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By the autumn of 1181, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd had been executed following a coup and Oswald von Riegan had died following his yearlong decline. Meanwhile, Claude von Riegan's eyes still fluttered open at first light, and—unlike those who had been or would soon be put into the cold, hard ground—his skin still understood the joys of warm down.
Less pleasant was the jolt of cold that came with leaving his bed and the whirl of valets all around him with his clothes for the day.
"Ensure that he is buttoned properly," the head butler said. Like a well tuned automaton, the valet in front of Claude tightened the shirt closed over Claude's throat.
"Come on, Roald," Claude said, jolting his head back. "No need to choke me."
Roald said nothing, but the butler scoffed. His white hair and old, wizened face granted him a certain dignity, one that seemed to command his staff's obedience better than Claude's careless youth. "It will only get looser as the day goes on. We should at least start the day so that you still remain presentable by the afternoon."
"Tobias, I shudder to think how strict you must be with your grandson."
"My grandson will not be leading the duchy, young mas—" Something jumped in Tobias' features. A rare slip up. "...your grace."
"I'm not going to shame my grandfather's memory, regardless of what he might've had you think," Claude said lightly as he pretended to focus on buttoning his sleeves. "At the very least, I know the funerary rites. I've done the vigil well enough, haven't I?"
Tobias' mouth thinned into a line, but he remained silent for the rest of Claude's dressing. Once the overly complicated suit commissioned for the day fitted Claude to the butler's standards, the maids were finally allowed in with breakfast.
"You'd think old Tobias would be more lenient on the old man's only family during the burial day," Claude complained as soon as the butler and his attendants left the room. "As if I'd shame my own poor, departed grandfather."
"I've heard from the head maid that Tobias had been with his grace since he was a mere footman," one of the maids chattered. "He's rather protective of his grace." A beat. "N-not that I think you'd shame your grandfather."
"Thanks, Dulcie. I'm glad someone in this manor thinks so." Claude's attention turned to the plate of fresh bread and fruits placed before him. The crust cracked under his fingers and the warmth of the bread was even more pleasant than being bundled up in bed. The taste better still. "Give my compliments to Letta. Can't believe she's still baking like this with all the work the kitchens must be doing for the feasts tomorrow."
"Oh the kitchens are a mess," Dulcie said with a giggle. "You've really demanded quite a bit from them."
Claude groaned. "Is Letta mad?"
Sweet Dulcie with her dimpled face, and bouncing curls smiled sweetly and told him the bitter truth. "All the cooks in all three kitchens are mad, your grace."
"It's what happens when there's to be a feast open to the whole city on top of the banquet tonight." He sighed, stuffing the rest of the bread into his face. "Can't be helped."
"Very ambitious of you."
"Well, we ought to find time to celebrate and give the old man a proper sendoff." Although the prospect of having the cooks of the manor in a poor mood for the next several weeks was less than pleasant. He considered the expected guests again, and decided there really was only one way to resolve two of his problems. "Tell Tobias that I want all the servants not looking after a guest today to help the kitchen staff with anything they ask for instead."
"Oh my, Tobias won't like that." The dimples disappeared as Dulcie's grin turned into a pout. "All the maids got an earful from him this morning already about the poor state of the manor."
"He's just picky. The manor looks fine." He took another bite of the bread and sighed contentedly. "Food's more important. Your parents and brothers are coming into the city tomorrow, right? Don't want to disappoint them."
"Oh, yes! My little brothers are quite excited about it!"
Claude raised an eyebrow. "Excited? For a burial feast?"
"W-well," Dulcie stuttered, flushing. "They are children after all."
"I jest," Claude grinned. "A little liveliness is just what's needed after how dour everything has been."
"The tea is ready, your grace."
Warm air wafted past Claude as the other maid reached across him and set down his morning cup before returning to the sort of stiff attention that Tobias believed all servants should aspire to. If Dulcie was a chattering sparrow that always made Tobias upset, then the other maid was perfection incarnate as a servant in his eyes, seen only when she wanted to be and never heard.
"Thanks, Ava. Immaculately brewed as always."
A stiff bow at the perfect standard angle that Tobias believed all servants should aspire to. "I am pleased to hear that."
"So, how about your family, Ava?" asked Claude. "Are they planning to attend?"
"They're too far away, your grace. They declined when I asked."
"I guess Matera village is on the border to Edmund territory. A shame though. I've paid off the bakeries in Derdriu to have those pies you said your sister liked."
The maid smiled a rare, warm smile. "Thank you, but I'll simply buy them for her when she next visits."
"Oh, Ava! You should arrange for them to come to Derdriu the next founding day!" Dulcie said enthusiastically, waves of energy crashing against Ava's brick wall. "It'd be a happier occasion in any case. There really is nothing like a Derdriu masquerade…"
Claude leaned back into the parlor sofa, listening to the maids' chatter blend into the chatter of migratory birdsong. The sun was shining, the teacup hot in his hands, and bread fresh as can be.
A fine day for a funeral.
All in all, Claude supposed he should think himself lucky.
Halfway through his pot of tea, Roald announced that Ignatz Victor had arrived to see him.
"Tell Dulcie to bring in some more tea!" Claude shouted as Roald closed the parlor doors behind him.
"Th-that's really not necessary," Ignatz said, waving his hands in front of him. "I don't want to be a bother. You're busy today."
"Never too busy for my dear Golden Deer," Claude dismissed. He threw an arm over Ignatz' shoulder and half dragged him over to the seating area. "Besides, you're early. I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least."
