've always had a good eye for color." After a moment's thought, he added, "Perhaps you should prepare some sample cards with these. Show customers how the pigments appear when applied to different papers."
Ignatz felt his heart leap. "You mean... I could actually paint with them? To make samples?"
"Nothing elaborate," his father cautioned, mistaking his son's excitement for frivolity. "Simple, even application to demonstrate the color quality. This is business, Ignatz, not playtime."
"Of course, Father. I understand."
But as he carried the precious pigments to his workspace, Ignatz couldn't suppress the small, secret smile that curved his lips. Business or not, he would be painting—creating something with his own hands using professional-quality materials. It was a small step, perhaps, but definitely a step along the winding path Joy Boy had drawn in the dirt.
As he carefully arranged brushes and prepared squares of different papers, Ignatz found himself wondering if the overlooked box of pigments was truly an accident. The timing seemed almost too perfect—as if someone had arranged this opportunity for him.
"Did you do this?" he whispered, glancing toward the window as if Joy Boy might be watching from outside. No white-haired figure appeared, of course, but Ignatz couldn't shake the feeling that yesterday's encounter had set something in motion—subtle shifts in his perspective that were already changing how he approached his daily life.
Taking up a brush, he dipped it carefully into the azure pigment and brought it to the first sample card. The color flowed smoothly onto the paper, creating a perfect rectangle of blue that reminded him of the sky above the festival grounds.
For now, this would be enough—small moments of creativity tucked within his duties, seeds planted that might one day grow into something more. Five years was a long time when you were only ten, after all. Much could change. Much could be learned.
As the afternoon sun streamed through the storeroom window, catching the pigments and transforming them into jewel-like capsules of pure color, Ignatz recalled Joy Boy's radiant smile and encouraging gestures. He might never become a renowned artist, might never escape the path his parents had chosen for him entirely, but the possibility now existed—a sun-drenched alternative glimpsed through the silent wisdom of an extraordinary encounter.
And for today, that glimpse of possibility was enough to make Ignatz's brush move with newfound purpose across the sample cards, each stroke a tiny affirmation of the secret dream he now carried in his heart—a dream illustrated in dirt by flame-haired Joy Boy, preserved on paper, and slowly taking root in the fertile soil of his imagination.
Chapter 34: The Melody of Courage
Summary:
In which Annette Fantine Dominic struggles with her perfectionism at the Royal School of Sorcery, finding herself overwhelmed by her desire to live up to her father's legacy. After a disastrous magical accident in the library threatens to crush her spirit, an unexpected encounter with the mystical Joy Boy teaches her that there is strength in vulnerability and that some of life's most beautiful melodies are born from imperfection.
Chapter Text
Annette Fantine Dominic had always believed that if she simply worked hard enough, success would inevitably follow. It was a principle that guided her every waking moment at the Royal School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad—from sunrise study sessions to midnight candle-burning, from meticulous notes to exhaustive practice. Work hard, succeed, make Father proud. The formula seemed so straightforward.
Yet as she stared at the complex transmutation circle sketched on parchment before her, chalk dust coating her fingertips and frustration mounting in her chest, that simple equation felt increasingly flawed.
"Focus, Annette," she whispered to herself, tucking a wayward strand of orange hair behind her ear. "Just concentrate harder."
The Royal School of Sorcery's library stretched around her in magnificent solemnity, its vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow above towering bookshelves. Ancient tomes of magical theory lined the walls, their leather spines bearing the weight of centuries of accumulated knowledge. The air hung heavy with the scent of parchment, ink, and the subtle, tingling aroma of residual magic—a fragrance Annette normally found comforting but which today only heightened her anxiety.
At thirteen years old, Annette was one of the youngest students admitted to the advanced practical magic seminar. Her natural aptitude for spellcasting—enhanced by the Crest of Dominic that occasionally manifested in her blood—had earned her the opportunity. But opportunity meant expectations, and expectations were something Annette felt crushing down upon her slender shoulders with every passing day.
She sighed, examining her diagram once more. Professor Eloise had assigned their class to master the principles of elemental transmutation—specifically, the channeling of magical energy to transform one basic element into another. Most students were working with simple transformations: earth to water, water to air. But Annette, ever determined to excel, had chosen something far more complex: the transmutation of air into controlled fire, with subsequent transformation into water.
"A triple elemental shift," Professor Eloise had warned when Annette proposed it, her stern features softening momentarily with concern. "Most mages with decades of experience wouldn't attempt such a complex transformation without extensive preparation."
"I understand, Professor," Annette had replied with a determined smile. "But I believe I can manage it with sufficient study."
Now, three weeks later and with the practical demonstration scheduled for tomorrow morning, Annette was beginning to question her confidence. The theoretical components were clear enough—her notes were impeccable, her understanding of the magical principles sound. But something in the practical application kept going awry, the energy slipping from her control at the critical juncture between fire and water.
"Maybe if I adjust the northern quadrant..." she muttered, erasing a portion of the chalk diagram and redrawing it with slightly different angles. "The energy flow needs to be more gradual before the water conversion..."
"Annette? Are you still here?"
The voice broke through her concentration, causing Annette to look up with a start. Mercedes von Martritz stood at the end of the long table, carrying a small basket covered with a checkered cloth. At twenty, Mercedes was four years Annette's senior, though their shared class schedule in faith magic had quickly blossomed into one of Annette's most treasured friendships.
"Mercie!" Annette's face brightened momentarily before falling back into worried lines. "Is it suppertime already?"
Mercedes approached with her characteristic gentle smile, setting the basket on a chair safely away from Annette's work. "It's well past suppertime, Annie. The dining hall closed an hour ago." She peered at the complex diagram with concern. "Have you been here since afternoon classes ended?"
Annette glanced toward the tall windows, surprised to find darkness had fallen. The magical lanterns throughout the library had automatically illuminated at sunset, but she'd been so absorbed in her work that she hadn't noticed the transition.
"I... guess I have," she admitted sheepishly, rolling her stiff shoulders. "I need to perfect this transmutation circle before tomorrow's demonstration, and it's still not working properly."
Mercedes made a sympathetic sound, pulling up a chair beside her friend. "I brought you some supper," she said, gesturing to the basket. "Sweet buns, cheese, and those little apple tarts you like."
Guilt flickered across Annette's features. "You didn't have to do that, Mercie."
"Of course I didn't have to. I wanted to." Mercedes unwrapped the cloth to reveal the promised treats. "You can't work on an empty stomach, and besides, I was worried when you missed our study session with Constance."
"Oh no!" Annette's hands flew to her cheeks, leaving smudges of chalk dust. "I completely forgot! Is she angry?"
Mercedes chuckled softly. "It's Constance. She pretended to be terribly offended for about five minutes, then became absorbed in her own research. She understands, Annie. We all know how hard you're working."
The gentle reassurance should have been comforting, but instead, it only intensified the knot of anxiety in Annette's stomach. Everyone knew how hard she worked—and what if, despite all that effort, she failed? What if hard work wasn't enough?
"My father never failed a challenge," she said quietly, absently tracing a rune in the air with her fingertip. "Not once. Knights tell stories about Gilbert of House Dominic, about his unbreakable dedication and perfect service to King Lambert."
Mercedes was silent for a moment, her kind eyes studying Annette's troubled expression. "Gustave is an extraordinary knight," she finally acknowledged. "But Annie, even the most accomplished people face setbacks. That's how they learn and grow."
"Not my father," Annette insisted, picking up her quill and twirling it nervously. "And not me, either. I can't afford to fail, Mercie. Not when he's finally starting to notice my accomplishments."
The words hung in the air between them, laden with all the unspoken complexity of Annette's relationship with her father. Gustave Eddie Dominic was a legend in Faerghus—King Lambert's right hand, a paragon of knightly virtue, a man whose dedication to duty was absolute. He was also, as Annette had confided to Mercedes during tearful late-night conversations, often distant and difficult to please.
Every letter home describing her accomplishments at the School of Sorcery, every perfect score and instructor commendation, was another small step toward earning the approval she so desperately craved. After years of existing in the shadow of her father's duties, Annette had begun to see flickers of pride in his rare visits and carefully worded letters. She couldn't risk losing that tenuous connection.
Mercedes seemed to understand without Annette having to explain. She simply placed a warm hand over Annette's chalk-dusted one. "Eat something," she urged gently. "Then I'll help you work through this transmutation problem. Two minds are better than one, after all."
Annette managed a small smile, accepting one of the sweet buns. As she ate, Mercedes examined the diagram with thoughtful attention, occasionally asking questions that helped Annette articulate the specific challenges she was facing.
"The issue," Annette explained between bites, "is maintaining control over the fire element during the transition phase. I can create the flame easily enough, but when I try to shift it to water, the energy becomes unstable." She gestured to a particular section of the diagram. "The transmutation fails because I can't maintain the precise balance required."
Mercedes frowned slightly. "Fire to water is one of the most challenging elemental transitions. They're fundamental opposites."
"Exactly why I chose it!" Annette's eyes brightened with determination. "If I can master this, it will demonstrate complete control over elemental forces. Professor Edelgard will have to acknowledge the achievement."
"And your father will hear about it," Mercedes added softly.
Annette's cheeks flushed. "Well... yes. I suppose he would."
"Annie," Mercedes began with careful gentleness, "have you considered that perhaps—"
The library doors swung open with dramatic force, interrupting whatever Mercedes had been about to suggest. Constance von Nuvelle strode in, her elaborate blonde hairstyle as perfect as ever despite the late hour.
"There you are!" she declared, voice carrying across the hushed library and earning a sharp look from the elderly librarian. Constance lowered her volume only marginally as she approached their table. "Mercedes, I've been searching everywhere for you. And Annette! Still laboring over that ridiculously ambitious transmutation circle, I see."
Despite her frazzled state, Annette couldn't help smiling at Constance's characteristic dramatic entrance. In the year since they'd become friends, she'd grown accustomed to—and quite fond of—the fallen noble's flamboyant personality.
"I'm sorry about missing our study session," Annette apologized. "I lost track of time."
Constance waved away the apology with a magnanimous gesture. "Understandable, given the complexity of your undertaking. Though I must say, it seems unnecessarily elaborate for a mere class demonstration."
"It's not unnecessary if it works," Annette countered, her stubborn determination resurfacing. "I just need to solve this transition problem, and then—"
"Then you will have achieved something genuinely impressive," Constance acknowledged, peering at the diagram. "Though perhaps not tonight. The library closes in twenty minutes."
Annette startled. "Twenty minutes? But I'm not finished!" Panic edged into her voice. "I need more time!"
"You need rest," Mercedes countered gently. "You'll think more clearly after a good night's sleep."
"I can't sleep until this is perfected," Annette insisted, turning back to her work with renewed urgency. "You two go ahead. I'll just ask the librarian for a special extension."
Mercedes and Constance exchanged concerned glances.
"Madame Henrich never grants after-hours access," Constance pointed out. "Not even to me, and I've tried every persuasive tactic in my considerable repertoire."
"I have to try," Annette replied, already making adjustments to her diagram with quick, nervous strokes. "I'm so close to solving it, I can feel it."
After several more minutes of gentle but unsuccessful attempts to persuade Annette to leave, Mercedes sighed in resignation. "At least eat the rest of your supper," she insisted, placing the basket within easy reach. "Promise you won't stay too much longer?"
Annette nodded distractedly, barely registering when her friends reluctantly departed, leaving her alone with her increasingly desperate efforts to perfect the transmutation circle.
The next several minutes passed in a blur of intense concentration. Annette erased and redrew sections of the diagram, muttering incantations under her breath to test the theoretical energy flow through different configurations. The principles were sound—she knew they were—but something in the practical application continued to elude her.
When Madame Henrich approached to announce the library's closure, Annette looked up with such naked desperation that the stern woman hesitated.
"Five more minutes," Annette pleaded. "Please. My demonstration is tomorrow morning."
Perhaps it was the chalk dust smudged across Annette's freckled nose, or the genuine distress in her large blue eyes, but something softened in the librarian's expression.
"Ten minutes," she conceded. "Not a moment longer, Miss Dominic. And please extinguish all magical implements before departing."
"Yes, ma'am! Thank you!"
As Madame Henrich retreated to her desk to complete her closing routine, Annette turned back to her work with renewed determination. Ten minutes wasn't much time, but perhaps it would be enough to test the revised configuration she'd just completed.
Drawing a deep breath, she placed her hands on either side of the chalk diagram, closing her eyes to visualize the flow of magical energy. The transmutation process required precise control: first gathering ambient magical energy, then channeling it to excite air molecules into combustion, creating fire. The truly challenging part came next—maintaining control of that volatile fire element while simultaneously cooling and condensing it into water.
"Focus," she whispered to herself. "Balanced energy, controlled transition..."
She began the incantation, her voice rising and falling in the specific cadence required to activate the magical energies. The chalk lines of the transmutation circle began to glow with a soft blue light, indicating that the initial energy gathering phase was proceeding correctly.
Encouraged, Annette increased the intensity of her magical output, watching as the blue glow shifted to a warm amber at the circle's center—the air beginning its transformation into fire. Small flames danced above the parchment, contained within the magical boundaries of the transmutation circle.
"Yes," she breathed. "Now for the transition..."
This was where her previous attempts had failed. The delicate shift from fire to water required perfect control, perfect timing, perfect balance. She inhaled deeply, focusing all her concentration on modulating the magical energy flowing from her hands into the circle.
The flames wavered, then began to condense, their orange glow shifting toward blue at the edges. For a heart-stopping moment, Annette thought she'd succeeded—the transmutation was working! But then, as she attempted to complete the conversion, she felt the familiar slippage, the magical energies resisting her control.
"No, no," she muttered, increasing her output to compensate. "Come on, just a little more..."
The flames surged higher in response to the additional power, now stretching nearly a foot above the parchment. The blue edges began to curl and twist in unnatural patterns, magical energy spiraling beyond the boundaries she'd established.
Annette bit her lip, sweat beading on her forehead as she struggled to rein in the increasingly unstable transmutation. If she could just push through this difficult transition phase, the process would stabilize. She was sure of it.
"Almost there..."
But the flames weren't condensing into water as the theory predicted. Instead, they were growing larger, hotter, more volatile. The parchment beneath the transmutation circle began to smoke, edges curling as the heat intensified.
Alarm bells rang in Annette's mind. Something was very wrong. She needed to terminate the spell, but the magical energy was now flowing so powerfully that she couldn't simply cut it off without risking a dangerous backlash.
"Controlled dissipation," she reminded herself, trying to maintain calm despite the rapidly deteriorating situation. "Gradually reduce output..."
She began the termination sequence, attempting to slowly withdraw her magical energy from the circle. But the flames had developed a self-sustaining quality, feeding on both her magic and the oxygen around them. As she pulled back her power, instead of diminishing, the flames suddenly flared higher with a whooshing sound that echoed through the quiet library.
"Miss Dominic!" Madame Henrich's alarmed voice called from across the room. "What's happening over there?"
"I—I have it under control!" Annette called back, her voice betraying her mounting panic. She didn't have it under control. Not at all.
The transmutation circle was now glowing an angry red, the flames leaping two feet high and beginning to spread beyond the circle's boundaries. With horror, Annette watched as a tongue of fire caught the edge of an open book nearby, instantly setting its dry pages alight.
"Oh no, oh no, oh no!" she gasped, abandoning the controlled dissipation attempt in favor of a more direct approach. She thrust her hands forward, attempting to force the magical energies into compliance through sheer will.
