Chapter Text
He’s been had.
Ever since he received that new job from a commoner who looked innocent enough to not be implicated, Jeralt had sensed something was wrong. The man’s shoulders were too tense, his eyes darting towards too many places at once, and he knew that something was up.
Had it not been for his child, he would have turned the job down. Alas, she was very adamant.
“If you don’t pick it up, I will.” Byleth told him that very night at the tender age of seven-and-a-quarter, speaking fluent brigidian with enough of a sharp edge that he understood, better than anyone else, that she meant business. “I want to go.”
Not that Jeralt didn’t understand it either, because he was curious as well. What kind of person uses a falsified assignment to lure a band of mercenaries towards a place they can reach, if not one who is desperate to get them killed?
Jeralt hasn’t had a worthy opponent in at least a few decades, so he understands that the ache deep within his bones is clouding his judgement. Byleth, likewise, seems eager to find the exact same as him – a challenge .
So he sighed, nodded his head and promptly told his child to drop the second language since they were no longer in the presence of foreign clients. She did it in a heartbeat, back to her stony silence that would make a man three times her size shiver in fear, and went on with sharpening her sword as if nothing ever happened.
Like father, like daughter. Or son. Or whatever lies in or out of that deal.
And that’s how he ended up here, cornered like a rat by people he never expected to ever see in his life.
Marquis von Vestra and Emperor Ionius IX, as well as a young boy who must be equally important.
This week is going to be a mess.
“I don’t think I understand, say it again?”
“I cannot entrust anyone else with this assignment, Blade Breaker. Please, I beg of you.”
Jeralt sighs deeply at that, sitting down at the fragile wooden chair near the fireplace. He passes a few fingers through his hair, feeling the way it’s slightly matted from lack of care, and he realizes that he hasn’t had so much as a single minute to shower since yesterday – horrid.
“I got that part, yes. I’m not associated with the church anymore, I’m almost invisible and our prices are reasonable.” He says as he looks up. Right there, on the other side of the room, he finds the Emperor sitting as properly as he is able to in a chair equally uncomfortable as his own. “But surely you realize how risky this is?”
It’s not like Byleth wouldn’t be able to take an assignment like this, she would , as would his loyal men from all over the continent and even beyond . What worries Jeralt is the other side of the deal.
The royal children.
“How can you guarantee that they won’t just, forgive the language, outright kill your children and yourself the moment they realize something is up?” Worry seeps into his tone, something only a father can muster up as danger looms in the horizon, “Surely you could…”
“No!” They all jump as the young boy by Lord Vestra’s side speaks up, his face red with determination. “They can’t be left there. I swear to you, there is no other option.”
And as Jeralt watches the young boy that looks eerily similar to Lord Vestra flinch under his father’s gaze – for speaking out of turn, no doubt –, he can only think about the logistics of this.
What kind of group of people is strong enough to take away the Emperor’s children from him? What kind of group can so readily pose a threat big enough that the most powerful man in Adrestia has no choice but to petition a band of foreign mercenaries to save his family?
Does Jeralt want to have those people as his enemies? Does he want to have the empire as his enemy, should he refuse?
And the more he thinks of it, the more it dawns on him that he’s been had. Not a choice, no, for refusing would mean having half of the continent hot on his trail looking for blood, for his child’s blood, for his men’s – and accepting would mean having both the church and whoever those people are also looking for him afterwards.
Curse him and his child’s need for a challenge, they might have just picked up an assignment too big.
A thunk upon the wood of the inn room’s floor brings him back to the present, followed by alarmed cries and pleas. Jeralt looks up from his hands to find none other than the Emperor kneeling upon the floor, staring up at him.
His hands come together in prayer, “I beg of you, Blade Breaker. Please, please…” The man’s voice shakes, faltering in the cold morning air, “Please save my children. I have… I have no one else to ask this to.”
You are my only chance , goes unsaid, but Jeralt hears it clear enough.
He’s never been so uncomfortable in his entire life, save perhaps for the day young Alois came to him asking about love soon after meeting his future wife.
He looks up from the Emperor, catching sight of the other two in the room. Lord Vestra looks about ready to bite his head off, as does his son, but the boy’s stern look carries something else within it – hope . A silent plea for him to accept, to save the royal family from whatever dark fate has befallen them.
And Jeralt…
(Curse his bleeding heart, why did he have to be born a knight of all things?)