"Well, I didn't want to be the one to hold you up. Not today." Ignatz barely waited to sit before drawing a notebook from his coat and holding it out for Claude to take. "Here, it's what you asked for."
"Thanks, Ignatz." Claude fought the urge to open it then and there, instead he said, "How's the merchant business treating you? Hope doing this favor for me hasn't been too much trouble."
"N-not at all!" Ignatz shook his head for emphasis. "My family's been having me go all over Leicester anyways."
"That's good. At least you're seeing more landscapes than when you're stuck in one place."
"That's not why I'm traveling," Ignatz protested weakly.
"Of course, of course," Claude grinned. "Just a nice bonus. Have you seen Raphael?"
"Yes! His loan request just went through two moons ago. The grand opening of their inn was only last week. Because of that, he couldn't step away for the funeral, but he says he's sorry he can't be here."
"Eh," Claude shrugged. "Not his fault the old man decided this was the time to die."
"Claude—"
"Your grace," he corrected.
Ignatz blinked. "O-oh, um—"
"I was joking," Claude said flatly. "Please don't call me your grace. I'm going to forget my own name at this rate."
Ignatz smiled wanly at that. "You've got a lot of responsibilities now, don't you? It's hard to imagine that it's only been a year since we were at Garreg Mach."
"So goes our innocent school days." Claude snorted. "If you could call them that. You've got plenty on your shoulders these days too, don't you? Are your parents still trying to push you into knighthood?"
"They are." Ignatz shifted in his seat, an unconscious sign of discomfort. "House Gloucestor actually offered me a position."
"Lorenz came through, huh? Good on him." There was a moment of silence as Claude turned the words over in his head, round and round like the swirl of his tea cup. "So. Are you taking him up on it?"
Ignatz took his own moment of silence. "I-I'm not sure. We're part of Leicester's guilds, and most of our business is up north. But House Gloucestor…it's…um…friendly to the Empire, isn't it?"
"It is." Claude took a sip, eyeing Ignatz' fidgeting just beyond the tea's steam. "Trade policies are pretty different in the Empire, aren't they? It'd be a pain for the merchant companies to have to operate out of both with Adrestia's emperor acting out as she is now."
Ignatz swallowed. "I know it's not really the biggest worry we should be having…"
"It is what it is," Claude said evenly. He poured another cup of tea and slid it toward Ignatz. "We all make do."
As was common to most nations, the funerary rites of Leicester's nobility were lengthy and ostentatious, demanding to fill as much space in death as their presence filled in life. The burial of the head of a nation only doubled down on this, yet for all the black and decorations of mourning, the various affairs and tasks left little time for the ones left behind to mourn in proper.
The living still had to go on, and no guild, merchant, or petitioner would wait for the dirt to cover the corpse before demanding that the successor continue their part as a cog in bureaucracy. So as he did every morning since his grandfather's death, Claude sat in the duke's study–his study–slowly making his way through the stacks of paperwork. This morning's pile was particularly high for this time of the day, as he had spent half of the morning entertaining Ignatz and reading through his notes.
When there was yet another knock on his door, Claude could only think that the gods had no intention for him to get much work done that day.
"Come in," Claude said without looking or stopping his quill.
Tobias stepped through the door and bowed deep. "Your grace, the ambassador from Enbarr has arrived."
That did give Claude pause. He set his quill down and looked up to see a second man behind Tobias, bowing equally deep. The man's blonde hair and gentle face didn't call to mind any of the Black Eagles he had known at Garreg Mach.
"Greetings, Duke Riegan," the man said, straightening. "My name is Arnfried von Rusalka. I am here on behalf of our emperor."
"Yes, I got notice that you were attending the funeral. What does Edelgard want?" As it always did when Claude had done something improper, Tobias' mouth thinned into a line and Claude mentally took out another half hour from his remaining work time to account for the impending lecture.
Arnfried continued to smile his bland smile, oblivious. "The emperor wishes to express her condolences towards the former Duke's passing. She hopes that the relationship between Riegan territory and the Empire will flourish even more than it had before, and sends this as a gift for the funeral."
With a wave of Arnfried's arm, Dulcie shuffled in, almost completely hidden behind the enormous bouquet of red begonias piled high in her arms. The petals flashed bright, drawing Claude's gaze, but not enough to miss the growing displeasure in Tobias' expression.
"It's lovely, Sir Rusalka." Claude flashed his own—brighter—smile. "But, as I'm sure you've noticed, too lovely to be displayed with the procession."
"A shame, but as long as Duke Riegan can enjoy them, then I am certain the emperor will be satisfied." There was no change in Arnfried's expression. So unnatural; the man's expressions made for a poor mask, Claude thought.
"For my eyes only, huh? How generous." Without breaking his gaze from Arnfried, Claude waved for Dulcie to set the flowers down in the corner. "Would she like a response?"
"The emperor would be delighted if you could. There's no need to rush of course, I am well aware that today is a busy time for you, and I intend to stay to pay my respects to the former Duke Riegan. I will depart tomorrow evening. I hope I am not intruding by requesting lodging here tonight?"
"Of course not." Claude had expected as much after all. "Dulcie, could you please show our guest to the spare room in the east wing?"
"Yes, your grace," Dulcie said, bowing as perfectly as if Ava herself was here to guide her.
"Please see to it that our guest has every need met while he's here, and let me know if there's any trouble providing for his service, won't you?"
When he was still able to leave his bed, Claude's grandfather had done his best to make sure that Claude kept out of the adjoining room accessible only from his study.
When he was bedbound, he had asked Tobias to keep Claude out.