It was exactly the wrong move. The sudden surge of panicked magical energy shattered what little control remained over the transmutation. The flames exploded outward in all directions, catching on parchment, books, and the wooden table itself.
"Fire!" Madame Henrich screamed, rushing toward the emergency bell pull near her desk. "Fire in the library!"
Annette scrambled backward, watching in horror as her failed experiment rapidly transformed into a genuine disaster. The magical nature of the flames made them spread with unnatural speed, climbing up bookshelves and dancing across centuries-old tomes with hungry intensity.
"Water!" she cried, desperately attempting to reverse the process, to convert the flames back into something manageable. "Please, turn to water!"
But her magic, fueled by panic and exhaustion, refused to cooperate. Each attempt to contain the blaze only seemed to feed it further, magical energy converting to more heat, more destruction.
The library's fire bell began to ring, its shrill clanging adding to the chaos. Madame Henrich was shouting something about evacuation protocols, but Annette could barely hear over the roaring in her ears—both from the growing fire and her own thundering heartbeat.
"This is all my fault," she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she backed away from the rapidly spreading flames. "All my fault..."
The smooth wooden floor beneath her suddenly gave way to something soft, causing Annette to stumble backward. She landed sitting on what felt like a plush cushion, blinking in confusion through her tears. The sensation was so unexpected that for a moment she forgot the crisis unfolding before her.
A gentle tap on her shoulder made her turn.
And there he was.
Joy Boy stood beside her, his presence both unmistakable and impossible to ignore. His white garments seemed to flow like liquid clouds around his slender form, undisturbed by the chaos of the burning library. Hair like living flame danced atop his head, somehow more vibrant and yet less threatening than the destructive fire consuming the bookshelves. His golden eyes regarded Annette with an expression of gentle amusement, as though he'd happened upon a child's minor mishap rather than a catastrophe in the making.
"J-Joy Boy?" Annette stammered, momentarily forgetting even to breathe.
She had heard stories, of course. Everyone in Fódlan had. The mysterious figure who appeared and disappeared at will, performing impossible feats with childlike glee. Some called him a god, though others insisted he was something else entirely—a spirit, perhaps, or a manifestation of magic itself. Mercedes had encountered him years ago, as had Constance, though Annette had never been fortunate enough to see him in person.
Until now—in her moment of greatest failure.
Joy Boy winked at her, then turned his attention to the spreading fire. With an exaggerated movement, he reached behind his back and began pulling something from within his flowing garments. Annette watched, transfixed, as he withdrew what appeared to be a wooden handle... attached to a bucket... that kept emerging until it was clearly far too large to have possibly fit anywhere on his person.
The bucket was comically oversized, painted in bright blue and white stripes, "WATER" emblazoned across its side in cheerful lettering. It should have been ridiculous—would have been ridiculous in any other circumstance. But as Joy Boy hefted the impossible bucket with ease, Annette felt laughter bubble up through her tears.
With a flourish, Joy Boy spun in place—once, twice, three times—building momentum before releasing the contents of his giant bucket directly at the heart of the fire. An impossible amount of water surged forth, far more than even such an oversized container should have held. The wave swept across the burning bookshelves in a rushing cascade, extinguishing flames with a hissing symphony of steam and smoke.
Where the magical water touched, it didn't merely extinguish the fire—it restored. Charred pages became pristine again, blackened wood regained its polish, and even Annette's failed transmutation circle reverted to its original chalk lines, no longer glowing with destructive energy.
In seconds, the crisis had been averted. The library stood exactly as it had before Annette's disastrous experiment, not a single book or page lost to the flames. Only the lingering scent of smoke and the puddles of mysteriously disappearing water on the floor gave any indication that disaster had nearly struck.
Madame Henrich stood frozen by her desk, bell pull still in hand, her mouth open in a perfect O of astonishment. From elsewhere in the building came the sound of running footsteps—the school's fire brigade responding to the alarm, about to arrive at a scene that now showed no evidence of emergency.
Annette turned back to Joy Boy, words of gratitude forming on her lips—but they died unspoken as she took in his current pose. He had planted the now-empty bucket upside down on the floor and seated himself atop it, chin propped on his hands, regarding Annette with an expression of curious expectation.
"I—I don't understand," she said softly. "Why are you looking at me like that? I failed completely. I nearly burned down the entire library!"
Joy Boy shook his head, his fiery hair moving in impossible patterns. He pointed at the restored transmutation circle, then at Annette, then mimed the action of writing something.
"You... want me to try again?" she guessed, incredulous. "After what just happened?"
He nodded enthusiastically, then held up a finger in the universal gesture for "wait." From within his flowing garments, he produced a small object—a miniature music box, intricately carved from pale wood. He wound the tiny silver key and placed it on the table beside Annette's diagram.
Sweet, delicate notes began to play—a simple melody that Annette recognized immediately. It was a tune she herself had composed months ago, a little song about hard work and perseverance that she often hummed while studying. She'd never written it down or shared it with anyone, yet here it was, emerging from Joy Boy's impossible music box with perfect clarity.
"How did you..." she began, but trailed off as Joy Boy held up his hand.
He pointed to the music box, then to his ear, then made a gesture of something breaking before miming the creation of something new and beautiful. His meaning wasn't immediately clear, but as Annette listened to her own melody playing in this unexpected context, understanding began to dawn.
"Mistakes can lead to new creations," she murmured. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
Joy Boy clapped his hands silently, his golden eyes crinkling with delight at her comprehension. He pointed to the transmutation circle again, then back to Annette, his expression encouraging.
Drawing a deep breath, Annette considered the diagram before her. The same configuration that had failed so spectacularly minutes ago now seemed different somehow, viewed through the lens of Joy Boy's silent wisdom.
"I was trying to force the elements to obey me," she realized aloud. "Trying to control the transformation through sheer will and precision. But maybe..." She traced a slight modification to the northern quadrant of the circle. "Maybe the key isn't perfect control. Maybe it's about guiding the natural flow of energy rather than forcing it."
As she spoke, understanding unfolded within her mind like a flower opening to sunlight. The transmutation wasn't failing because her diagram was incorrect or because her magical output was insufficient. It was failing because she was approaching it with the wrong mindset—trying to impose perfect order on elements that were inherently wild and free.
Annette made several quick adjustments to her diagram, the chalk lines now flowing in more organic patterns. The modified circle appeared less rigid, less concerned with mathematical precision and more attuned to the natural properties of the elements involved.
Joy Boy watched with evident approval, occasionally nodding or pointing to a section that needed further refinement. The music box continued to play Annette's melody, providing a soothing backdrop to her work.
When she finished, Annette sat back and examined her creation. The new transmutation circle barely resembled her original attempt. Where the first had been all sharp angles and precise measurements, this one incorporated flowing curves and organic patterns that better represented the natural transformation of elements.
"I think... I think this might work," she said softly, hope cautiously rekindling in her chest.
Joy Boy gestured encouragingly for her to proceed, shifting his bucket-seat back to give her space. Annette noticed that Madame Henrich had mysteriously disappeared—perhaps Joy Boy had somehow distracted her or altered her perception of time. It wouldn't be the strangest thing he was said to be capable of.
Taking a deep breath, Annette placed her hands beside the new transmutation circle. This time, instead of steeling herself with determined concentration, she relaxed, allowing her mind to flow with the melody of her own song still playing from the music box.
"Elements of nature, heed my call," she began, her incantation taking on a more musical quality than before. "Not to command, but to guide and transform."
The chalk lines began to glow, not with the harsh blue light of her previous attempt, but with a softer, more variegated luminescence that shifted and pulsed like a living thing. At the center of the circle, air molecules began to excite, creating a small, dancing flame that burned with steady warmth.
Instead of pushing harder as the critical transition phase approached, Annette maintained her gentle, musical approach. She visualized the fire not as something to be controlled and subdued, but as energy to be redirected and transformed.
"From heat to cool, from light to flowing life," she continued, her voice blending with the music box's melody. "Natural transformation, cycle complete."
The flames at the center of the circle began to shift and change—not fighting against her will but responding to her guidance. Orange tongues of fire curled inward, condensing and cooling, their light shifting through the spectrum from brilliant yellow to deep blue. Steam rose in delicate spirals, then coalesced into droplets that gathered and merged.
Where fire had burned moments before, a perfect sphere of water now hovered, suspended by magical energy above the transmutation circle. It caught the light from the library's lamps, refracting it into miniature rainbows that danced across the tabletop.
"I did it," Annette whispered, scarcely believing her eyes. "It actually worked!"
Joy Boy applauded silently, his expression radiant with genuine delight. He stood from his bucket-seat and approached the hovering sphere of water, examining it from all angles with theatrical appreciation.
Then, with a playful gesture, he touched one finger to the water's surface. Ripples spread outward from his touch, and the sphere began to transform once more—not through magical transmutation, but through Joy Boy's inexplicable abilities. The water reshaped itself into a perfect crystalline flower that caught the light and scattered it in dazzling patterns across the library.
"It's beautiful," Annette breathed, watching as the liquid flower solidified into delicate glass, preserving the moment of transformation in permanent form.
Joy Boy placed the crystal flower in her palm, closing her fingers gently around it. The message was clear: a reminder of this moment, this lesson learned through failure and recovery.
The music box's melody began to wind down, its notes growing softer and further apart. Joy Boy bowed with theatrical flourish, then picked up his oversized bucket. Instead of returning it to wherever it had impossibly emerged from, he placed it upright on his head like an absurd hat, golden eyes twinkling with mischief beneath the rim.
"Wait," Annette said quickly, as she sensed he was preparing to depart. "I want to thank you. Not just for saving the library, but for showing me a different way to approach magic. For helping me see that perfection isn't the goal—harmony is."
Joy Boy's expression softened. He removed the bucket-hat and set it aside, then approached Annette once more. With gentle movements, he mimed the act of singing, then placed his hand over his heart before pointing to hers.
"My songs?" Annette asked, flushing slightly. Few people knew about her habit of composing little tunes to accompany her daily activities. "What about them?"
Joy Boy made a series of gestures: singing, then falling down dramatically, then rising up laughing, then singing again—this time with more confidence and joy.
Understanding dawned. "Even when I make mistakes in my songs, I don't give up. I just incorporate the mistake into something new, or I laugh and try again." Annette smiled with sudden clarity. "That's how I should approach everything, isn't it? Not fearing failure, but learning from it."
Joy Boy nodded vigorously, clearly pleased with her understanding. He picked up the now-silent music box and wound it once more before returning it to Annette. As it began to play her melody again, she noticed subtle differences—little embellishments and variations that somehow made the simple tune more beautiful, more complete.
"Thank you," she whispered again, clutching both the crystal flower and the music box to her chest.
With a final wink, Joy Boy replaced the bucket on his head and began to walk—not toward the door, but directly toward the nearest bookshelf. Instead of colliding with it, he simply passed through as if the solid wood were merely an illusion, his form gradually fading until only the memory of his presence remained.
Annette sat in silence for several minutes, processing everything that had occurred. The library was perfectly restored, her transmutation had succeeded beyond her expectations, and the crystal flower in her hand served as tangible proof that the extraordinary encounter had actually happened.
When Madame Henrich finally returned, seeming oddly unconcerned about the fire bell that had rung earlier, Annette had already packed up her materials and was ready to leave. The transmutation circle had been carefully preserved on fresh parchment, ready for tomorrow's demonstration.
"Finished at last, Miss Dominic?" the librarian asked, seemingly having no recollection of the near-disaster or Joy Boy's intervention.
"Yes, ma'am," Annette replied with a tired but genuine smile. "I believe I've finally figured it out."
As she made her way back to her dormitory through the quiet, snow-dusted courtyards of the Royal School of Sorcery, Annette hummed her little melody—complete with Joy Boy's embellishments. Tomorrow's demonstration would go perfectly, she knew. Not because she had achieved flawless control or because she had somehow become a perfect mage overnight, but because she had learned a far more valuable lesson.
Perfection wasn't what her father had achieved as a knight. It wasn't what made people like Gustave Eddie Dominic remarkable. It was their ability to learn from mistakes, to adapt, to harmonize with the world around them rather than trying to bend it to their will through sheer force of determination.
Annette clutched the crystal flower in her pocket, its cool surface a comfort against her palm. Joy Boy's gift wasn't just a memento of an extraordinary encounter—it was a reminder that some of life's most beautiful creations emerge from our greatest failures.
And perhaps that was a lesson worth sharing, even with a father who seemed to embody perfection itself.
Clutching her successfully completed transmutation diagram to her chest, Annette quickened her pace toward the dormitories, already composing a new verse to her working song—one about finding courage in vulnerability and strength in imperfection. It would make a wonderful addition to her next letter home.
Chapter 35: Fists of Justice
Summary:
In which the boisterous second son of House Bergliez discovers that true strength isn't measured by titles or inheritance, but by the courage to stand up for what's right. As Caspar struggles to find his place in the shadow of his brother and father's legacy, an unexpected reunion with a mysterious visitor helps him understand that his path to greatness may lie in protecting others rather than conquering them.
Chapter Text
The training sword clattered to the ground with a sound that seemed to echo across the entire courtyard. Caspar von Bergliez winced, not from the sting in his wrist where his father's practice blade had struck, but from the inevitable lecture he knew would follow. He was thirteen now—too old for the childish excuses that had once softened Count Bergliez's disappointment in his second son.
"Pick it up," his father said, voice betraying no emotion beyond mild irritation. "And mind your stance this time."
Caspar bit back the defensive retort that sprang to his lips. It wasn't fair. He'd been training since dawn, muscles burning from exertion, while his older brother watched from the sidelines with that familiar smirk of superiority. But fairness wasn't a concept that carried much weight in House Bergliez, where strength and martial prowess determined one's worth far more than any notion of justice.
"Yes, Father," he muttered, retrieving the fallen weapon and assuming the starting position once more. His feet planted shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword angled in the defensive posture his instructor had drilled into him over countless hours.
Count Bergliez circled him slowly, sharp eyes noting every imperfection in his form. "Your grip is too tight. You're strangling the hilt again." He tapped Caspar's white knuckles with the flat of his own blade. "Control comes from balance, not brute force."
"I'm trying," Caspar gritted through clenched teeth, consciously loosening his fingers around the leather-wrapped handle.
"Trying isn't enough on the battlefield," his father replied with the weary patience of a man repeating a lesson for the hundredth time. "Execution is what matters. Your brother mastered this form by your age."
And there it was—the inevitable comparison to his perfect elder sibling, heir to the Bergliez name and title. Caspar didn't bother glancing toward the edge of the training ground where Beran stood watching, already knowing the expression he'd find there: that mixture of pity and smug satisfaction that made his blood boil.
"Again," Count Bergliez commanded, stepping back and raising his practice sword.
Caspar lunged forward, putting all his frustration into the strike. His father parried effortlessly, using Caspar's momentum against him, and within three exchanges, Caspar found himself sprawled on his back, staring up at the clear autumn sky, the breath knocked from his lungs.
"You telegraph your intentions," Count Bergliez said, not bothering to offer a hand up. "An opponent sees your anger before they see your blade."
Caspar pushed himself to his feet, dirt clinging to his sweat-dampened training clothes, cheeks burning with humiliation. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for swords," he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "I do better with my fists anyway."
Count Bergliez's expression hardened. "House Bergliez produces knights and generals, not brawlers. The sword is the weapon of nobility. You'll master it because that's what's expected of a son of this house."
"Even a second son?" Caspar challenged before he could stop himself.
A dangerous silence fell between them. At the edge of the training ground, Beran shifted uncomfortably, perhaps sensing the confrontation brewing. Even at sixteen, Caspar's brother was politically astute enough to recognize when to step away from family drama.
