Work Text:
Ingrid doesn’t like her room placement.
She sleeps at the end of the hall near the stairs. Every hint of chatter from her classmates as they pass drifts through her door when she settles down to study, read, or sleep. She hears every creaking step, every hushed whisper of students evading Seteth after curfew, every exhausted sigh and lazy drawl and fit of giggles.
(That’s usually Hilda chatting with Marianne or whatever girl Sylvain thinks he’s being stealthy leading upstairs.)
When she’s finally lying down and trying to quiet her thoughts and conjure dreams of flying to sleep, a sudden commotion in the hall startles her awake. She bolts upright with her heart in her throat and reaches for the knife she hides under her pillow - her father’s idea - before swinging her legs out of bed and creeping towards the door.
Voices, low and urgent, travel through the solid wood. Ingrid’s tired, frenzied mind supplies scenarios, of bandits robbing noble students, of assassins targeting His Highness. She opens the door, wincing at the creaking hinges but keeping a tight grip on her knife.
Her lips part in surprise when she finds Hubert and the old student they rescued engaged in furious conversation. Her name...Ingrid curses herself for being so rude she can’t recall her name.
“...know what it is you’re seeking to accomplish,” Hubert mutters, “but be sure not to drag Lady Edelgard into it.” He grips the girl - Monica! - by her uniform blazer, his dark eyes angry and full of warning.
Ingrid should shrink back into her room, dismiss this confrontation as a spat between housemates, but her feet refuse to move. She worries of danger to His Highness or any of her classmates.
Monica’s lips curve into a predatory smirk. “Oh, Hubert, you worry too much.” She looks unruffled by Hubert’s threatening tone and barely blinks at his manhandling. “You know,” she muses, voice low, “you fret and fear little Edel’s hands getting dirty, but you shouldn’t worry so much while I’m around.”
Ingrid stares through the gap between door and frame, confused. Her eyes widen as they catch on a knife Hubert grips behind his back.
“Besides,” Monica continues, leaning closer to Hubert, “she won’t need you while she has—“
His face twists with rage as he raises his hand to strike, but Monica slips from his grasp. Her fist connects with his elbow, his knee, his abdomen, each punctuated by a hiss of pain. Monica catches the knife as it slips from his grasp, and before he doubles over the blade rests against his throat.
Ingrid covers her mouth to muffle a gasp. Should she intervene?
“Nice try,” Monica sneers, not even a little out of breath, “but you’re out of your league here, you filthy brat, and don’t you forget it.”
With that she drops the knife, leaving it sticking up from the wooden floor.
Hubert watches her stalk away, his face twisted with rage and his hands curled into fists.
And Ingrid retreats back into her bedroom. She leans against the door, attempting to still her pounding heart while her mind tries and fails to make sense of everything.