When he died and Claude became the head of the house, no one could lock him out any longer. The chambers could be visited as Claude pleased, at any hour of the day rather than just in the dead of night when no one would bother him if he picked the locks.
There had used to be a rush in that forbidden entry. The locked doors, the secrecy, the mystery—it all added to the allure of Failnaught.
Now, looking at the monstrous bow, there was only a creeping dread. He still remembered the vein-like scars that ran up his mothers arms, a warning of what would happen if someone unworthy drew its string. Claude hadn't yet taken Failnaught down from its perch. Like all relics, it was the slightly off white of bone, and its core that housed the relic stone pulsed ominously. It was alive, and thoroughly unwelcoming.
Unlike his mother, he bore the Crest of Riegan. If one were to believe the church, that was enough to make him worthy.
But like most things involving those beyond the Church's reach, reality was not so simple. A Crest wasn't enough to be deemed worthy. Not to his grandfather. Not to the Roundtable. And who was to say Failnaught wouldn't pass the same judgment?
"Careful not to seem too gauche," Count Gloucestor said. "The streets are filled with people preparing for the celebrations tomorrow, even though the procession is today. One would almost think you were eager for your grandfather's passing."
Claude ticked his lips into shape, a perfectly serene curve of innocence. "Better to have one celebration than two separate ones. I'm flattered to think that you would like for me to honor myself in my own celebration, but the averil feasts tomorrow will be enough."
"Not quite the traditions of the Alliance." Gloucester smiled back. "Many wonder about this choice."
"Well, the ideas of the youth are often at odds with tradition, that's all. Rest assured, bolstering the morale of the commoners of Riegan territory will be to the Alliance's benefit."
"It's costly." Gloucester clicked his tongue as if he weren't plumbed up in a fine new suit of silks imported from the east. "Are you certain that's the best money spent with Fodlan as it is?"
"The people need reassurance of stability and normalcy," Claude replied. "I'm sure that Gloucestor territory feels that more than anyone at the moment, isn't that right?"
Gloucester narrowed his eyes. Not quite a glare, but as much as would be proper in what still had the veneer of a friendly discussion. "I can manage the affairs of my own territory."
"As can I," Claude said, bowing slightly. "Please, while you're here, I hope to show all of you proper hospitality. I understand that I am merely a child in your eyes, and I have nothing but respect for the guidance you have given me as I was temporary duke for my grandfather. I look forward to continuing to work with all of you for the sake of the Alliance in the future."
"You speak as if your position is secured. We tolerated your presence on your grandfather's word. He has earned our respect. You have not."
Claude bit down to prevent his smile from jumping. "Oh? You would remove Riegan from the Roundtable?"
"Not permanently," Count Ordelia said quickly. "There are simply some concerns. As you have said, you are young, and the Alliance is at the cusp of war, we never know what the next day may bring. It is time for a steady, experienced hand. Particularly for the head of the Alliance."
Claude glanced around the parlor at the gathering of the four other seats of the Roundtable. Not a single one spoke. He wanted to laugh, and he pushed the bitterness of the impulse out and used the mirth in his smile. "I am merely one voice among five. Compared to the Emperor of Adrestia, it's hardly a child at the helm."
"And look at where that youth has led us," Margrave Edmund huffed. "Fódlan in chaos, the Kingdom in shambles, and the Central Church unable to do a thing."
Claude's hand twitched. It was truly unanimous then. "The state of things is certainly frightening. But surely, that would only make large shifts within the Alliance less desirable?"
"A change in the seat at the Roundtable need not be disastrous." Edmund fixed him in place with a glare. "It wouldn't be the first in the past few years." Daphnel can do nothing.
"With all due respect, Margrave Edmund, you rose to your seat by your own merit. It won't do to downplay the economic influence you have on Leicester," Claude said, words all honey. "And whether you like me as its head or not, Riegan territory remains one of the most influential and populous in Leicester. To ignore its voice at the Roundtable would be to ignore one of the Alliance's greatest assets."
"That influence is precisely why we of the Roundtable hesitate to even allow your succession to duke, much less to head of the Roundtable."
An icy grip crept from his chest, out to his limbs. "...I don't believe that my succession is something that the Roundtable can meddle with. I am of Riegan blood, and I was named successor."
Goneril scoffed, no attempt to conceal his contempt behind the thin veil of politeness. "You can't fool my eyes, boy. Even if we haven't found proof yet, all of us know you haven't told the full truth of what you are. And I'm certain of your kind's character."
And like that, the line was drawn. The veneer was cut and shattered. No fire in the hearth could warm the cold gazes of the lords of the Roundtable.
"Suspicious," Gloucester said, venomous, "don't you think, for your grandfather to pass so soon? A Crested Riegan is notoriously healthy, even in their old age. Yet, as soon as you appeared and claimed to be heir, old Oswald's health took a turn for the worse."
Claude resisted the urge to lick his lips to part them. "I rather think it was the other way around. He sought me out because he knew his health was failing."
"I understand the gravity of this claim," Ordelia said, eyes heavy and haunted. Claude wasn't sure if the fear behind them was better than the contempt. "But I hope you understand why we must be wary."
There was nothing more that could be said. All was decided, the majority was counted. Satisfied, Gloucester clapped and drew back over them the veil of propriety.
"Ah, but this is no discussion for today. We must honor Oswald von Riegan's passing." The count stood, patting Claude on the shoulders once as he passed him. "We will discuss further at the next Roundtable. I hope you will be prepared for it."
He found Lorenz alone (thankfully) in the reception room near the gardens. "Hey, Lorenz! Just who I was looking for!"
"Claude!" Lorenz bolted up.