"Especially a second son," Count Bergliez finally replied, his voice quieter but no less severe. "Your brother will inherit my title and lands. You, Caspar, must earn your place through service to the Empire. And that service requires discipline you have yet to demonstrate."
The words landed like physical blows. Caspar had heard variations of this speech for years—the reminder that as second-born, his path was already determined, narrower and steeper than his brother's. No matter how hard he trained, no matter what he achieved, certain doors would remain forever closed to him because of an accident of birth order.
"We're finished for today," Count Bergliez said, turning away. "Clean yourself up before dinner. Lord Varley will be joining us, and I expect you to comport yourself with the dignity befitting our house."
Caspar stood rigidly at attention until his father had disappeared into the manor house, then hurled his practice sword with a frustrated growl, sending it spinning across the courtyard to clatter against the stone wall.
"That's not going to help your case," Beran commented mildly, approaching from his observation post.
"What do you care?" Caspar snapped, refusing to look at his brother as he brushed dirt from his clothes.
Beran sighed, retrieving the discarded sword and placing it properly on the weapons rack. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don't enjoy watching Father tear into you."
"Could've fooled me," Caspar muttered, flexing his fingers to ease the ache from his knuckles. "You never miss a chance to see the great family disappointment get put in his place."
"Is that what you think?" Beran leaned against the rack, studying him with an expression Caspar couldn't quite decipher. "That I see you as a disappointment?"
Caspar finally met his brother's gaze, defiance in every line of his posture. "Don't you? Perfect Beran, heir to everything, master swordsman at twelve, Father's pride and joy. Meanwhile, I'm just the spare, good for nothing but following orders—if I could even manage that properly."
Beran's face softened unexpectedly. "You're looking at it all wrong, Caspar. I don't have more freedom than you—I have less. Every step of my life is predetermined. My marriage will be arranged for political advantage. My career in the Imperial army is already mapped out. I'll serve the house and the Empire exactly as Father and Grandfather did before me." He straightened, brushing an invisible speck from his immaculate tunic. "You, on the other hand, can forge your own path."
Caspar snorted. "Some path. Father's made it clear my only value is what service I can render to the Empire."
"Service takes many forms," Beran replied. "Not all of them involve blindly following orders." A flash of something—regret, perhaps?—crossed his features before his expression returned to its usual careful neutrality. "Just... consider that there might be advantages to your position that you don't yet appreciate."
Before Caspar could respond, Beran turned and walked toward the manor, his perfect posture and measured stride a physical reminder of everything Caspar was not.
Left alone in the training yard, Caspar kicked at the packed dirt in frustration. Conversations with his brother always left him feeling conflicted, caught between resentment of Beran's seemingly effortless superiority and grudging appreciation for the rare moments when his brother seemed almost... human.
Instead of heading directly to his chambers to prepare for dinner as instructed, Caspar found himself drawn toward the eastern gate of the Bergliez estate. Beyond lay the beginnings of the forest that separated their lands from the neighboring territory—a place where he had often sought refuge from the suffocating expectations of his family.
"Just a quick walk to clear my head," he muttered to himself, slipping past the guards with practiced ease. The young second son's excursions were common enough that the men merely nodded as he passed, accustomed to his need for solitude after particularly grueling training sessions.
The forest welcomed him with dappled sunlight filtering through golden autumn leaves and the earthy scent of fallen foliage underfoot. Caspar breathed deeply, feeling the tension in his shoulders begin to ease as he put distance between himself and the austere walls of Bergliez Manor. Here, at least, no one judged him for his failures or compared him to his perfect elder brother.
His wandering took him deeper into the woods than he had intended, following a narrow game trail that wound between ancient oak trees and clusters of vibrant red sumac. Birds called overhead, their songs mingling with the gentle rustling of leaves in the afternoon breeze. Caspar's mind drifted, replaying the morning's training session and imagining all the clever retorts he should have made to his father's criticism.
"I should have told him that not everyone can be a swordsman," he said aloud, startling a rabbit that bounded away through the underbrush. "Some of us are built for different kinds of fighting."
It was true—Caspar had always excelled in unarmed combat, his compact, muscular build perfectly suited to the direct approach of gauntlet fighting. But House Bergliez prided itself on producing generals and knights who commanded men from horseback with sword in hand, not brawlers who dove into the thick of battle with nothing but their fists.
Lost in thought, Caspar nearly missed the sound—a cracking branch, too heavy to be caused by any forest creature. He froze, instantly alert, hand reaching instinctively for the dagger at his belt that he had forgotten to bring.
"Who's there?" he called, dropping into a fighting stance, fists raised defensively. "Show yourself!"
No response came, but Caspar's keen ears picked up movement to his left. He pivoted, adrenaline sharpening his senses as he scanned the underbrush for signs of an intruder. These woods were generally safe, but bandits were not unheard of, especially this close to the trade routes that connected the Empire's eastern territories.
A flash of white caught his eye—brilliant, pure white that seemed almost to glow among the autumn colors of the forest. Caspar squinted, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him, until the white shape moved again, resolving into a figure perched impossibly atop a slender birch tree that should never have supported such weight.
Caspar's defensive posture faltered as recognition dawned. "You!" he exclaimed, a smile breaking across his face despite himself. "Joy Boy!"
The figure atop the tree—a young man with flame-like white hair that defied gravity and large golden eyes that seemed to shine with their own inner light—grinned broadly and waved with exaggerated enthusiasm. A cloudy substance draped across his shoulders rippled with the movement, swirling like mist in morning sunlight.
"I can't believe it," Caspar laughed, memories flooding back of his childhood encounter with the mysterious being that folklore named Joy Boy. "It's been—what, seven years?"
Joy Boy tilted his head thoughtfully, then held up seven fingers, nodding in confirmation.
"You remember me?" Caspar asked, surprised and oddly touched.
Joy Boy's response was to leap from the tree—not climbing down, but launching himself into a graceful flip that should have ended in broken bones but instead concluded with him landing lightly before Caspar in a theatrical bow. When he straightened, he placed a finger on Caspar's chest, directly over his heart, then tapped his own temple in a gesture that clearly said, "I remember."
"That's... actually kind of nice," Caspar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "Most people don't think I'm particularly memorable."
Joy Boy's expression turned to one of exaggerated disbelief. He pointed at Caspar's bright blue hair, then at his face, then threw his hands up as if to say, "How could anyone forget you?"
The gesture was so earnest, so genuinely bewildered, that Caspar couldn't help but laugh again. "Fair point. I guess I do stand out in a crowd." He studied the strange figure before him, noting that Joy Boy appeared unchanged from his childhood memories—ageless, otherworldly, with that same aura of barely contained mischief and boundless energy.
"What are you doing here?" Caspar asked. "Not that I'm complaining about the company, but aren't you usually... I don't know, doing impossible things in front of crowds or helping people in weird ways? At least that's what the stories say."
Joy Boy shrugged, the cloudy substance around his shoulders forming briefly into a question mark before dissolving back into formlessness. He gestured broadly at the forest around them, then pointed again to Caspar.
"You were just... passing through and saw me?" Caspar guessed.
Joy Boy nodded, then paused, his expression turning thoughtful. He pointed to Caspar again, then mimed something that looked like fighting, his fists raised in an exaggerated boxing stance.
"You saw me training earlier?" Caspar frowned. "Were you spying on Bergliez Manor?"
Joy Boy shook his head emphatically, then repeated the gesture, adding a mime of what appeared to be someone scolding him, wagging a finger in stern disapproval.
Understanding dawned. "Oh! You saw me getting chewed out by my father during sword practice."
An enthusiastic nod confirmed his interpretation. Joy Boy's golden eyes held a sympathy that made Caspar suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn't the type to wallow in self-pity or seek comfort from others, especially not from a legendary figure who surely had better things to do than console a noble's disgruntled second son.
"It's nothing," Caspar said, waving dismissively. "Just the usual. I'm not good enough with a sword, not disciplined enough, not like my brother. Nothing I haven't heard a thousand times before."
Joy Boy's expression turned skeptical. He pointed to Caspar's hands, then made a punching motion, followed by a thumbs-up gesture.
"Yeah, I'm better at brawling," Caspar agreed, flexing his fingers. "I've always preferred a direct approach. Get in close, hit hard, no fancy footwork or strategy required. But that's not how House Bergliez does things. We're supposed to be sophisticated warriors, not common street fighters."
Joy Boy rolled his eyes so dramatically that his entire head moved with the gesture. He flexed his own arm, making a show of admiring his bicep, then pointed to Caspar's heart once more.
"Strength isn't just about muscle?" Caspar guessed. "Or... strength comes from within? That's a nice sentiment, but try telling that to my father. In his world, strength is about power and position and maintaining the family legacy."
Joy Boy frowned thoughtfully, then seemed to come to a decision. He motioned for Caspar to follow him, pointing deeper into the forest with an inviting gesture.
Caspar hesitated, glancing back in the direction of Bergliez Manor. "I should probably head back. Father's expecting some important guest for dinner, and if I'm late or dirty, I'll never hear the end of it."
Joy Boy's response was to hold up his hands in a timekeeper's gesture, then point to the position of the sun. The message was clear: there was still plenty of time.
Against his better judgment, curiosity won out. "All right," Caspar agreed. "But it better be worth the lecture I'll get if I'm late."
Joy Boy's smile was so bright it seemed to illuminate the shadowy forest around them. He turned and began walking deeper into the woods, his movements fluid and graceful despite the uneven terrain. Caspar followed, wondering what could possibly be important enough for the mysterious figure to seek him out after all these years.
They walked for perhaps fifteen minutes, leaving the familiar paths behind and venturing into a part of the forest Caspar had rarely explored. The trees grew denser here, their ancient trunks gnarled and twisted with age, their canopy so thick that only occasional beams of sunlight penetrated to the forest floor.
Just as Caspar was about to ask how much further they were going, Joy Boy raised a hand, signaling him to stop. They had reached a small clearing where a massive fallen oak created a natural barricade across one side. Joy Boy pointed to the log, then to Caspar, his meaning obvious: sit and wait.
"This better not be some elaborate prank," Caspar muttered, but he complied, hoisting himself onto the smooth trunk of the fallen tree. "I'm not sure what you're planning, but—"
He broke off as Joy Boy pressed a finger to his lips, golden eyes suddenly serious. The cloudy substance around his shoulders expanded slightly, creating a subtle barrier of mist between them and the rest of the clearing. Then, with exaggerated stealth, Joy Boy pointed through the trees toward the far side of the small open space.
At first, Caspar saw nothing unusual—just more forest, dappled with late afternoon sunlight. But then, movement caught his eye: three figures emerging from between the ancient trees, their hushed voices carrying faintly across the clearing.
"This is far enough," said the tallest of the three, a hard-faced man wearing the simple garb of a merchant but moving with the alertness of someone accustomed to violence. "No one comes this deep into the woods."
"Are you certain?" asked a second man, whose expensive cloak and manicured hands marked him as someone of higher station despite his attempt at inconspicuous dress. "If we're discovered—"
"We won't be," the first man assured him. "My men have secured the perimeter. Now, you have the gold?"
The nobleman—for that's surely what he was—nodded tersely, producing a small but obviously heavy pouch from within his cloak. "Half now, as agreed. The remainder when the deed is done."
"Let's see it, then," said the third man, who had remained silent until now. This one wore a leather jerkin studded with metal plates—crude armor, but effective enough for someone who wished to avoid the attention that proper knightly protection would draw.
The nobleman hesitated, then loosened the drawstring of the pouch, allowing a gleam of gold to spill into his palm. "Fifty gold pieces. More than enough for a simple job."
The first man snatched the pouch with practiced ease, weighing it critically before securing it within his own clothing. "Simple? Taking out a member of House Bergliez is never simple, Lord Varley."
Caspar stiffened, the name sending a jolt of recognition through him. Lord Varley—the very man who was expected for dinner at Bergliez Manor that evening. He leaned forward, straining to hear more, barely noticing when Joy Boy placed a cautioning hand on his shoulder.
"Keep your voice down," Lord Varley hissed, glancing nervously around the clearing. "And I've told you, this has nothing to do with House Bergliez itself. The target is merely a servant—a particular handmaid who has become... inconvenient. She knows things she shouldn't about certain matters in my household."
"A servant?" The armored man spat on the ground. "You're paying assassin's rates for a servant?"
"This must appear to be a random act of banditry," Lord Varley insisted. "Nothing that points back to me. The girl must simply... disappear during the chaos of the attack on the Bergliez carriage when it returns from the manor tomorrow morning."
"And the other passengers?" the first man asked, his tone making it clear he already knew the answer.
Lord Varley's face hardened. "Survival is not required, but neither is their elimination necessary. Focus on the girl. She's dark-haired, slight of build, typically wears the blue livery of House Bergliez servants. Her name is Marta."
Caspar's heart pounded in his chest. He knew Marta—everyone in the household did. She was barely sixteen, a cheerful, hardworking girl who had joined the Bergliez staff just last year after her family's farm was destroyed in a spring flood. She had no one else, no family to return to if she lost her position. And now this man—this noble who was about to dine at their table—was casually ordering her death.
"We'll handle it," the first man was saying, tucking the gold securely away. "The girl won't reach Enbarr alive."
"See that she doesn't," Lord Varley replied coldly. "Now, I must return before my absence is noted. Remember, the carriage leaves Bergliez Manor at dawn tomorrow. The attack should happen at least an hour into the journey, where the road passes through the eastern ravine."
"We know our business," the armored man growled. "Just have the rest of our payment ready when it's done."
Without another word, Lord Varley turned and strode back the way he had come, disappearing into the trees with remarkable stealth for a man of his station. The two hired killers lingered a moment longer, exchanging satisfied looks before they too melted into the forest, heading in the opposite direction.
Caspar sat frozen on the fallen log, mind racing with what he had just witnessed. Only when Joy Boy gently squeezed his shoulder did he remember to breathe.
"Did you know?" he demanded, turning to face the white-haired being. "Is that why you brought me here? You knew this was happening?"
Joy Boy's expression was solemn as he nodded once, golden eyes holding Caspar's gaze steadily.
"We have to tell someone," Caspar said, jumping to his feet. "My father—he'd never allow this. Lord Varley is planning murder under our roof!"
Joy Boy held up a cautioning hand, shaking his head slowly. He pointed to Caspar, then to his own heart, then made a fist—a gesture that somehow conveyed both strength and responsibility.
"You think I should handle this myself?" Caspar asked incredulously. "I'm thirteen! Those were professional killers! And Lord Varley is one of the most powerful nobles in the Empire. No one would take my word over his."
Joy Boy's expression remained unchanged. He repeated the gesture, more emphatically this time, then pointed to Caspar's hands, making a punching motion.
"My fists against their swords?" Caspar shook his head. "That's suicide, not bravery."
Joy Boy pressed his lips together in evident frustration, then seemed to have a new idea. He held up a finger in the universal "wait a moment" gesture, then reached into his pristine white clothing. From somewhere within, he produced what appeared to be a small wooden box, no larger than Caspar's palm, intricately carved with symbols Caspar didn't recognize.
"What's this?" Caspar asked, accepting the box cautiously.
Joy Boy mimed opening it, his expression encouraging.
Caspar examined the box, finding a small latch on one side. He flipped it open, revealing a interior lined with midnight-blue velvet. Nestled within were two objects that made his eyes widen in surprise: fighting gauntlets, smaller than any he had seen before, clearly sized for young hands like his own. They were beautifully crafted of supple leather reinforced with metal plates across the knuckles, each plate engraved with the same mysterious symbols that decorated the box.