"Whoa, calm down. No need to get up on my behalf."
"Yes, well." Lorenz cleared his throat and reseated himself into the picture of nobility. "The meeting with the Roundtable has concluded then?"
"Sure," Claude said with a shrug. "Let's go with that."
Lorenz sighed, eyebrows creasing as deeply as Tobias' did whenever he was preparing for another lecture. "I presume that my father has notified you of the Roundtable's concerns."
"Sure did!"
"Then would it kill you to have any sense of urgency?" Lorenz snapped. He rubbed the crease on his brows. "Honestly, harsh as it may seem, this turn of events should not be unexpected to you."
"Hmm." Claude tilted his head up, half wishing that his gaze could breach even further than the vaulted ceilings of the manor and into the endless blue of the sky. "Well, yes, I guess I did expect it. The old guard cling to their ways for as long as they can."
"It is experience, and experience that you ought to have more respect for. It isn't too late to change their minds."
"I don't doubt their experience, but no amount of my respect is going to change their minds. I just wonder how the other lords will feel about your father trying to consolidate power in the South." He turned his bright smile back down towards Lorenz. "Doubt Edmund will get much out of vassalage to the Empire and a shift towards trading southwards. Goneril's too proud to ever bend the knee by vote."
Red rose high in Lorenz's cheeks. "Don't presume—"
"What's there to presume?" Claude said coolly. "He's got no intention of keeping Riegan as a vote, and I doubt that Daphnel will be up for consideration either. Burgundy might be too attached to the Central Chuch to go for it, but I'll bet it's going to be Siward and Albany that'll be vying for it. With the pressure of Gloucester support and proximity to the Empire, I doubt whoever grabs the vote will put up much resistance to handing Leicester over to the Empire."
Claude watched Lorenz's adam's apple bob up and down as he suppressed his nervousness. "...vassalage does not mean we'll be completely swallowed."
"Vassalage means we'll be dragged right back into the Empire's wars and affairs. You'd do well to remember why the Alliance left in the first place."
"Don't repeat history to me!" Lorenz hissed, growing ever redder. "Claude, the Roundtable will not be moved without results."
"Right." Claude took a breath. "Say, since you're so eager to forge friendships with the Empire, do me a favor won't you? An ambassador from the Empire came for the funeral. I don't exactly have time to entertain them, so can you show them some good old Leicester hospitality?"
With Lorenz occupying Arnfried von Rusalka in the tea gardens, Claude settled back into his study to have another go at the piles of work that still needed his attention. He was never fond of this type of bureaucrat's work, but the words slipped through his mind more fluidly than they did on his usual days.
Again and again, his attention fell towards the red begonias in the corner.
He could leave. It was what everyone wanted anyways.
The study door banged open with an accompanying cry of "Clauuuude!"
The bearer of that name started, shaking himself back into his practiced cheer. "Where's your ladylike delicacy?"
Hilda rolled her eyes, not breaking pace for a moment as she strolled into the study, arm in arm with Marianne. "I figured you needed a little more cheer and energy, right Marianne?"
"U-um, yes." Marianne's gaze briefly met Claude's before dropping quickly down. Claude leaned forward at his desk until he was lower than Marianne's lowered gaze and peered up at her curiously, making her turn red. "I…I'm sorry. My adopted father was rude to you, wasn't he?"
"Oh. That." Claude let his head thump against his desk with a sigh. "Yes, woe is me."
"Quit with the theatrics," said Hilda. "So? What are you going to do about it?"
"Dunno."
"Oh, come off of it." Hilda tossed her hair, fixing Claude with a skeptical glare. "We're obviously here because we're on your side."
Claude smiled. A smile that came more naturally this time. "Yeah, I know."
As if he didn't, Hilda ticked her fingers up point by point. "My dad probably won't be the duke for much longer, he's been complaining all the time at home. My brother will take over and you know, he likes you quite a bit. Even if he doesn't like you enough to vote in your favor, I can make him like you more."
"M-my adoptive father can be callous, but he'd never pass on opportunities," said Marianne. "I can make sure he gives your reasoning a fair consideration."
"Yeah." Hilda grinned. "And assuming Lysithea isn't too mad at you still for scaring her the night before we left Garreg Mach, she can work her parents over."
Claude faked a groan. "Ah, to have my future lie in the hands of my past sins."
"I told you to quit the theatrics. Count Gloucestor really doesn't like you so I doubt Lorenz can help you much, but you're not really going to let them push you out, are you?"
"No." He drew himself back up, resting his cheek on his hand. "I guess not. But I really don't have a solid plan yet. Got until the next Roundtable meeting to figure it out."
"That so?" Hilda said with a tone that thoroughly didn't believe him.
"Once I do, I'll be sure to let you guys know. Promise."
Outside, the belltower rang twelve times.
Marianne tugged at Hilda's arm. "Claude will need to head to the church soon. We should go, Hilda."
"Fine." Hilda huffed. "Be all mysterious for now."
"I'm but an open book before you two," said Claude, clasping his free hand over his heart.
Hilda huffed once more before turning on her heels, taking Marianne with her. Halfway through the turn, she suddenly stopped, eyes snapping towards the bright red bouquet in the corner.
"Who sent that?" she asked quietly.
"Edelgard."
"Hm." She turned her head until her eyes could meet Claude's, gaze cool. "It's in poor taste, isn't it?"
"The poorest," Claude agreed.
The tasteless flowers flashed red in warning. No, Claude thought, coming from Edelgard, it was more like a promise. Caution, the begonia petals cried, their soft petals belying their knife sharp threat.