"Are these... for me?" Caspar asked, looking up in astonishment.
Joy Boy nodded, gesturing for him to try them on.
Caspar lifted one gauntlet from its velvet nest, surprised by how light it felt despite the metal reinforcement. He slipped his right hand into it, finding that it fit as perfectly as if it had been made specifically for him—which, he realized with sudden certainty, it had been.
"These are amazing," he breathed, flexing his fingers and feeling how the leather moved with him, neither restricting his movement nor slipping out of place. He quickly donned the second gauntlet, making a fist and admiring the way the metal plates aligned perfectly across his knuckles. "But I don't understand. How are these supposed to help me against armed men?"
Joy Boy's response was to point to the gauntlets, then to his own heart, then to make a sweeping gesture that somehow conveyed power flowing outward.
"They're... special?" Caspar guessed.
Joy Boy nodded vigorously, then pointed to the carved symbols on the metal plates.
"Magic?" Caspar frowned skeptically. "I don't have any magical ability. The Bergliez line has never produced mages."
Joy Boy shook his head, then tapped the gauntlets again before pointing to himself, his golden eyes serious.
Understanding dawned. "They're from you. They have... whatever power you put into them."
Another nod, accompanied by a smile that held both confirmation and challenge.
Caspar looked down at his gauntleted hands, turning them to examine the intricate engravings that now seemed to shimmer faintly in the dappled forest light. "What exactly do they do?"
Instead of trying to explain, Joy Boy reached out and tapped Caspar's chest directly over his heart. The moment his finger made contact, Caspar felt a strange sensation—not unpleasant, but decidedly odd—like a current of warm water flowing from his core down his arms to pool in his hands.
Startled, he looked down to see the engraved symbols on the gauntlets glowing with a soft blue light that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
"What the—" he began, but Joy Boy was already moving, pointing to a nearby sapling about the thickness of Caspar's wrist.
The message was clear enough: try them out.
Still uncertain, Caspar approached the young tree. He raised his fist, feeling foolish but also undeniably curious, and struck the slender trunk with what he judged to be moderate force.
The result was immediate and astonishing. Where he had expected to feel the jarring impact of flesh against wood, instead there was a surge of energy that traveled from his heart through his arm, bursting from his knuckles at the moment of contact. The sapling didn't just bend under the impact—it shattered, wood splintering as if struck by something far more powerful than a boy's fist.
Caspar stumbled back, staring at his hand in disbelief. "How is that possible?"
Joy Boy's smile was enigmatic. He pointed to Caspar's heart again, then to his head, as if to say the power came from within him, merely channeled by the gauntlets rather than created by them.
"These are incredible," Caspar breathed, looking at the destroyed sapling with a mixture of awe and apprehension. "But... I've never used anything like them before. How am I supposed to face trained killers with weapons I don't understand?"
Joy Boy's expression turned serious. He pointed to Caspar, then to his own eyes, then made a gesture that unmistakably conveyed "you witnessed this."
"You're right," Caspar admitted, his own expression hardening as he remembered the cold calculation in Lord Varley's voice as he arranged an innocent girl's murder. "I can't just pretend I didn't hear that. Marta doesn't deserve to die because she knows some noble's dirty secrets."
He looked down at the gauntlets again, flexing his fingers and watching as the mysterious symbols pulsed with each movement. "But I need a plan. I can't just charge in blindly against armed men."
Joy Boy's eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into his flame-like hair, his expression one of exaggerated skepticism that clearly said, "Isn't charging in blindly exactly what you always do?"
"Hey!" Caspar protested, then paused, considering. "Okay, fair point. But this is different. It's not just my neck on the line—Marta's life depends on me getting this right."
Joy Boy's face softened, approval evident in his golden eyes. He reached out, placing a hand on Caspar's shoulder, the touch conveying support and confidence more effectively than words could have done.
"Thanks," Caspar said, suddenly self-conscious. "For bringing me here, for these—" he raised his gauntleted hands, "—for trusting me with this. I don't know why you chose me of all people, but I won't let you down."
Joy Boy smiled, then made a sweeping gesture toward the direction of Bergliez Manor, clearly suggesting it was time for Caspar to return.
"Right," Caspar agreed, feeling a new sense of purpose solidifying within him. "I need to get back before I'm missed. And I need to figure out how to warn Marta without tipping off Lord Varley."
He hesitated, looking back at Joy Boy. "Will I see you again? After this is over?"
Joy Boy tilted his head, considering, then gave a noncommittal shrug that somehow conveyed "perhaps" rather than "no."
"Well, if I don't," Caspar said, suddenly awkward, "thanks. For everything. Including that time seven years ago with the tree. I never forgot that. How you made me laugh when everything seemed so bleak."
Joy Boy's smile was radiant. He gave Caspar a playful salute, then, with a fluid movement that defied natural law, leapt backwards into a flip that should have ended with him landing on the ground but instead seemed to carry him upward, his form dissolving into the same cloudy substance that had draped his shoulders, until nothing remained but a faint shimmer in the air that quickly faded away.
Caspar stared at the empty space where Joy Boy had been, half-convinced he had imagined the entire encounter. But the weight of the gauntlets on his hands was undeniably real, as was the splintered sapling that bore witness to their power.
With a deep breath, he turned and began making his way back toward Bergliez Manor, mind racing with the beginnings of a plan. The path ahead would be dangerous—he had no illusions about that—but for the first time in his life, he felt a sense of clarity about his purpose.
His father had always told him that House Bergliez produced generals and knights who served the Empire with unwavering loyalty. But perhaps there was another kind of service that mattered just as much: standing up for those who couldn't defend themselves, using strength not for conquest or glory but for protection.
As he emerged from the forest onto the familiar grounds of his family's estate, Caspar looked down at the gauntlets one last time before carefully removing them and tucking them into his tunic. The symbols had stopped glowing, but he could still feel a hint of their power humming beneath his skin, a reminder of the choice that lay before him.
Tonight, he would smile politely across the dinner table at Lord Varley, the man who casually ordered the death of a servant girl. Tomorrow, he would show that man—and perhaps himself as well—what true strength looked like.
For the first time in his life, Caspar von Bergliez, second son of House Bergliez, felt like he had found a path that was truly his own. Not his father's, not his brother's, but a path where his instincts for direct action and his hatred of injustice weren't weaknesses to be corrected but strengths to be embraced.
A path where fists could serve justice just as effectively as swords served the Empire.
Chapter 36: Pages of Promise
Summary:
In which young Ashe, desperate to feed his siblings after his parents' death, encounters the enigmatic Joy Boy during a failed attempt to steal food. Through a wordless exchange and a mysterious storybook that seems to change with each turning page, Ashe discovers that heroes exist beyond the realm of fantasy—and sometimes the most important treasures can't be stolen, only given freely. A pivotal meeting that plants the seeds for the boy's future path.
Chapter Text
The winter air bit at Ashe's fingers as he crouched behind the baker's shop, watching thin wisps of his breath curl like phantom ribbons before disappearing into the twilight. His stomach twisted with a familiar emptiness, a hollow ache that had become his constant companion since his parents' passing three months prior. But it wasn't his own hunger that drove the ten-year-old boy to hide in this filthy alley on a bitter Faerghus evening—it was the memory of his younger siblings' faces, their cheeks growing thinner each day, their eyes losing their brightness.
"Just one loaf," Ashe whispered to himself, rubbing his chapped hands together for warmth. "Just one, and we can eat tonight."
He had tried honest work—truly, he had. For weeks after the plague had taken their parents, Ashe had scrubbed floors, run errands, and performed any task that might earn a few coins. But the people of Gaspard were suffering under a harsh winter, and few had extra work for a scrawny orphan boy, no matter how earnestly he offered his services.
The back door of the bakery creaked open, releasing a gust of warmth and the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread. Ashe pressed himself flatter against the rough stone wall, heart hammering against his ribs. The baker—a stout man with flour perpetually dusting his beard—emerged carrying a wooden crate of what Ashe knew would be the day's unsold loaves, destined for the local tavern where they would be served as trenchers for stew.
This was the moment Ashe had been waiting for. Every evening, the baker made this short journey, leaving the shop unattended for precisely three minutes. Three minutes during which the remaining loaves cooling on the back shelves would be unguarded.
Ashe had counted the seconds for four consecutive evenings, watching, planning, gathering what little courage a desperate child could muster. Tonight, he would finally act.
The baker's heavy footsteps crunched through the thin layer of snow, growing fainter as he rounded the corner toward the tavern. Ashe counted silently to ten before slipping from his hiding place and approaching the still-open back door. The warmth emanating from within was almost as tempting as the bread itself.
I'm sorry , he thought, not entirely sure if he was apologizing to the baker, his parents, or to some greater concept of right and wrong that he could feel himself violating. I have to.
He slipped inside, instantly enveloped by the comforting heat and the yeasty aroma that reminded him painfully of mornings in his parents' restaurant, of his mother shaping dough with flour-dusted hands, humming softly as she worked. The memory stung worse than the winter chill.
The bakery's back room was dimly lit by the dying embers in the stone oven. Wooden shelves lined the walls, and upon them rested rows of bread loaves—some dark and hearty, others pale and soft. Ashe's mouth watered painfully. He reached for the nearest shelf, his trembling fingers just brushing the crust of a small round loaf.
"What do you think you're doing, boy?"
The voice—sharp as a blade and twice as cold—froze Ashe mid-reach. He whirled around to find not the baker, who should still have been at the tavern, but the baker's wife standing in the doorway that led to the shop's front room. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her expression a storm of disappointment and anger.
"I—I was just—" Ashe stammered, backing away until his shoulders hit the shelves behind him.
"Just what? Stealing honest people's livelihood?" The woman's voice cracked like ice on a spring river. "After all the troubles this winter has brought, you'd take food from our table?"
Shame flooded Ashe's chest, hot and suffocating. "My brother and sister," he managed, his voice small. "They haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
Something in the woman's face softened fractionally, but her stance remained rigid. "That's a sad tale, child, but it doesn't give you the right to steal. My husband works sixteen hours a day to make that bread."
Tears pricked at Ashe's eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked them away furiously. Crying wouldn't help his siblings. Nothing seemed to help. "I'm sorry," he whispered, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "I'll go."
The baker's wife sighed heavily. "You'll go straight to the village constable, is where you'll go. Perhaps a night in the cells will teach you—"
Whatever lesson she intended was interrupted by a sharp rap at the front door of the shop. The woman's head turned toward the sound, her brow furrowing.
"We're closed," she called out irritably.
The knocking came again, more insistent this time.
"Stay put," she ordered Ashe before disappearing through the doorway to the front of the bakery.
Ashe considered fleeing through the back door but found himself rooted to the spot. Part of him—the part that still remembered his father's lessons about honor—knew he deserved whatever punishment awaited him. Another part, the part that remembered his brother's plaintive cries of hunger that morning, urged him to run while he had the chance.
Before he could decide, the sound of the baker's wife's exclamation of surprise reached him from the front room.
"Oh! It's you! What are you doing here at this hour? We're closed for the—what's that you've got there?"
Curiosity overcame Ashe's fear. He crept toward the doorway, peering cautiously around the frame into the front of the bakery. What he saw made him forget both his hunger and his predicament.
Standing in the shop's entrance was the strangest figure Ashe had ever laid eyes upon. A young man—or at least, he seemed young in stature and movement—clothed entirely in garments of purest white that seemed to glow with an inner light. His hair was the same snowy hue, standing somewhat upright in a flame-like pattern that defied gravity. Most striking were his eyes: large, luminous orbs with golden irises that shone like newly minted coins in the dim shop.
Around his shoulders swirled what appeared to be wisps of cloud, forming a gauzy trail that floated as if caught in a gentle breeze, though the air in the bakery was still.
The baker's wife was staring at him with an expression that mingled reverence and bewilderment. "Joy Boy," she murmured, the name emerging like a prayer.
Joy Boy. Even Ashe, isolated as he and his siblings had become in their grief and struggle, had heard whispered tales of the silent, white-clad figure who appeared throughout Fódlan, performing impossible feats and leaving changed lives in his wake. Some called him a trickster god, others a wandering spirit, still others simply a peculiar traveler with unusual abilities. Ashe had dismissed the stories as fantasy—the sort of comforting lies adults told to make children believe in something beyond their harsh reality.
Yet here he was, standing in the baker's shop, real as the bread on the shelves and twice as extraordinary.
Joy Boy was holding something out to the baker's wife—a small cloth sack that clinked softly as he placed it in her hands. She untied the drawstring and gasped at the contents.
"This is... this is too much," she protested weakly. "For what? Our bread isn't worth half this amount."
Joy Boy's response was a silent, gentle smile and a series of elaborate gestures that somehow conveyed clear meaning: It is worth whatever value feeds a hungry family.
Then, to Ashe's horror, Joy Boy pointed directly at the doorway where he was hiding, his golden gaze finding the boy with unerring precision.
The baker's wife turned, her expression hardening again as she remembered her intruder. "Yes, well, speaking of hungry families—I've caught a little thief in the act. Was about to send him to the constable."
Joy Boy tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. He approached the doorway with a fluid grace that made him appear to be gliding rather than walking. Ashe shrank back as the mysterious figure stopped before him, those golden eyes studying him with an intensity that seemed to peer straight into his soul.
After a moment that stretched like taffy, Joy Boy reached into his white garments and produced an object that made Ashe gasp aloud: a book. Not just any book, but one bound in rich blue leather with silver edging that caught the light and threw it back in rainbow fragments. Upon its cover was emblazoned the image of a knight astride a magnificent steed, a maiden seated behind him, her hair streaming like a banner in an unseen wind.
Ashe had never owned a book. Had barely even touched one, save for the ledger his father had kept for the restaurant. But something about this particular volume called to him, awakening a yearning he hadn't known existed beneath the more immediate hunger for food.
Joy Boy offered the book to Ashe with a gentle smile, gesturing for him to take it.
"I—I can't read," Ashe admitted in a small voice, though his fingers itched to touch the beautiful cover.
Joy Boy's smile widened, and he patted his own chest before pointing to Ashe and then making a motion as if turning pages. The meaning was clear: I'll read it to you.
The baker's wife made a sound that might have been exasperation. "You're going to reward the boy for trying to steal my bread?"
Joy Boy turned to her, his expression serious now. He pointed to the sack of coins in her hand, then to the shelves of bread, and finally made a sweeping gesture toward the door, beyond which lay the village with all its struggling inhabitants.
The woman's face softened. "I suppose... times are hard for everyone." She sighed heavily. "Especially orphans."
Joy Boy nodded encouragingly.
To Ashe's astonishment, the baker's wife approached one of the shelves and began gathering bread—not just a single loaf, but several, along with a small crock of honey and a wedge of cheese. She packed them efficiently into a cloth bundle, then thrust it at Ashe.
"Here," she said gruffly. "This should keep you and your siblings fed for a few days at least. But don't let me catch you stealing again, understood? Next time, come ask for work. My husband could use help with deliveries."
Ashe stared at the bundle in disbelief, then at the woman, and finally at Joy Boy, whose golden eyes twinkled with silent satisfaction. "Thank you," he managed, his voice cracking. "Thank you both. I promise I'll work hard."
"See that you do," the baker's wife replied, but there was no real sternness in her tone anymore. "Now, off with you both. I need to close up properly before my husband returns."
Joy Boy made an elaborate bow to the woman, somehow infusing the gesture with both playfulness and genuine respect. Then he placed a gentle hand on Ashe's shoulder, guiding him toward the back door. The book was still tucked under his other arm.
The winter air outside felt less biting now that Ashe clutched a bundle of food. His most immediate problem solved, he found himself intensely curious about his unusual companion and the book he carried.
"Are you really going to read to me?" Ashe asked as they walked away from the bakery.
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, then made a questioning gesture, pointing around as if asking where they should go.
"My brother and sister are staying at our parents'... at our place," Ashe corrected himself, the word 'home' sticking in his throat. Without his parents' warmth and presence, the small rooms above what had been their restaurant felt like merely a place, not a home. "It's not far."
They walked in companionable silence through the darkening streets of the village. Snow had begun to fall again, delicate flakes that caught in Joy Boy's white hair and garments, making him seem almost to blend with the winter night. Yet there was a warmth that radiated from him, a sense of safety that made Ashe feel more at ease than he had since his parents fell ill.
"Why did you help me?" Ashe asked suddenly. "You don't even know me."
Joy Boy considered the question, his head tilting thoughtfully. Then he pointed to his eyes, placed a hand over his heart, and finally gestured toward Ashe with a gentle smile.
Ashe frowned, puzzling over the pantomime. "You... see... something in me?"
Joy Boy nodded enthusiastically, then opened his hand to reveal nothing, before closing it again and reopening it to show a small, perfect snowflake resting on his palm—a tiny magic trick that made Ashe gasp in delight.
"Something... special?" Ashe guessed.
Another nod, accompanied by that warm smile that seemed to chase away the winter chill.
Ashe wasn't sure he believed it—he was just a restaurant owner's son turned orphan, turned failed thief—but the idea that this mysterious figure saw value in him kindled a small flame of hope in his chest, the first he'd felt since his parents' passing.
They reached the narrow building that had once housed his family's restaurant on the ground floor and their living quarters above. The restaurant portion was dark and shuttered now, the tables and chairs draped in sheets, the hearth cold. Ashe led Joy Boy up the exterior stairs to the small apartment where he and his siblings had continued to live, though he knew it was only a matter of time before the landlord evicted them for unpaid rent.
"We have to be quiet," Ashe whispered as he pushed open the door. "My brother and sister might be sleeping."
They were not. Five-year-old Aiken and four-year-old Emmeline sat huddled together under a threadbare blanket near the small fireplace where only embers remained of the morning's fire. They looked up as Ashe entered, their faces lighting with identical expressions of relief that quickly transformed to wide-eyed wonder at the sight of his companion.
"Ashe!" Emmeline exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. "You brought a ghost!"
Aiken, always more cautious, shrank back against the wall. "Is he going to take us to be with Mother and Father?"
"No, no," Ashe assured them quickly, setting down his bundle on the small table. "This is... a friend. He helped me get food for us."
As if to prove the point, he unwrapped the cloth to reveal the bounty within—three loaves of bread, the honey, the cheese. His siblings stared at the food as if it were gold and jewels, which, in their current circumstances, it might as well have been.
"Can we eat now?" Aiken asked, his wariness forgotten as his stomach rumbled audibly.
"Yes, but wash your hands first," Ashe instructed, falling back on the routines their mother had established. "And say thank you to our guest."
As his siblings scrambled to obey, washing their small hands in the basin of cold water that stood on a side table, Ashe turned to Joy Boy. "Will you stay? Share our meal with us?" It was only proper hospitality, even if the food had come partly through Joy Boy's intervention.
Joy Boy shook his head, but pointed to the book he still carried, then to the children, raising his eyebrows in question.
"You still want to read to us?" Ashe translated. At Joy Boy's nod, he felt a smile spread across his face—the first genuine smile in weeks. "We'd like that very much."
Soon they were all settled around the table, the children eating with the careful restraint of those who had learned that food was precious and not to be taken for granted. Joy Boy sat in the fourth chair—their father's chair—the blue book placed before him on the table.
When they had taken the edge off their hunger, Joy Boy opened the book with a flourish, revealing the first page. Ashe leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see dense text that would remain mysterious to his untrained eyes.
Instead, he gasped. The page held no words at all—only an illustration of such vivid detail that it seemed almost to move under his gaze. It depicted a small cottage much like the one they sat in, with three small figures huddled within, their faces drawn with hunger and sorrow.
"That's us!" Emmeline exclaimed, pointing with a sticky finger. "How did a book know about us?"
Joy Boy simply smiled mysteriously and turned the page.
The next illustration showed the same three children, but now a fourth figure stood with them—tall and noble, dressed in armor that gleamed even on the paper. The armored figure was extending a hand toward the children, while in the background, sunlight broke through storm clouds.
"A knight," Ashe breathed, entranced. "Like in the stories Mother used to tell."
Joy Boy nodded encouragingly and turned another page.
This illustration depicted the eldest child—unmistakably Ashe, with his silver-green hair and freckles—seated at a table strewn with books, a look of intense concentration on his face as he bent over what appeared to be a letter or document. Beside him stood the knight from the previous page, a hand resting on the boy's shoulder in what was clearly a gesture of guidance or mentorship.
"I don't understand," Ashe said, frowning. "Is this a story about someone who looks like me?"
Joy Boy's golden eyes twinkled with silent mirth. He shook his head and pointed directly at Ashe, then at the illustration, his meaning clear: This IS you.
"But I can't read," Ashe protested. "And I don't know any knights."
Joy Boy turned another page in response.
This illustration showed an older version of Ashe, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, practicing with a bow in what appeared to be a grand courtyard. Nearby, other young people in what looked like school uniforms watched or practiced with their own weapons. In the background loomed a magnificent castle-like structure.
"That can't be me," Ashe insisted. "That looks like... like a noble's academy or something."
Joy Boy's smile widened. He turned yet another page.
The next illustration showed an even older Ashe, definitely a young man now, dressed in the regalia of a knight, kneeling before a solemn-faced man who was placing a sword upon his shoulder in what was obviously a knighting ceremony. To either side stood Aiken and Emmeline, grown as well, their faces shining with pride.
Ashe felt something catch in his throat. "Is this... is this supposed to be the future?"
Joy Boy made a gesture that was neither confirmation nor denial—a sort of "perhaps" motion with his head and shoulders.
"A possible future?" Ashe guessed.
At this, Joy Boy nodded vigorously.
"But how?" Ashe asked, emotion making his voice crack. "How could someone like me ever become a knight? We're just... we're nobody. We don't even have enough money for rent, let alone... let alone whatever this is." He gestured at the illustration, at the grand ceremony, the fine clothes, the life so far removed from their current desperate circumstances that it might as well have been taking place on the moon.
Joy Boy considered the question seriously. Then, with deliberate movements, he closed the book and placed his palm flat on its cover. When he lifted his hand, the image had changed. No longer did it show a knight and maiden on horseback. Now it depicted Ashe himself, dressed simply as he was now, but standing straight and proud, a book in one hand and a bow in the other. Above him curved the words "Loog and the Maiden of the Wind."
Ashe blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. "How did you do that?"
Joy Boy merely smiled, reopening the book to reveal entirely new contents. Now the pages contained actual text, interspersed with smaller illustrations. Ashe recognized his own name appearing frequently in the flowing script, though he couldn't decipher the words around it.
"Is it a story about me?" he asked, bewildered and fascinated in equal measure.
Joy Boy shook his head, then made a series of gestures: he pointed to the book, then to Ashe's heart, and finally made a motion like a key turning in a lock.
Ashe frowned, trying to understand. "The book is... a key? To my heart?"
Another head shake. Joy Boy repeated the sequence, more slowly this time, adding a gesture toward the future at the end.
"The book is... the key... to my future?" Ashe ventured.
Joy Boy beamed, nodding enthusiastically.
"But I told you, I can't read," Ashe reminded him, frustration edging his voice. "How can a book be the key to anything for me?"
In answer, Joy Boy reached across the table and gently tapped Ashe's forehead, then his heart. The message was clear: You have the mind and heart to learn.
"Learn to read, you mean?" Ashe clarified.
Joy Boy nodded, then made a expansive gesture that encompassed much more than just reading—a sweep of his arm that seemed to take in the whole world of knowledge and possibility.
"Learn everything," Ashe translated, feeling a strange fluttering sensation in his chest, like a bird testing its wings for the first time. "But... who would teach me?"
Joy Boy smiled secretively and turned another page in the book. This illustration showed a grand manor house set on a hill overlooking a village much like their own. Standing before its gates was a gray-haired man with a kind face and fine clothes—clearly a noble, but one whose expression held none of the haughtiness Ashe associated with the nobility. Beside the man stood two younger figures, one clearly a youth approaching manhood, the other a child.
"Who is that?" Ashe asked, pointing to the gray-haired man.
Joy Boy shrugged, his expression deliberately mysterious. Then he tapped the page twice before closing the book once more.
"Is he... is he supposed to help us somehow?" Ashe pressed, desperate now for some concrete guidance among all this symbolism and suggestion.
Joy Boy stood from the table, tucking the book under his arm. He bowed deeply to each of the children in turn, ending with Ashe, to whom he extended his empty hand. Puzzled, Ashe reached out to shake it, only to find that when their hands clasped, Joy Boy's was not empty after all. Something small and hard pressed into Ashe's palm.
When Joy Boy withdrew his hand, Ashe looked down to find a key resting in his own palm—an ordinary iron key, slightly rusted, attached to a small tag bearing an address. He recognized it as belonging to a street in the wealthier section of the village, where merchants and minor nobility kept their town houses.
"What is this for?" Ashe asked, but even as the question left his lips, he realized Joy Boy was already moving toward the door, his step light and purposeful.
"Wait!" Ashe called, jumping up from his chair. "Aren't you going to explain? What am I supposed to do with this key? Whose house is it? And the book—you said you would read it to us!"
Joy Boy paused at the threshold, turning back with a smile that was both apologetic and encouraging. He pointed to Ashe, then to the key, and finally made a motion like opening a door.
"You want me to use the key," Ashe translated flatly. "But that would be breaking in. That would be stealing."
Joy Boy shook his head emphatically, then pointed to the key again, made a gesture like returning something, and finally patted his heart while nodding approvingly.
"Returning something... is the right thing to do?" Ashe guessed.
A vigorous nod.
"But I haven't taken anything from whoever lives there," Ashe protested. "How can I return something?"
In answer, Joy Boy reached into his white garments once more and produced a small pouch that clinked softly when he placed it on the table. Ashe opened it to find several gold coins—more money than he had ever seen in one place.
"This isn't mine," Ashe said immediately, trying to hand it back. "I can't take this."
Joy Boy held up his hands, refusing to accept the return. He pointed to the pouch, then to Ashe and his siblings, and finally made a series of gestures that Ashe interpreted as: For food and rent until you find your path.
"But—"
Joy Boy silenced Ashe's protest with a gentle finger to his lips. His golden eyes held Ashe's gaze, conveying a depth of meaning that transcended words: Trust me. Trust yourself. The path is opening before you.
Then, with a final smile and a theatrical bow, Joy Boy slipped through the door and was gone. Ashe rushed after him, but the exterior landing was empty save for swirling snowflakes. He leaned over the railing, scanning the street below, but saw no sign of the white-clad figure—as if Joy Boy had dissolved into the snowy night like a dream upon waking.
Ashe returned to the apartment in a daze, the key clutched in one hand, the pouch of coins in the other.
"Where did he go?" Emmeline asked, her small face scrunched in confusion.
"Is he really a ghost?" Aiken added.
"I don't know what he is," Ashe admitted, sinking back into his chair at the table. "But I don't think he means us harm."
He stared at the key, turning it over in his fingers. The tag bore not just an address but a name: Lord Lonato Gaspard. The regional lord, whose manor home lay on the outskirts of the village but who kept a town house for when business required his presence among the people.
"What are you going to do?" Aiken asked, eyeing the key warily.
Ashe took a deep breath, feeling as though he stood at a crossroads—one path leading to the life of desperation and inevitable crime that had begun with his attempted theft at the bakery, the other leading... where? To the strange future Joy Boy's book had shown him? To knighthood and honor and a life entirely different from the one he had been born to?
It seemed impossible. And yet...
"Tomorrow," Ashe decided, closing his fingers around the key, "we're going to return this key to its rightful owner."
"And then what?" Emmeline asked.
Ashe looked around at their meager dwelling, at his siblings' thin faces, at the bundle of food that would stave off hunger for a few days at most, at the pouch of coins that might buy them a reprieve but not a future.
"And then," he said, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice, "I'm going to ask Lord Lonato to teach me to read."
Later that night, after his siblings had fallen asleep, their bellies full for the first time in days, Ashe sat alone by the rekindled fire, staring at the flames and turning the key over and over in his hands. On the table beside him lay the pouch of coins and, most mysteriously of all, the blue leather book that Joy Boy had somehow left behind.
Ashe had opened it again after Joy Boy's departure, half-expecting to find the pages blank or the illustrations changed once more. Instead, he found the title page clearly visible in the flickering firelight: "Loog and the Maiden of the Wind."
The same title that had appeared on the transformed cover when Joy Boy had placed his hand upon it.
The rest of the book remained inscrutable to Ashe's untrained eyes—just meaningless patterns of ink that others could translate into stories and knowledge. But the illustrations were clear enough: a brave knight, a noble quest, honor and courage rewarded.
He ran his fingers over the embossed lettering on the cover, tracing the shapes that formed words, feeling a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"I will learn," he whispered to the empty room, to the memory of golden eyes and a silent smile, to whatever future might be waiting if he found the courage to step toward it. "I promise."
Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing the village in pristine white, covering the old paths, making way for new ones to be forged come morning.
Chapter 37: The Scholar's Burden
Summary:
In which the reluctant heir to House Hevring discovers that knowledge carries its own price, and that even the most dedicated scholar must sometimes set aside his books when a friend is in danger. As Linhardt struggles between his desire for peaceful study and the growing chaos around him, he finds himself drawn into Caspar's reckless plan—proving that true wisdom lies not just in understanding the world, but in knowing when to act within it.
Chapter Text
The library of House Hevring was a sanctuary of silence, a cathedral built not of stone and stained glass but of leather-bound volumes and carefully preserved scrolls. It was here, nestled in a window alcove with afternoon sunlight streaming across the pages of an ancient treatise on faith magic, that Linhardt von Hevring found himself fighting a losing battle against his own eyelids.
"Just... five more... paragraphs," he murmured, the words slurring together as his head nodded forward. The tome—a particularly dense examination of the theoretical underpinnings of healing spells—slipped fractionally down his lap as his muscles relaxed into the familiar surrender of sleep.
A sharp rap at the library door jerked him back to consciousness. Linhardt blinked rapidly, disoriented by the sudden transition, and fumbled to catch the book before it could tumble to the floor.
"Young master?" called the butler, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "A message has arrived for you."
Linhardt suppressed a yawn, carefully marking his place in the text with a ribbon before setting it aside. "Bring it in," he called, stretching languorously in his seat. The interruption was unwelcome—he had been making genuine progress in his research, despite his body's persistent demands for rest—but there was something to be said for the timing. Another minute and he would have been fully asleep, likely drooling on a priceless historical text.
The butler entered, moving with the practiced efficiency that Linhardt both appreciated and found vaguely exhausting to witness. "From House Bergliez, young master," he said, presenting a folded parchment sealed with blue wax bearing the Bergliez crest.
"Thank you, Horace," Linhardt replied, accepting the missive with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Correspondence from the Bergliez estate typically meant one of two things: either an invitation to some tedious formal function his father would insist he attend, or—far more likely given the hasty appearance of the seal—a message from Caspar.