Leave. Otherwise, there was likely to soon be another funeral.
On his way to meet Judith, a thoroughly frazzled looking Dulcie was bolting towards the back door.
"Something wrong?" he called out.
Dulcie didn't even bother to look at him, focusing entirely on lacing her boots. "Oh, your grace, I made a mess in the kitchen while I was fetching more tea for Sir Rusalka and the young Count Gloucestor. I don't know how I managed to trip so badly, but now Letta is furious. I've got to run to town for more supplies. Ava said she'd serve Sir Rusalka in my absence. I apologize, I must run." And true to her word, the moment her boots were tied tight, she took off and quickly became a speck in the distance.
"You're certainly running your staff ragged," came a woman's voice.
Claude sighed, and without turning, said, "You want to give me a lecture too, Judith?"
"Just a word of advice to not lose the good will of your household even more than you already have. They make your meals."
"Ah, well." Claude turned his head, and as expected, Judith's expression belied her levity. He smiled sardonically. "All that supposed household goodwill didn't help my grandfather much, did it?"
To her credit, Judith didn't flinch, but the set of her mouth hardened. "Suppose not. Let's go, boy. The procession is waiting."
The mortician had done a remarkable job preparing his grandfather's body for his final journey. Oswald von Riegan looked serene as he slept among the lilies piled high in his ornate casket, gold embossing immortalizing an image of him in his youth to be admired by the underworld for all eternity. The flowers drifted out of the casket, joining the petals fluttering from the hands of the mourners in his procession and into the onlooking crowds.
Claude could almost forget that he had watched the same mortician gut Oswald open at the mortuary.
The odor had been awful even though the corpse had been fresh. His grandfather's organs had rotted long before the rest of him was ready to, already tinged gray and black with the touch of death. The swollen masses that had once pressed against each other burst from the body now that even the thin layer of skin stretched over his skeletal body had been cut.
It wasn't the sort of thing that happened to a Riegan naturally.
When Claude had first met his grandfather in 1179, his impression of his grandfather had been of a man fading gracefully into his final days.
When Claude had been called back from Garreg Mach for his first Roundtable after Oswald had fallen ill, he had been surprised by the decline in health over the past few months he had been away, but had expected a good few more years out of his grandfather yet.
When Claude returned after the battle for Garreg Mach, he was faced with an old man on his deathbed.
"You're being poisoned," Claude said bluntly.
Even dying, the old man could muster up enough bitterness to scowl contemptuously at Claude. "I'm well aware."
"Since when? After I left for Garreg Mach?" The memory of Oswald's letter flashed in Claude's mind. His mother's surprise, her frown, and her sigh as she finally acquiesced to his begging to tell him that his grandfather's health had begun to fail. "Even before that? When you sent for me in Almyra?"
"Who can say?" Oswald said, voice coming out in a rasp that already rattled like the final shaking sigh that left a body with the soul. "I had thought I was unlucky compared to my predecessors, or Godfrey's death had taken its toll on me. But this year has clearly been more than that."
"We need to purge the staff."
Oswald glared again. "Do you take me for a fool? I've already replaced everyone who was hired within the past two years."
"But you haven't gotten better," said Claude. "Two years isn't good enough, we need—"
"It's too late for that, boy." The admission seemed to drain the old man, and his eyes shut. In wariness. In pain. When he spoke again, it was barely more than a murmur. "You were far from my first choice. Even ignoring your barbarian blood, I wouldn't have wanted to leave the Alliance to her child. Someone who could so easily abandon her responsibilities. Someone who didn't love the Alliance as I did. She wasn't suitable, and I was certain her child wouldn't be either."
"Yet here we are."
"Here we are." With great effort, Oswald opened his eyes and turned his head to fix Claude in his tired gaze. "You're my last choice, and my only choice. So, I beg you, take care of the Alliance. Even if you hate me, the people of the Alliance deserve better than to die to the Empire, or submit to them when we had to shed one hundred years of blood to get away."
Claude felt his mouth twitch into a wan smile. "Well, even ignoring how you're wrong about my father, you're wrong about your own daughter too. My mother loved the Alliance. Everything she did, she did because of that love."
The words rang false in Oswald's ears. "She abandoned the Alliance," he spat.
"She gave it peace." Still, bitterness lingered in Oswald's glare. It wasn't a bridge that would ever be mended in life. Claude sighed. "Don't worry. Because of her, I chose to love the Alliance too."
Dirt piled over the casket, burying both the man and the promise. All of his friends' expectations, and all his oppositions' hopes–no one would know which he had sworn to his grandfather to fulfill.
"Your grace," said Ava, "there's a mercenary at the gate who claims to have been your classmate."
"Yeah?" Claude tugged at his cravat and shucked it onto his chaise, relishing the newfound freedom his neck felt. "What's their name?"
"Leonie Pinelli."
"Oh!" Another breath of fresh air after the stuffiness of the day's activities. "Let her in, Ava."
"As you wish," the maid said with a bow before retreating.
"Bring some cups!" he called after her.
Ava turned. "For tea?"
"No." Claude grinned toothily. "For alcohol."
At that, Ava gave him a withering stare. "I must remind you in Tobias' stead that you still have a reception tonight, your grace."
"All in moderation," he promised.
Claude had scarcely finished removing his jacket and gloves before Ava returned with cups and Leonie in tow. Her hair was longer than it had been at Garreg Mach, now tied in a small ponytail at the base of her neck that swished about as she turned her head to take in the furnishings of Riegan manor. Her eyes stopped wandering when they fell on Claude and her mouth flatlined as if unsure of what expression to make.