As the butler withdrew, Linhardt broke the seal with a flick of his thumbnail, unfolding the parchment to reveal a scrawled message in Caspar's unmistakable handwriting—all sharp angles and excessive pressure that occasionally tore through the paper. Deciphering it required both concentration and years of practice.
" Linhardt ," he read, the characters slanting urgently across the page, " need your help. IMPORTANT. Meet at our spot tomorrow at dawn. Don't tell anyone. Bring medical supplies if you can. NOT JOKING. "
Linhardt frowned, reading the message a second time. The lack of detail was typical Caspar—impulsive, dramatic, and frustratingly vague—but several elements stood out as concerning. The request for medical supplies suggested something beyond their usual adolescent schemes, and Caspar's insistence that he wasn't joking indicated he anticipated skepticism.
"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" Linhardt murmured, folding the note and tucking it into his sleeve.
He glanced out the window at the late afternoon sun hanging low over the western fields that separated Hevring and Bergliez territories. Dawn meant rising at an ungodly hour, especially considering the ride to "their spot"—a secluded clearing between their family estates where they had constructed a crude fort years ago, now largely abandoned as they'd grown into their teenage years.
The thought of sacrificing precious sleep hours sent a wave of preemptive exhaustion through him, but there was something in the desperate pressure of Caspar's pen strokes that suggested genuine urgency. For all his friend's tendency toward overdramatization, Linhardt had never known him to feign true distress.
With a sigh that seemed to emanate from the depths of his soul, Linhardt rose from his comfortable alcove. If he was to maintain the appearance of normalcy while secretly gathering medical supplies, he would need to be strategic—a concept that typically demanded far more energy than he cared to expend.
"The things I do for friendship," he muttered, casting a longing glance at the abandoned treatise before heading toward the door. "I hope whatever crisis you're manufacturing is at least intellectually stimulating."
Dawn arrived with offensive cheerfulness, the sky a canvas of pinks and golds that Linhardt observed through bleary eyes as he urged his mount along the familiar forest path. The saddlebag at his side was heavy with hastily gathered medical supplies—vulneraries pilfered from the family stores, clean bandages, a rudimentary surgery kit that had required picking the lock on his father's private cabinet, and several tomes on healing magic that he had been studying in recent months.
He had left a note indicating he was pursuing a research interest in the eastern woods—not a lie, precisely, as he did maintain several ongoing studies of the local flora for their medicinal properties. His father would be displeased at his absence from morning lessons, but not suspicious enough to send anyone searching. The advantages of a reputation for academic singlemindedness were not lost on Linhardt, who cultivated his eccentric scholarly image with strategic laziness.
As he approached the clearing, however, the familiar weight of exhaustion was temporarily displaced by a prickle of unease. Caspar's message had been concerning enough on its own, but now, riding through the hushed morning forest with mist curling around his horse's fetlocks, Linhardt found himself imagining increasingly troubling scenarios.
"Please just let it be another of his overblown training mishaps," he murmured to his horse, who flickered an ear back in acknowledgment but offered no reassurance.
The trees opened suddenly into the familiar clearing, morning light spilling across the dewy grass and illuminating the crude wooden structure they had built as children—little more than a platform nestled in the branches of a massive oak, with walls that had long since fallen into disrepair. Beside it, pacing with the caged energy that seemed his perpetual state of being, was Caspar.
Linhardt reined his horse to a stop, observing his friend with the critical eye of someone who had spent years cataloging Caspar's moods and expressions. The younger boy looked terrible—hair disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes suggesting a sleepless night, and a tension in his shoulders that spoke of something far more serious than his usual impulsive adventures.
"You're late," Caspar called, his voice carrying a brittle edge that further confirmed Linhardt's suspicions that this was no ordinary summons.
"The sun has barely cleared the horizon," Linhardt replied mildly, dismounting with a grace that belied his general aversion to physical activity. "By any reasonable standard, this isn't even morning yet—it's an extension of night that happens to be illuminated."
Caspar didn't laugh or roll his eyes as he typically would at Linhardt's deliberate pedantry. Instead, he glanced nervously around the clearing. "Did anyone follow you? Did you tell anyone you were coming?"
"No and no," Linhardt answered, tethering his horse to a low branch before unslinging the heavy saddlebag. "Though I am beginning to question my own judgment in agreeing to this exceedingly early rendezvous. You look like you've been wrestling with demons, Caspar. What exactly is happening?"
Rather than answering immediately, Caspar approached and seized the bag from Linhardt's hands with an urgency that confirmed this was indeed no trivial matter. "You brought medical supplies? Good. I wasn't sure you'd take that part seriously."
"I always take requests for medical assistance seriously," Linhardt replied, following as Caspar headed toward their dilapidated fort. "Though I generally prefer when they come with some explanation of what injuries I'm meant to be treating."
Caspar paused at the base of the oak tree, looking up at Linhardt with an expression that mingled determination and barely suppressed panic. "I did something," he admitted. "Something... big. And I think I might be in real trouble this time, Lin."
The use of the childhood nickname—one Caspar had largely abandoned as they'd entered their teenage years—was as concerning as the words themselves. Linhardt studied his friend's face, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his hands clutched the medical bag with white-knuckled intensity.
"What kind of trouble?" Linhardt asked carefully. "The 'my father will be furious' kind, or the 'the Knights of Seiros are searching for me' kind?"
"Somewhere in between," Caspar muttered, jerking his head toward the ladder leading up to their platform. "Come on. She's up here."
"She?" Linhardt echoed, but Caspar was already scrambling up the worn wooden rungs with the agility of long practice. With a resigned sigh, Linhardt followed at a more measured pace, mentally cataloging the possible scenarios that might have led to this mysterious "she" requiring medical attention in their childhood hideout.
The platform was much as he remembered it, though weathered by years of neglect—rough wooden planks forming a space perhaps twelve feet square, with the remnants of walls that had once supported a partial roof, now collapsed inward. What he hadn't expected to find was a young woman propped against the trunk of the oak, her dark hair matted with dried blood, her face pale against the blue livery of House Bergliez.
"A servant?" Linhardt asked, immediately kneeling beside the unconscious girl to assess her condition. "Caspar, what have you done?"
"Her name is Marta," Caspar said, pacing the limited space of the platform with barely contained energy. "And I didn't do this to her—I saved her. Or tried to, anyway."
Linhardt carefully examined the wound on the girl's temple—a nasty gash that had bled profusely but appeared relatively superficial. More concerning was the bruising visible at her collar and the awkward angle of her left arm, which suggested a fracture or dislocation.
"She needs proper medical attention," Linhardt said, opening his bag and withdrawing a vulnerary. "This is beyond my capabilities, Caspar. She should be taken to a physician, not hidden in a treehouse."
"We can't," Caspar said, his voice tight with stress. "If anyone finds her, she's dead. That's why I needed you—you're the only one I trust who knows healing magic."
Linhardt paused in the act of preparing a bandage, looking up at his friend with renewed concern. "Dead? Caspar, I think you'd better start explaining. Now."
And so, as Linhardt began the delicate work of cleaning and bandaging the girl's head wound, Caspar spilled the entire story—his encounter with Joy Boy in the forest, the overheard plot between Lord Varley and hired assassins, his impulsive decision to intervene in the attack on the Bergliez carriage that morning, and the chaotic fight that had ensued.
"You charged into an ambush," Linhardt summarized, carefully applying pressure to stem the fresh bleeding his ministrations had triggered. "Alone. Against professional killers. With magical gauntlets given to you by a mythical being most people believe is merely a legend."
"When you say it that way, it sounds insane," Caspar admitted, dropping to sit cross-legged beside him.
"That's because it is insane," Linhardt replied, his voice sharper than intended. Fear for his friend's safety—both past and future—temporarily overwhelmed his customary detachment. "You could have been killed."
"I almost was," Caspar said with surprising frankness. He pushed up his sleeve to reveal a crude bandage wrapped around his forearm, dark blood seeping through the fabric. "One of them got me pretty good before I could knock him out. But the gauntlets worked, Lin. Just like Joy Boy showed me. I've never felt anything like it—it was like my strength was doubled, maybe tripled."
Linhardt cast a critical eye toward the makeshift bandage. "I'll look at that next. But first, tell me what happened to the assassins. And please don't tell me you killed them."
"I didn't," Caspar said quickly. "I'm not... I couldn't do that. I just made sure they couldn't follow us. Knocked them out, tied them up with their own belts, and left them in the ravine. Someone will find them eventually."
"And when they do?" Linhardt asked, applying a thin layer of vulnerary to the girl's wound before beginning to wrap it with clean bandages. "When they tell their story? What then, Caspar?"
"They won't tell the truth," Caspar said with surprising certainty. "They can't admit they were hired to kill a servant girl. And even if they try to blame it on me, it'll be my word against theirs. No one will believe common thugs over the son of Count Bergliez."
The logic was surprisingly sound for Caspar, who typically acted first and reasoned later, if at all. Linhardt found himself grudgingly impressed, even as the potential consequences of his friend's actions settled like a cold weight in his stomach.
"And Lord Varley?" he asked. "If he discovers his assassins failed..."
"He'll wonder what happened, sure," Caspar agreed, "but he won't know it was me. I was at breakfast with my father when the attack was supposed to happen. He has no reason to suspect I had anything to do with it."
Linhardt completed his bandaging of the girl's head wound and moved on to examining her arm, gently probing the shoulder joint. As he had suspected, it was dislocated rather than broken—painful, but more easily treated.
"This will hurt her when she wakes," he warned, positioning his hands to manipulate the joint back into place. "But better than leaving it as is. Now, before I do this, explain to me what your plan is. You've rescued her—commendably, if recklessly—but what next? She can't stay in our childhood fort indefinitely, and she certainly can't return to House Bergliez if Lord Varley wants her dead."
Caspar's expression faltered, the adrenaline-fueled confidence giving way to uncertainty. "I... haven't figured that part out yet," he admitted. "I was hoping you might have ideas."
"Of course you were," Linhardt sighed, carefully repositioning the girl's arm. With a practiced motion—the result of extensive study rather than practical experience—he manipulated the joint back into its socket. The unconscious servant whimpered but didn't wake, which was perhaps a mercy. "You realize we're now accessories to whatever charges might be leveled against you? Obstruction of justice, kidnapping a servant of House Bergliez..."
"She wasn't kidnapped," Caspar protested. "She was being taken to be murdered!"
"A distinction that may not matter to those in power," Linhardt pointed out, beginning to wrap the girl's shoulder to immobilize it while it healed. "Lord Varley is not someone to make an enemy of lightly, Caspar. His reach extends throughout the Empire."
"So what, I should have just let her die?" Caspar's voice rose with indignation. "Let some innocent girl be killed because she overheard something she shouldn't have?"
"No," Linhardt said quietly, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "No, you did the right thing. Reckless, impulsive, and potentially disastrous—but right." He secured the bandage with a small pin from his kit before turning his attention to Caspar's wounded arm. "Let me see that before you bleed all over our patient."
Caspar unwrapped his crude bandage, revealing a deep slice along his forearm that had indeed been bleeding steadily. Linhardt clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he examined the wound.
"This needs stitches," he said, reaching for his surgical kit. "It's going to scar badly even with them."
"Another scar won't kill me," Caspar replied with forced nonchalance, though Linhardt didn't miss the way he swallowed hard at the sight of the needle.
As Linhardt worked on cleaning and suturing the wound, his mind raced through the implications of their situation. The immediate dangers were clear enough—discovery by either House Bergliez or House Varley would have severe consequences—but the deeper issue was what to do with the girl once she was stabilized. She couldn't return to her position, nor could she simply be sent away with no protection or resources.
"I may have an idea," he said finally, tying off the last stitch in Caspar's arm. "But you're not going to like it, because it involves telling someone else about this situation."
Caspar stiffened. "You just said we can't tell anyone!"
"I said we can't report this to the authorities," Linhardt corrected, applying a thin layer of vulnerary to the stitched wound. "But there may be someone who can help without exposing us—someone with resources beyond what two teenage boys can muster, and with a vested interest in keeping this quiet."
Comprehension dawned slowly on Caspar's face. "You don't mean... your father?"
"Goddess, no," Linhardt said with genuine horror at the suggestion. "Count Hevring would have both of us locked in separate towers before turning the girl over to House Bergliez for the sake of political expediency." He wrapped Caspar's arm in clean bandages, securing them firmly but not tight enough to restrict circulation. "I was thinking of Professor Hanneman."
"The researcher from Garreg Mach?" Caspar's brow furrowed in confusion. "What could he do?"
"Professor Hanneman owes me several favors," Linhardt explained, packing away his medical supplies with methodical care. "He's been corresponding with me about my research into Crests for nearly two years, and I've provided him with some rather valuable insights about the theoretical underpinnings of Crest manifestation."
This was, perhaps, a slight exaggeration of their academic relationship, but Linhardt had indeed impressed the older scholar with his precocious understanding of Crest theory. More importantly, Hanneman was currently engaged in a research expedition less than a day's ride from their location, studying the effects of Crest-bearing bloodlines in the region.
"The Professor has connections throughout Fódlan that extend beyond political boundaries," Linhardt continued. "And more importantly, he has no loyalty to either House Bergliez or House Varley. If anyone could arrange safe passage for Marta to a location beyond Lord Varley's reach, it would be him."
Caspar still looked doubtful. "Can we trust him with something this serious? We're talking about a noble trying to murder a servant. That's not exactly academic business."
Linhardt considered the question with more gravity than he typically applied to Caspar's concerns. "Professor Hanneman left his noble house and title behind for the pursuit of knowledge," he said slowly. "He's dedicated his life to understanding Crests—to challenging the very power structures that the nobility depends upon to maintain their authority. I don't think he would side with Lord Varley in this matter, nor would he expose us unnecessarily."
Before Caspar could respond, a soft moan from their patient drew their attention. The girl—Marta—was stirring, her eyelids fluttering as consciousness returned. Both boys froze, suddenly uncertain how to explain their presence or the situation to someone who had last been aware during a violent attack.
"Water," Linhardt whispered urgently. "She'll be disoriented and likely dehydrated from blood loss. There should be a waterskin in my bag."
Caspar scrambled to retrieve it while Linhardt gently supported the girl's head, being careful not to disturb his bandaging. "Marta," he said quietly, keeping his voice calm and steady. "Can you hear me? You're safe now."
Her eyes opened slowly, confusion evident in their depths as she tried to focus on his face. "Who..." she began, her voice a raspy whisper.
"I'm Linhardt von Hevring," he said simply, accepting the waterskin from Caspar. "And this is Caspar von Bergliez. He, ah, intervened when you were attacked this morning."
At the mention of Caspar's name, the girl's eyes widened with recognition, darting between the two boys with growing alarm. "Young master Bergliez? But—the men—they said—"
"They can't hurt you anymore," Caspar interjected, crouching beside them with uncharacteristic gentleness. "I heard them planning the attack with Lord Varley. I couldn't let them... I mean, it wasn't right what they were going to do to you."
Marta's face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes. "Lord Varley," she whispered. "Yes, it would be him. I shouldn't have been in that room, shouldn't have heard what I did..."
"What exactly did you hear?" Linhardt asked, offering her the waterskin. When she struggled to lift her uninjured arm, he held it to her lips, allowing her to drink in small sips. "It might be important."
After she had drunk, Marta closed her eyes briefly, her breathing uneven with suppressed sobs. "I was cleaning his chambers during his visit to House Bergliez," she explained. "I thought he was out with the Count, but he returned unexpectedly with another man—a merchant, I think, though he didn't dress like one. They didn't see me behind the dressing screen."
She paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "They were discussing some kind of shipment—weapons, I think, though they never said it directly. Something about diverting Imperial supplies through merchant caravans to avoid detection. Lord Varley mentioned an upstart noble house that needed to be 'dealt with before they became problematic.' He said the Emperor was too weak to handle it properly."
Linhardt and Caspar exchanged alarmed glances. Discussing the Emperor's weakness was dangerous enough, but diverting Imperial supplies—presumably meaning weapons intended for the Imperial army—bordered on treason.
"Did they name this noble house?" Linhardt asked carefully.
Marta shook her head, wincing as the movement disturbed her injuries. "No, but they mentioned something about western territories. Then Lord Varley noticed the water pitcher I'd filled earlier and realized someone had been in the room. He sent the other man out and searched until he found me." Her voice broke. "He said if I ever spoke a word of what I'd heard, he would ensure I suffered for it. I thought he'd just have me dismissed, but..."
"But instead he arranged to have you killed on the journey to Enbarr," Caspar finished grimly. "Made to look like a bandit attack so no one would question it."
Fresh tears spilled down Marta's cheeks. "What am I to do now? I can't return to House Bergliez, and I have no family, no home elsewhere."
Linhardt found himself unexpectedly moved by her distress. Academic interest in their predicament gave way to genuine concern—a rarity for someone who typically maintained emotional distance from all but his closest friends. Perhaps it was the confluence of his exhaustion, the early hour, and the gravity of the situation, but he found himself speaking with unusual conviction.
"We're going to help you," he said, surprising even himself with the certainty in his voice. "I have a contact who can arrange safe passage for you, perhaps even a new position far from Lord Varley's influence."
"We are?" Caspar asked, blue eyes wide with surprise at Linhardt's sudden decisiveness.
"Yes," Linhardt replied, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace as his knees protested the extended period crouched on the hard wooden platform. "We are. Because what you heard about Joy Boy was true, Caspar. I've met him too."
Caspar's mouth fell open in shock. "You have? When? Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Because it wasn't relevant until now," Linhardt said with a dismissive wave of his hand, though the truth was more complex. His encounter with Joy Boy had been intensely personal—a rare moment of genuine wonder in a life largely directed by pragmatic concerns and familial obligations. He had kept it private not out of secrecy but because he had never found words adequate to describe the experience.
"It was two years ago," he continued, avoiding Caspar's searching gaze by busying himself with repacking his medical supplies. "I was napping in the southern meadow near the river, and when I woke, he was using me as a pillow."
He paused, memories flooding back with surprising clarity—the weight of Joy Boy's head against his side, the impossible golden eyes regarding him with mischievous affection, the clouds above moving in patterns that defied natural explanation.
"He showed me things," Linhardt said softly. "Visions in the clouds of how the world could be different—people free from the constraints of their birth, nobles and commoners celebrating together, armies laying down their weapons. It lasted only minutes, but..." He trailed off, uncertain how to articulate the profound impact that brief encounter had made on his worldview.
"But it changed how you see things," Caspar finished for him, with unexpected insight. "Like you got a glimpse behind a curtain you didn't even know was there."
Linhardt nodded, strangely grateful for his friend's understanding. "Precisely. And ever since, I've found it increasingly difficult to accept the structures and assumptions that govern our society. The idea that someone like Marta could be casually disposed of because she overheard the wrong conversation—" He broke off, sudden anger catching him by surprise.
"So you believe me about the gauntlets?" Caspar asked, holding up his hands as if the magical items were still visible there.
"I do," Linhardt confirmed. "Though I'd very much like to examine them from a scholarly perspective when this crisis has passed." He turned back to Marta, who was watching their exchange with bewildered exhaustion. "For now, our priority must be your safety. Can you travel, with assistance?"
The girl attempted to sit up straighter, grimacing with pain. "I... I think so, my lord. Where would we go?"
"Professor Hanneman's research camp is approximately four hours' ride northeast of here," Linhardt said, performing mental calculations about their supplies and the girl's condition. "We'll need to move carefully to avoid patrols from either of our houses, but if we leave within the hour, we should reach him by midday."
"You're coming with us?" Caspar asked, surprise evident in his voice. "I thought you'd just tell me where to find this professor and then go back to your books."
Linhardt fixed him with a steady gaze. "Do you honestly believe I would abandon you to handle this alone? After you've already nearly gotten yourself killed once today?"
Caspar had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well, no, but... you hate traveling. And physical exertion. And missing meals. And—"
"Yes, thank you for the comprehensive list of my aversions," Linhardt interrupted dryly. "Nevertheless, I am coming. Someone needs to monitor Marta's condition, and someone needs to ensure you don't charge headlong into any more ambushes. Additionally, Professor Hanneman is more likely to assist us if I make the request personally."
What he didn't say—what he scarcely acknowledged even to himself—was that the sight of Caspar's bloodied arm had awakened a protective instinct he rarely experienced. For all their years of friendship, it had typically been Caspar protecting him from bullies or physical challenges, not the reverse. The realization that his scholarly pursuits might actually prove useful in safeguarding his impulsive friend was novel and strangely compelling.
"Besides," he added with forced casualness, "this presents a unique opportunity to observe the effects of Joy Boy's magical enhancements on your combat abilities. The empirical data could be invaluable to my research."
Caspar grinned, clearly seeing through the academic pretense but choosing not to challenge it. "Whatever you say, Lin. I'm just glad I don't have to do this alone anymore."
As they began preparations for their journey—carefully helping Marta down from the platform, adjusting Linhardt's mount to accommodate a second rider, discussing the safest routes through the woods—Linhardt found himself reflecting on the strange turns his life had taken in the span of a single morning.
He had risen before dawn, grumbling and bleary-eyed, expecting nothing more demanding than tending to some minor training injury Caspar had exaggerated. Now he was effectively a fugitive, aiding in the rescue of a servant targeted for assassination, preparing to request assistance from a respected academic figure under false pretenses, all while potentially defying two of the most powerful noble houses in the Adrestian Empire.
And yet, oddly enough, he felt more awake and engaged than he had in months of dutiful study and aristocratic obligation. There was something undeniably invigorating about taking action rather than merely contemplating the theoretical principles of justice and morality that filled so many of his books.
As he secured his medical bag to the saddle, his gaze fell on Caspar helping Marta drink from the waterskin, the gentleness of his typically boisterous friend's movements speaking volumes about his character. Perhaps this was what Joy Boy had meant to show him that spring afternoon—that knowledge without action was as hollow as strength without purpose.
"The things I do for friendship," Linhardt murmured, echoing his words from the previous day, but this time without the weary resignation. Instead, there was a hint of something almost like anticipation in his voice as he contemplated the challenges ahead.
After all, even the most dedicated scholar occasionally needed to step away from his books and into the complex, messy reality they could only partially describe. And if that reality involved magical gauntlets, assassination plots, and a mythical being who showed impossible visions in the clouds—well, that only made it a more fascinating field of study.
Chapter 38: The Dance of Two Worlds
Summary:
Eleven-year-old Petra experiences the sudden disruption of peace when Dagda pulls Brigid into war with the Adrestian Empire. As tensions escalate and armies gather, she witnesses the extraordinary intervention of Joy Boy, whose playful yet powerful presence transforms a potentially devastating conflict into an unlikely cultural exchange. Through these events, Petra begins to understand her unique destiny as future ruler of Brigid and her connection to the mysterious figure who blessed her at birth.
Chapter Text
The morning sun cast dappled light through the palm fronds above Petra's head as she crouched low in the underbrush, her breath held tight in her chest. The hunting dagger, gifted to her on her eleventh naming day, felt perfectly balanced in her small hand—an extension of her arm rather than a separate tool. Her eyes, the distinctive magenta of Brigid's royal line, remained fixed on the colorful plumage of the jungle pheasant scratching at the earth just ten paces ahead.
One clean throw , she reminded herself, recalling her father's lessons. Honor the spirit of the animal by ensuring a swift passage .
She adjusted her grip, the woven leather hilt nestling comfortably against her callused palm. The muscles in her arm tensed, preparing for the precisely calculated release that would send the blade spinning through the intervening space to find its mark.
The moment stretched, her focus narrowing until nothing existed but herself, the knife, and the unsuspecting bird. Then, with a fluid motion born of countless hours of practice, she released the blade.
It sliced through the humid air with a whisper, spinning exactly as intended—until a sudden gust of wind, unpredicted and powerful, caught the knife mid-flight, altering its trajectory just enough that it embedded itself in the earth mere inches from the startled pheasant. The bird squawked indignantly and took flight, disappearing into the dense canopy of Brigid's jungle in a flurry of iridescent feathers.
Petra stood, a frown creasing her brow as she brushed strands of purple hair from her face. That throw had been perfect. She knew it had been perfect. The wind's intervention felt almost... deliberate.
"The spirits are having amusement at my expense today," she muttered in her native tongue, stepping from her hiding place to retrieve her knife. Her grandfather would say it was a sign, that the spirits were communicating something important. Her father would suggest more practical considerations—a need to pay better attention to the subtle changes in her environment. Both would be right, in their way. That was the nature of Brigid's wisdom: the practical and spiritual were not separate domains but interwoven aspects of the same reality.
As she moved to collect her knife, the distinctive call of a Brigid messenger bird pierced the jungle's ambient noise—three sharp whistles followed by a trill. Petra's head snapped up, her body instantly alert. The royal messengers used those birds only for urgent communications. Something was happening.
Forgetting the failed hunt, she broke into a run, navigating the jungle paths with the easy confidence of one born to this land. Vines and branches seemed to move aside for her as she raced toward the coastal palace that had been her home all her life. Her feet, clad in light leather boots designed for silent movement, barely disturbed the forest floor as she ran.
Brigid's royal palace was unlike the imposing stone fortresses of Fódlan. Built primarily of local hardwoods with open walls to welcome the ocean breezes, it blended harmoniously with its surroundings, rising from the hillside overlooking the main harbor like a natural extension of the landscape. As Petra emerged from the jungle path onto the terraced gardens that surrounded the palace, she immediately sensed the unusual activity—servants moving with greater urgency than normal, guards stationed at positions typically left unmanned during peaceful times.
"Princess Petra!" called a familiar voice.
She turned to see Malia, her father's chief advisor and her occasional tutor in diplomatic matters, hurrying across the garden. The older woman's usual composed expression was replaced by one of barely concealed concern.
"Your father requests your presence in the council chamber," Malia said, her voice kept deliberately even, though Petra could detect the underlying tension. "Immediately."
"What has happened?" Petra asked, falling into step beside the advisor, matching her brisk pace despite her shorter legs.
Malia hesitated, clearly weighing how much to share with the young princess. "Messengers have arrived from Dagda," she finally said. "And Imperial ships have been spotted near our northern islands."
Petra felt a chill that had nothing to do with the pleasant breeze flowing through the palace corridors. Dagda and the Adrestian Empire—Brigid's powerful neighbors to the west and east respectively. Both had always treated her homeland with a mixture of diplomatic courtesy and thinly veiled strategic interest. Her father had explained to her many times the delicate balance required to maintain Brigid's independence between these two greater powers.
"Is it war?" Petra asked directly, her young voice steady despite the gravity of the question.
Malia's lips pressed into a thin line. "That is for the King to discuss with his council," she replied, which was answer enough.
They crossed the main palace compound, passing through the central courtyard where normally Petra would have paused to observe the ritual performances that often took place there. Today, the space was occupied by royal guards in full ceremonial armor—a display meant to impress the foreign messengers, she realized, rather than for any practical defense.
The council chamber occupied the highest point of the palace complex, its curved walls offering a panoramic view of Brigid's main island and the surrounding azure waters. As Petra entered behind Malia, she immediately picked out her father's tall figure among the cluster of advisors and clan leaders gathered around the great circular table at the room's center.
King Kanoa of Brigid had ascended to the throne just three years earlier, following the peaceful passing of Petra's grandfather. Though still in his prime at thirty-six, the responsibilities of rulership had begun to leave their mark—subtle lines around his eyes, strands of gray appearing amidst his dark purple hair. Yet he carried himself with the same strength and certainty that had made him a respected prince and made him an even more respected king.
His eyes—the same vibrant magenta as Petra's own—softened momentarily when he spotted his daughter, but quickly returned to their previous intensity as he addressed the council.
"The Dagdan emissary confirms it," he was saying, his deep voice carrying the weight of unwelcome news. "Their naval forces have engaged the Imperial fleet off their eastern coast. They invoke our mutual defense treaty and expect our support."
"And if we refuse?" asked Kaleo, the weathered leader of Brigid's eastern islands, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Then we risk Dagda viewing us as having aligned with the Empire," replied Tuulea, the chief shaman and Petra's maternal grandmother. Her elaborate facial tattoos seemed to shift in the dappled light filtering through the slatted wooden blinds. "Which would make us a target should they prevail in this conflict."
"And if we join them and they fail?" countered another council member. "The Empire has never looked favorably upon our independence. They would use our allegiance with Dagda as justification to finally claim our islands as their own."
The room erupted into multiple overlapping conversations, voices rising as clan leaders and advisors debated the merits of various responses. Petra remained near the entrance, knowing her place was to observe and learn rather than participate. Still, she listened intently, noting the arguments on all sides, weighing them as her father had taught her to do.
King Kanoa raised a hand, and the room gradually fell silent. "We must also consider what has precipitated this sudden conflict," he said. "The Imperial emissary claims that Dagdan ships attacked their trading vessels without provocation."
"While the Dagdan emissary insists those 'trading vessels' were military scouts violating their territorial waters," added Malia.
"The truth likely contains elements of both claims," Kanoa acknowledged with a grim nod. "But regardless of how it began, we now face the consequences." He turned toward the large map of the region laid out on the table, carved wooden markers representing the known positions of Dagdan and Imperial naval forces. "If the Imperial fleet continues its current course, they will reach Dagdan territorial waters within three days. From there, it is but a short distance to our own shores."
A heavy silence fell over the room as the implications sank in. War was coming to Brigid's waters whether they chose to participate or not.
"What of Joy Boy?"
The question came from Tuulea, and Petra felt a flutter of interest at the mention of the mysterious figure she had heard about all her life. The white-haired visitor who had appeared at her birth, who had blessed her with some unknown purpose, whose influence had spread across nations and whose very mention often brought expressions of either reverence or concern to adult faces.
"There have been no sightings," Kanoa replied, his expression unreadable. "And we cannot base our strategy on the intervention of forces beyond our control, no matter how benevolent they may be."
"But the drums have been heard," insisted Tuulea. "Three nights now, from the sacred grove on the western isle. The shamans report visions of white flame and golden eyes."
Several council members exchanged uneasy glances. The spiritual awakening associated with Joy Boy had always found fertile ground in Brigid, with its traditions of respecting divine messengers and celestial visitors. But even here, opinions were divided about what his appearances truly signified and what response they called for.
Before further discussion could develop, the chamber doors burst open, and a royal guard entered with uncharacteristic haste. He dropped to one knee before the King, breathing hard as though having run a great distance.
"My King," he gasped. "Imperial ships—at least a dozen—have been sighted approaching the southeastern channel."
The room exploded into motion—advisors reaching for maps, military leaders calling for their weapons, clan chiefs demanding immediate evacuation plans for their coastal villages. Amidst the chaos, Petra found herself pushed aside, nearly forgotten in the sudden urgency of preparing for possible invasion.
Nearly, but not quite. Her father's hand found her shoulder, strong and steady as always. He knelt before her, bringing his face level with hers, his eyes searching her features with an intensity that made her stand straighter.