Claude flashed her a grin. "Hey, Leonie!"
Like a mirror, she flashed her own grin back. "Good to know you're still making time for us, Duke Riegan."
"But of course," Claude said with a sweeping bow, gesturing towards the seating area piled high with his removed clothing. "It is my honor to host members of the illustrious Golden Deer House."
Ava rolled her eyes. "Your cups. And I'll trust you to remember moderation."
"What are those for?" Leonie asked once Ava had left. She chucked a glove onto the chaise on Claude's side of the table and took a seat across from him.
"Alcohol," he replied, shoving his clothes into a corner of the chaise. "I'm assuming that's what you brought."
"Am I that predictable?" Sure enough, Leonie pulled out a bottle from her travel bag, clear glass amber from its contents. "Wasn't sure what to give you on an occasion like this. Figured if we could offer the dead a drink at the grave, it might be appropriate to give some to the living too."
Claude took the offered bottle and sniffed at the cork. The ale's scent was buttery smooth.
"It's brewed in one of the villages neighboring Sauin," Leonie explained. "They've got some of the best ale in Gloucestor territory."
"Well from smell alone, can't say I disagree." The cork popped off easily. He poured them both a glass and raised his. "To my grandfather, I guess."
"Be more sure than that." She clinked her glass against his. "To your grandfather."
Together, they threw back their heads and downed the glasses in one go. The drink went down buttery smooth, as its scent promised. Claude licked his lips, enjoying the pleasant heat settling in from the alcohol. "Oh, this is good stuff."
"I'll be sure my dad tells that to the brewer. I'm sure he'll get a kick out of a noble giving it such high praise."
"You been home much?"
Leonie shook her head. "Nah. I'm working with a mercenary company now. Getting my name out there so I can make my own one day. Plus, I gotta pay my village back for all the money they spent sending me to Garreg Mach as soon as I can, you know?"
"Whoa, and you're taking your time to visit me?" He fluttered his eyelashes. "Leonie, I'm touched."
"Of course I took the time. Your grandfather died," Leonie said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
How else could he answer except with honesty in return? His smile lost a bit of its garish edge. "Then, really, I'm touched. I'm sure you're busy these days."
"Definitely no shortage of jobs," Leonie agreed without pleasure.
Claude lifted a brow. "Not liking the job as much as you thought?"
"Well." She frowned into her glass. "You know why I wanted to become a mercenary, right?"
"Jeralt made an impression on you."
"Yeah." Leonie nodded. "Captain Jeralt's company protected Sauin, and it was the first time I was ever seeing a way of making a living other than farmwork and hunting. He took the time to teach me all sorts of things I never thought I'd learn before I met him. You know, the Alliance doesn't have the greatest standing armies. I guess the thought of being a mercenary, filling the space that noble's soldiers couldn't to protect villages like mine, appealed to me."
A long sigh escaped Leonie, and with it, she sagged forward. "But well. It's always just hey attack that noble's garrison because they slighted me. Or oh won't you defend me I pissed that baron off by accident. You nobles sure like to be petty and spill good blood over it."
Claude winced. "Can't disagree there."
"My advice is maybe tighten the purse strings and hold back tempers a bit. There's more important things to do than sniping at each other over–ugh, I can't even tell you what all the fighting is for. It's enough to tear my hair out." To prove her point, she ran a rough hand through her hair, annoyed. "It's just. It's not what I imagined mercenary work would be like, you know?"
"You could go to the Kingdom or the Empire," Claude suggested. "I imagine the work there is a little more meaningful."
Leonie snorted. "I guess the scale is bigger at least. Still just nobles squabbling with each other in the end."
The laugh that tore through Claude almost shook him enough to miss the cups as he poured more ale. "I'm sure," he gasped between laughs, "Edelgard would be thrilled to have her campaign compared to good old Alliance backstabbing."
"To the squabbles that give me coin," Leonie said seriously, raising her glass in a toast.
"To the squabbles that give you coin," Claude repeated back. Clink went the glasses and down went the ale.
"But," she said, earnestly serious this time. "I don't want to go to the Kingdom or the Empire. The people I want to pay back are here in Leicester and…" The remaining traces of levity faded from Leonie's expression. "The war's spreading here, isn't it?"
All Claude could offer was a wary sigh. "How's Sauin? Is it already feeling it?"
"Count Gloucestor's trying to appease the Empire." Her fingers tightened around the glass in her hand. There wasn't much ale left in the glass, but she stared into the small pool that remained at the bottom, tilting the glass back and forth to move it. "I appreciate that he's trying to prevent an invasion in his own way, but everyone knows that our tax hikes are because the Empire's asking for appeasement money, and that just means Leicester's already involved. I just can't stop wondering, what if we can't appease the Empire anymore and they invade? Maybe Gloucestor would kneel, but I doubt most of the nobles would do it so easily. Then what if the Kingdom sees all this and decides to get involved again and secure some territory to prevent the Empire from gaining ground?"
Honesty should be met with the same. "Sorry, I can't say any of those things won't happen."
"Yeah, I know." Leonie's shoulders tightened for a moment before she looked up again to meet his eyes. "To tell you the truth, I don't really care who wins. All that talk about who gets to rule goes over my head. But I care a lot about what happens before you nobles figure it out. I've met a lot of squabbling nobles this past year, but all the people in their towns and villages were just trying to live their lives between all that. They were the ones that I thought I would be fighting for. I want to be fighting for." She sighed. "Maybe that's wishful thinking for a mercenary."
"Hey, your mercenary company can be whatever you want it to be once you're captain, right?"