"Petra," he said, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "I must see to our defenses. Go with Malia to the inner palace and remain there until I send for you."
"I want to help," she protested. "I can carry messages or—"
"You will help," Kanoa interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. "By ensuring your safety. You are Brigid's future, daughter. Remember what I have taught you about a ruler's most important duty."
"To protect their people," Petra recited. "Even when it requires personal sacrifice."
A smile briefly illuminated her father's features. "Just so. Sometimes the greatest courage is in waiting wisely rather than acting rashly." He squeezed her shoulder once more before rising. "Now go. And keep your hunting knife close. A princess of Brigid should never be without protection."
Pride warmed her chest at his acknowledgment of her growing skills as both a hunter and a warrior. She nodded firmly, turning to follow Malia who waited by the door. Before leaving, she cast one more glance back at her father, now surrounded by his military advisors as they hastily outlined defense plans.
For a fleeting moment, she saw not the confident king but a man bearing an impossible weight—trying to navigate between powerful forces that threatened to crush his small nation between them. Then his shoulders straightened, his voice took on the commanding tone that inspired loyalty throughout Brigid, and the moment of vulnerability passed so quickly Petra wondered if she had imagined it.
The internal palace complex was a flurry of controlled chaos as servants secured important documents, artisans gathered ancestral treasures for safekeeping, and guards took up positions at strategic points. Petra followed Malia through the familiar corridors, past gardens she had played in as a young child, through halls where she had received her first lessons in Brigid's history and traditions.
"Will there be battle, Malia?" she asked as they reached her personal chambers—a spacious suite of rooms opening onto a private garden that overlooked the sea.
The advisor hesitated, then sighed. "I hope not, Princess. But we must prepare as though there will be."
"Then I should prepare too," Petra stated firmly, moving to the carved wooden chest where she kept her most prized possessions. From it, she withdrew her practice bow—smaller than a war bow but crafted with the same care—and a quiver of arrows.
Malia's eyes widened. "Princess Petra, your father instructed—"
"That I remain safe," Petra finished for her. "And I will. But if Imperial soldiers reach the palace, I will not hide unarmed like a frightened child." She strapped the quiver to her back with practiced movements. "A princess of Brigid should never be without protection," she added, echoing her father's words.
A complicated mix of emotions crossed Malia's face—concern, pride, resignation. Finally, she nodded. "Very well. But you will stay within these rooms unless directly ordered otherwise by your father or myself."
"I give my word," Petra agreed solemnly.
As Malia left to attend to other duties, Petra moved to the wide windows that faced the sea. From this vantage point, she could see much of Brigid's main harbor and the waters beyond. Already, the fishing boats and trading vessels were scrambling to reach shore, their colorful sails billowing as they raced ahead of the approaching storm—both meteorological and military.
On the horizon, just visible against the darkening sky, were the distinctive silhouettes of Imperial warships—larger and more imposing than the sleeker vessels of Brigid's navy. Their presence in these waters was an implicit threat, regardless of whether they had come to wage war against Dagda or against Brigid itself.
Hours passed as Petra maintained her vigil at the window. Servants brought food that she barely touched, updates that grew increasingly concerning. The Imperial fleet had established a blockade across Brigid's main shipping channels. Dagdan warships had been spotted approaching from the west. Fishing villages along the northern coast were evacuating inland, fearing they would become battlegrounds between the opposing forces.
As twilight deepened into night, a new sound reached her ears—the distant but distinctive reverberation of drums. Not the ceremonial rhythms that accompanied Brigid's religious observances or cultural celebrations, but something more primal, more insistent. A steady beat that seemed to echo not just across the water but somehow within her own chest, as though her heartbeat were synchronizing with it.
Doom, doom, doom.
Petra's breath caught. The drums that heralded Joy Boy's presence—the same drums her father had described hearing on the night of her birth. She pressed closer to the window, straining to see through the gathering darkness. The moonlight illuminated the waters of the harbor, casting a silver path across waves now disturbed by the increasing wind of an approaching storm.
Then she saw it—a glow that was neither moonlight nor the torches of the palace guard. A warm, golden radiance that seemed to emanate from the center of the harbor, growing steadily brighter until it illuminated the water for yards around, revealing a figure standing—no, floating —above the surface of the sea.
Even at this distance, the figure was unmistakable from her father's descriptions: white hair that moved like flame despite the absence of wind, flowing white garments that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light, and eyes that glowed golden even across the intervening space. Joy Boy, the visitor whose blessing had marked her birth, whose presence had changed the spiritual landscape across nations.
Without conscious thought, Petra found herself moving—slipping past the guards stationed outside her chambers, navigating the palace corridors with the stealth her hunting training had instilled, descending toward the harbor through gardens and terraced pathways. The drums grew louder with each step, their rhythm echoing in her bones, drawing her forward as surely as if she were being physically pulled.
By the time she reached the harbor's edge, a small crowd had already gathered—palace guards, fisherfolk, ordinary citizens of Brigid, all standing in stunned silence as they witnessed the impossible. Joy Boy stood upon the water halfway between the shore and the foremost Imperial warship, his golden eyes fixed on the imposing vessel as it continued its steady approach.
Petra slipped through the crowd until she reached the wooden pier that extended into the harbor. From this vantage point, she could see more clearly what was unfolding. The Imperial ship had raised signal flags—declarations of intent that she couldn't fully interpret but that clearly represented some form of military communication. Archers lined its railings, bows drawn but not yet fired, waiting for commands.
And still Joy Boy stood, unmoving save for the constant flame-like movement of his white hair, his expression one of serene amusement as though the warship bearing down on him were nothing more concerning than a child's toy boat.
"Petra!"
Her father's voice startled her. He stood several yards away on the pier, clearly having just arrived himself, surrounded by royal guards and advisors. His expression was a complex mixture of concern, awe, and something else—a kind of resigned recognition, as though he had both dreaded and expected this moment.
Before he could reach her, a commotion from the Imperial ship drew everyone's attention. A single cannon had been rolled into position at the bow, aimed directly at the glowing figure standing upon the water. A warning shot, Petra realized—meant to frighten rather than harm, to assert Imperial authority in these contested waters.
The boom of the cannon echoed across the harbor, causing birds to take startled flight from nearby trees. The heavy iron ball arced through the air toward Joy Boy, who simply... smiled. As the projectile reached him, instead of causing harm, it bounced—actually bounced —as though it had struck not flesh and bone but some kind of elastic surface. The cannonball rebounded high into the air, spinning lazily before splashing harmlessly into the water several hundred yards away.
A collective gasp rose from the assembled Brigid citizens. On the Imperial ship, visible confusion spread among the sailors and soldiers. The commander ordered another shot, this time with two cannons. Again, the heavy iron balls simply bounced off some invisible barrier surrounding Joy Boy, their trajectories altered to send them splashing into empty sections of the harbor.
Joy Boy's smile widened, his eyes crinkling with what appeared to be genuine delight. He raised one hand in a gesture that somehow conveyed both greeting and challenge. Then, to the astonishment of all watching, he began to play with the next cannonball fired at him—bouncing it from one hand to the other as though it were made of rubber rather than solid iron, spinning it on one finger like a performer's trick ball, before finally tossing it high into the air where it seemed to hang for an impossible moment before falling back to splash into the sea.
The absurdity of it—a divine figure treating deadly weapons as toys—broke the tension that had gripped the harbor. Someone in the crowd laughed, a sound of surprised delight quickly stifled. Then another joined, and another, until ripples of amazed laughter spread through the gathered Brigid citizens.
Even more remarkably, similar sounds began to emerge from the Imperial ship—first a few startled chuckles, then growing waves of laughter as the sailors witnessed the impossible spectacle before them. The commander's orders for discipline were increasingly ignored as the bizarre scene unfolded.
Petra felt her father's hand on her shoulder, but neither of them spoke as they watched Joy Boy continue his extraordinary demonstration. With each new projectile fired—now seemingly more in curiosity than aggression—he performed more elaborate tricks: balancing cannonballs on his head, juggling three at once, skipping them across the water's surface like flat stones.
"He's making them see," Kanoa whispered, his voice filled with wonder. "Making them understand the futility of their weapons against something they cannot comprehend."
As if hearing these words despite the distance, Joy Boy turned and looked directly toward the pier where Petra and her father stood. His golden eyes met Petra's, and in that moment of connection, she felt a jolt of recognition—not memory, exactly, but a resonance, as though something long dormant inside her was awakening in response to his presence.
Joy Boy winked at her—a surprisingly human, almost playful gesture—before turning his attention back to the Imperial ship. With a sweeping motion of his arms, the water beneath the vessel began to... change. Not in a threatening way—it didn't capsize or damage the ship—but the surface transformed, becoming somehow more springy , causing the massive warship to bob up and down with increasing amplitude.
Sailors grabbed for railings and rigging as their vessel began to bounce like a child's toy in a bathtub, yet there was something so manifestly non-threatening about the motion that fear quickly gave way to bewilderment and then, incredibly, to amusement. Hardened Imperial soldiers found themselves laughing as they struggled to maintain their footing on the undulating deck, the absurdity of their situation overwhelming military discipline.
And it wasn't only the Empire's ships experiencing this phenomenon. From her position on the pier, Petra could see that the approaching Dagdan vessels were undergoing the same treatment, their dignified approach to battle transformed into a comical bobbing dance that rendered combat impossible but fear equally so.
The entire harbor had become something impossible—a massive undulating surface that treated mighty warships like playthings, that transformed the theater of potential war into something more akin to a festival ground. And at the center of it all stood Joy Boy, his golden eyes shining with what Petra could only interpret as profound amusement and even deeper compassion.
"What is happening?" she asked her father, unable to tear her gaze from the extraordinary scene.
Kanoa's hand tightened on her shoulder. "I believe," he said slowly, "we are witnessing the birth of peace through the most unexpected means imaginable."
As if on cue, white sails appeared on a smaller vessel approaching from the direction of the main Imperial ship—a dispatch boat carrying what appeared to be officers under a flag of parley. Similarly, from the Dagdan side, a ceremonial canoe bearing the distinctive markings of their diplomatic corps was being paddled toward the harbor.
"They're sending negotiators," Malia observed, having joined them on the pier. "Both sides. Simultaneously."
"And how could they not?" replied Tuulea, who had also appeared at their side, her eyes never leaving Joy Boy's glowing form. "What commander would order his men to fight in... this?" She gestured toward the harbor, where Imperial sailors were now laughing openly as their ship continued its gentle bouncing. Some were even leaning over the railings to splash at the transformed water, their faces displaying childlike wonder.
"The spirits work in ways beyond our understanding," King Kanoa said, a smile spreading across his usually serious features. "But I believe Joy Boy has just provided the people of three nations a powerful reminder."
"Of what, Father?" Petra asked.
Kanoa looked down at her, his eyes warm with renewed hope. "That we are all, regardless of nation or creed, capable of seeing the absurdity of war when presented with a greater truth. And that laughter may accomplish what fear and force cannot."
As the diplomatic vessels reached the harbor proper, Joy Boy's form began to fade, the golden light diminishing gradually until only the faintest glow remained. The drums that had been a constant undertone throughout the extraordinary display similarly receded, becoming fainter until they were just at the edge of perception.
But the effects of his visit remained. The water slowly returned to its natural state, allowing the ships to regain their stability. Yet the mood had been irrevocably altered. Where tension and the threat of violence had reigned just an hour before, now there was a strange atmosphere of shared amazement, of boundaries temporarily dissolved by collective witness to something beyond ordinary understanding.
As the Imperial and Dagdan representatives disembarked from their respective vessels, they approached the Brigid delegation not with the stiff formality of adversaries but with the slightly dazed expressions of people who had just experienced something that had fundamentally shifted their perspective.
"King Kanoa," the Imperial officer began, his Adrestian accent thick but his tone notably lacking its usual condescension. "It would seem that... unusual circumstances... have created an opportunity for discussion rather than conflict."
"Indeed," agreed the Dagdan emissary, his weathered face still bearing traces of astonishment. "Our captains report similar... phenomena... throughout the engagement zone. It appears the waters themselves reject our hostilities today."
Kanoa inclined his head gravely, though Petra could see the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Brigid would be honored to host representatives of both our neighbors for discussions," he said. "Perhaps beginning with a feast tonight, to commemorate this most... unusual diplomatic opening."
As arrangements were made and the impromptu peace delegation moved toward the palace, Petra felt a strange certainty settle over her. She turned back toward the harbor, where the last traces of golden light were fading into the evening mist. Joy Boy was gone—for now—but his intervention had transformed what might have been a devastating war into something entirely different.
"He winked at me," she said quietly, more to herself than to her father who walked beside her.
Kanoa glanced down, surprise briefly crossing his features before softening into understanding. "Did he, now? You saw that?"
Petra nodded firmly. "Right before he made the ocean... bounce, I think is the Fódlan term."
A thoughtful expression crossed her father's face. "When you were born," he said slowly, "he appeared to me—only to me, it seemed, as none of the midwives saw him. He touched your tiny hand, and you smiled at him as though you recognized an old friend. Then he placed his hand on my heart and spoke directly into my mind."
"What did he say?" Petra asked, fascinated by this story she had heard many times yet never tired of.
"'Protect her freedom,'" Kanoa quoted softly. "At the time, I thought it meant simply to ensure you grew up with the autonomy befitting a princess and future queen. But now..." He looked out over the harbor where Imperial and Dagdan ships—deadly enemies just hours before—now floated peacefully side by side. "Now I wonder if he meant something more. If your freedom and Brigid's freedom are somehow intertwined with a greater purpose."
Petra considered this as they climbed the terraced path back to the palace. Above them, stars were beginning to appear in the deepening twilight, their eternal patterns a reminder of forces beyond human conflicts and concerns. The concept of a "greater purpose" might have seemed overwhelming for many children her age, but Petra had been raised from birth with the understanding that leadership carried both privilege and profound responsibility.
"If my freedom and Brigid's freedom are connected," she said finally, "then learning to protect both is part of my training to be queen someday, yes?"
Kanoa's smile was filled with pride and a touch of wistfulness. "Just so, my clever daughter. Just so."
As they reached the palace gates, Petra cast one last glance back toward the harbor where this extraordinary evening had unfolded. For just a moment—so briefly she might have imagined it—she thought she saw a flicker of golden light on the horizon, like a friendly wink from a distant star. Whether real or imagined, it filled her with a sense of reassurance that whatever challenges lay ahead for her and for Brigid, they would face them with unexpected allies and guidance from realms beyond ordinary understanding.
The drums might fade, the visitor might depart, but the message remained: freedom, laughter, and the shared recognition of our common humanity could transform even the darkest conflict into an opportunity for connection. It was a lesson Petra would carry with her in the years to come—through palace halls and foreign lands, through personal trials and political challenges—a truth as enduring as the spirits of Brigid themselves.
Chapter 39: Hello
Chapter Text
Hello, this is LittleSukana.
I just wanted to give a little insider on my life as of late. I haven’t been writing stories a lot because I’ve been so burnt out. Like I wrote a story for my college class in the span of two days with no sleep, and from that point on, I just didn’t wanna write. Which is why I haven’t written anything in a long time.
However, since my college semester is coming back, I am feeling the urge to ride again. So I just wanted to inform y’all that I am coming back to my stories. I have not abandoned my stories. I just needed a little break.
Now I may put out some new stories before I go back to my other ones, but make no mistake. I have not forgotten about them.
I hope y’all have a lovely day and I will see you all soon. Keep your eyes peeled. This message will go away, when a new chapter comes.
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