"Guess so," Leonie said, a small smile finally returning to her features. "Sorry. I just meant to give my condolences. I don't know how we started talking about all this instead."
"Don't be, I'm always glad to hear your thoughts, and I mean that," he promised. Then, slowly, "And if you really feel that way…I might have a job for you."
For all their talk of a post-funeral reception being too "gauche", the various nobles seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. Edmund would never leave an opportunity to do business on the table, and as he watched the margrave give his enthusiastic pitch to the barons of the north, Claude could easily see how the man had risen to prominence so quickly. Hilda and Marianne had cornered Duke Goneril who was preoccupied with laughing at whatever his daughter had to say. Count Ordelia was perhaps the least enthusiastic as he hovered near Count Gloucestor who was leading his southern coalition. Meanwhile, good old Lorenz had taken Claude's request to heart, and was still attached at the hip to the Imperial envoy even though Claude no longer had need for him to be so diligent in fulfilling his request.
The food was plentiful, the music soothing, and his guests all preoccupied with each other. Easy enough to slip away.
The night air was biting, but not so ferociously yet that Claude wanted to bolt back inside immediately. The silver moon hung whole in the sky, and its light painted the balcony in pale blue. It was, he thought, the sort of stuff that artists would commit to paper or stone in hope that they could capture the moon's blessing into a human creation.
And so an artist was. Ignatz had no paper in hand, but his intense staring could only be assumed to be him committing the sight to memory.
"Party too much for you?"
Ignatz startled, turning around quickly as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have. On anyone else, Claude would've been more suspicious."O-oh! Claude! What are you doing out here?"
"Hey, sometimes parties can get too much for me too." Ignatz did not look very convinced by that, and Claude laughed as he approached. "Gets stale listening to all these people who were cursing my grandfather while he's alive say such sweet words about him now. Nice to get a breath of fresh air like this."
"I guess I get that," Ignatz said slowly. "But I'm surprised you're not the center of attention."
"I think the nobles are looking beyond me."
"But you're the one in mourning," he said, brows furrowing.
"That's hardly the most important thing right now," Claude dismissed.
"Well. I'm sorry about your grandfather." A moment's hesitation. "And about your uncle."
Claude raised a brow. "You weren't involved in that."
Ignatz was staring at the ground now. Claude remembered Raphael's displeasure at Ignatz' unending guilt, and wondered if that old thing was eating at him again. "My family was supposed to be."
Claude clapped Igantz on the back, forcing him to look back up. He clapped a few more time for good measure, and Igantz' glasses went askew. "It's not like they would've been able to save him. They would've just been the ones to get hurt instead."
"Maybe," Igantz muttered as he readjusted his glasses. "I don't know. It wasn't the first time merchants got involved in fights between nobles. My family's been stuck between them on more than one occasion. It's odd to see them all get along in there knowing how some of them have used us to hurt each other."
"Hm. So what do you think about the work I've used you to do?"
"It's…fine. I guess." Ignatz peered at him from behind his glasses, eyes half hidden behind the glare of the moon on his lenses. It was uncertain. "I've just been asking around about the people you're curious about at my stops. I…don't think that's hurt anyone."
"Well, it certainly hasn't. Yet." Claude watched Igantz swallow nervously. "But I can't say it's that far removed from squabbling between nobles."
"...who are you after?"
"Would my answer change whether or not you keep helping me with odd jobs?"
Ignatz hesitated. "You're right that if it hadn't been Raphael's family, it would've been mine. That's what makes it worse. The target was never them, only Godfrey von Riegan mattered." He was staring towards the reception hall, watching the richly dressed figures intermingle and part in one more elaborate ceremony for a Riegan death. "Everything happening now, with the Empire, it's the same isn't it? Only a few nobles really matter when it comes to winning the war, but people are going to die anyway, because that's just how it is."
Silence fell. Claude could see words working themselves in Ignatz's mouth, so he waited for the answer. He wasn't nervous anymore when he finally looked back at Claude. "If it's going to be like that, then yes, it would affect my answer. So, Claude, what exactly are you trying to do?"
Claude smiled. "I want to make the war pass over the Alliance quietly."
Oswald had begged on his life for Claude to stay, and Claude supposed a dying man's wish should hold some weight. Besides, as it turned out, love didn't fade so fast. Not in others, and not in himself.
It was long past midnight when Claude sat in the kitchen nearest the guest wing of the manor. The reception had long since winded down, and even the kitchen workers had finished their cleaning for the day and finally gone to their well deserved rest. He left a few candles lit as he waited, and stared into the flickering flames to count the time passed.
"Your grace?"
Claude looked up. She had moved as silently as ever. Ava was frowning down at him as she approached and set her own candle down on the countertop near him. "What are you doing here so late, your grace?"
"I was waiting for you," he replied, smiling serenely.
Ava's frown deepened. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sir Rusalka won't be coming tonight." Claude pulled a thin red strip of cloth from his pocket and held it against the candle, watching carefully for any hardening of her gaze, or stiffening of her face. "Found this tucked in with his guest linens."
He had to admit, she was at least better at maintaining a more natural mask than Rusalka. Still, it was almost too neutral, unchanging as words appeared on the cloth where it was being warmed.
East wing kitchens. Two chimes past midnight.
"I'm not sure I understand, your grace. I simply came to double check our stock for the morning."
"Did you know that Ava Myden's sister died last winter?" And that, it seemed, finally exposed a crack. The barest twitch of Ava's face. Claude tucked the cloth back into his pocket, and ran his fingers over the knife handle beside it. "I didn't, until this morning. Yet, you never left to attend a funeral for a sister that you claimed to love so much. And for the past year, you kept talking about her as if she were in tip top shape. The recommendations at the various manors that Ava Myden worked at before were certainly real, my grandfather made sure of that much. I don't know if you've paid off the real Ava Myden or simply stolen her identity, but I do know that you joined the household just before Godfrey's death, and I do know that my grandfather's health didn't begin to decline until after that."
"Ava" sighed. "Did you put the Gloucestor boy up to hounding Sir Rusalka?"
"I figured it'd be easier to intercept your more indirect attempts of communication."
"No need to brag so, your grace," Ava said, snorting. "I was plenty frustrated seeing Sir Rusalka with yet another person attached to his hip after I had gotten rid of Dulcie."
Claude clicked his tongue. "Don't say it like that, Dulcie will be sad. She's fond of you."
"I suppose she is. It really is a shame," Ava said, not looking very regretful at all. "I quite enjoyed working here."
A flicker of silver drew Claude's eyes to the dagger that had appeared in Ava's hands. He looked back at Ava and deepened his smile. "I'm glad."
"You should've heeded the Emperor's warning."
"I did."
The cabinet door burst open behind Ava, knocking her forward. It interrupted her focus, but as expected of someone that the Empire would send so deep into Riegan territory alone, that wasn't enough to fully disrupt her. Without looking, Ava twisted away on her fall, and Leonie's spear hit the floor instead.
Leonie reacted immediately, changing the arc of her spear to slice at Ava, but the maid had already regained her bearing and parried with her knife. Ava swept out a leg, foot hooking the back of Leonie's ankles and knocking her to the ground.
Claude had to admire her efficiency and speed—in the same sweeping motion she had used to knock Leonie down, Ava used the momentum to spin herself back on feet and was ready to meet his dagger with her own. From the floor, Leonie adjusted her spear and thrust it towards Ava, forcing her to break away from Claude and giving him the opportunity to grab a second weapon from the kitchen knife stand. With a flick of his wrist, he released the knife towards Ava's chest where somehow it met air instead of flesh.
His gaze dropped to follow Ava's movement, crouched so close to the ground yet closing the distance between them in a single bound. He barely managed to raise his dagger in time to parry a thrust from Ava's. The silver of the daggers flashed in the candlelight, brightening as they collided repeatedly.
Again, Leonie's spear distracted Ava from her assault. But this time, as the spear passed through the empty space between Ava's arm and torso, Ava caught the spear with her free hand. In the same moment, she blindly swept her dagger behind her, slicing through Leonie's leg.
Leonie cried out, and that was enough distraction for Ava to take control of the spear and force its path towards Claude, forcing him to back away.
"Why you—" Teeth grit in fury, Leonie let go of her spear and caught Ava's neck in the crook of one arm, and Ava's dagger arm in the other.
Ava made a choking sound as Leonie dragged her backwards, away from the warm light of the candle and bathing both of them in the silver moonlight pouring in from the open window. Her knife flashed as she moved to stab at Leonie even from the awkward bend of her restrained arm.
A quiet whir whistled through the air and Ava dropped her knife with a cry.
Leonie was completely unfazed by the arrow now sticking out of Ava's shoulder and took the opportunity to pin Ava to the floor.
A cast iron pan was probably a little too heavy for his purposes, so instead, Claude took a rolling pin and tested its heft. It was good enough. He raised it high. "Let's talk more in the morning."
Claude cracked the wood over the back of Ava's head, and her body collapsed, unmoving. Leonie held her still for a few more moments before moving to sit up, keeping a knee against Ava all the while.
"How's your leg?" Claude asked.
"Eh, the cut's not deep," Leonied huffed. She was focused on binding Ava's wrists together, but that wasn't enough to distract her from her displeasure. "Pissed she got me like that though."
"We should still get that healed as soon as we can. Even a small cut like that could cause trouble if it's poisoned."
"D-did we get her?"
Claude turned towards the hoarse whisper at the window and grinned. "Yup. Good shot, Igantz."
The archer leaned his body through the window to get a better look. "So, what now? Should we alert the Roundtable?"
"That'll be for later. Best to get all the information we can out of her before we decide how to best play this." Claude rubbed his chin, thinking. "Say, have you guys met Judith before?"
Arnfried von Rusalka looked as if he had a perfectly good night full of restful sleep when he appeared in Claude's study the next morning. He bowed deep in his sweeping greeting. "Duke Riegan, I'm honored to see you so early this morning. I was not expecting an opportunity to speak to you again before my departure this evening."
"I thought you might wish to hasten your schedule if you've done everything you needed to," Claude said.
"Oh? I still await your response to my Emperor."
"Yes, and it's ready." Claude tossed a roll of paper through the air, and Rusalka leapt to catch it before it fell. "I thank her for the flowers, and I send her a gift back."
Rusalka stared at the roll of paper, sealed shut with a wax seal of Riegan burned over a strip of red cloth. The wax was still warm, and where its heat radiated, faint words could be read.
—wing kitchens. Two chimes past—
Slowly, Rusalka bowed again. "I will ensure that the Emperor receives your response."
Failnaught's gleam was no less daunting today than it was yesterday. Its bone-like etchings still twitched and pulsed angrily, as if it could sense the blood that it would be forced to draw soon. At the very least, today, it wouldn't be his.
There was no sharp pain when Claude took it down from the wall of the locked room, no indignant backlash that would turn him instantly into a beast that was good for nothing except war.
It weighed heavy in his hands.
Claude supposed he'd have to get used to it.