He sighs deeply.
“Kid, get out of the closet, I know you’re there.”
The men in the room visibly flinch, turning with glowering looks towards the one wooden closet by the bed.
It’s not from there that Jeralt’s child comes from, though, but directly from the rafters above by sliding down a support pillar – Jeralt almost smiles at the way he can still trick people so high in the food chain and watches as Byleth darts around the stunned guests to join him by his side.
He’d known his child would try to spy on their private meeting from the moment he told her she couldn’t join in. From the utterly paranoid looks the young boy by Lord Vestra’s side gave almost everyone, though, he knew it would also be a challenge.
Lord Vestra scowls at him, but Jeralt has long tuned out the man’s bad mood. He turns to his daughter as she stands in front of him, expression as neutral as ever yet more eager than before.
“You heard the man, we’re making a detour to Adrestia. Grab the boy and go warn the others.”
There is no discussion to be had and Lord Vestra hardly complains as his son looks at Byleth with a heavy gaze that speaks of curiosity – piqued his interest, did she? His daughter has always been rather puzzling to noble folks.
The Emperor, coming to his feet with some assistance from the Lord beside him, can only smile weakly.
“You have my deepest gratitude, Sir Eisner. I cannot thank you enough.”
And Jeralt can only sigh as he watches his daughter walk out of the room with not a worry on her mind, followed closely by Lord Vestra’s son.
“Save it. Wait until it’s done, just to be sure.”
Jeralt isn’t exactly sure of what he expected as he essentially stormed the Adrestian palace’s dungeons in secret.
Well for one thing, he certainly expected weird magic shenanigans to be happening – a given in most of his assignments, but what he did not expect was to find his daughter more of a killing machine than ever before.
Almost as if possessed, he watches as Byleth carves her way through wave after wave of mages in black robes like a hot knife through a stick of butter. He doesn’t even mind the blood, so much as he minds the reason for her frantic advances.
Always the sharper of them. If she wants to hurry, then it’s best for him to hurry too.
“Eyes forward! We’re rushing ahead!” He calls for his men and he hears the same instruction shouted a few more times in different languages – brigidian, duscurian, almyran, srengese. “No mage left alive unless they have a charm!”
And just like that, his entire company follows behind the path his daughter has begun carving for them. Despite the fact this place is meant to be empty, it’s full of mages and assassins in black robes that come at them from every angle.
Jeralt’s senses are the only thing keeping their company from losing any men and he understands, better than anyone else, why is it that they devote so much of their energy to him now.
Pillars of the Blade Breakers, he and his daughter are.
“Comb through the cells.” He hears from behind him, the voice of his right hand woman ringing out through the dungeons. Almyran she is and it’s easy to tell from her accent, which is why she hardly ever talks in the presence of their clients – here, though, she can say whatever she wants. “Gather any bodies we find, they need a proper burial!”
Jeralt sends out a prayer to Sieyar and Uheyar under his breath, the almyran gods of life and death, and he can only hope that they won’t find any bodies to bury at all.
The next few minutes seem hellish, the stench of blood and death following them every step of the way. Jeralt plunges through men and women and creatures with enough fervor to justify his old title of Blade Breaker and soon enough…
There is silence.
The panting of his men fill in his ears, as well as the quiet hum of healing magic befalling their injured.
“Is it… is it over, Captain?” One of his own asks, voice trembling in the harsh air.
Jeralt takes a moment to eye his surroundings in a way he couldn’t afford to in battle – bleak , is what anyone with sense would say, but he keeps his mouth shut.
The dungeon corridors are carefully illuminated by light spells that float in the air, revealing dark cells with nothing but dust within them. Jeralt looks ahead as a large room extends into view and he can see a trail of bodies leading further in – Byleth is ahead.
Aside from their own sounds, however, there is nothing else.
“Three groups, injured in the middle. Let’s go.”
And they continue.
Further ahead the large room forks into several corridors. One would have gotten lost down here without any guidance, but Jeralt has the trail his daughter left in her wake to use – as they walk, he thinks he can hear noise.
It’s unclear, but it seems like… metal bending .
“Captain…? You don’t think there’s a beast down there, right?” One of his youngest mercs calls out, trembling all over. “W-What if the Ashen—”
A hand slams at the back of his head, “Hush now, the Ashen Demon wouldn’t fall for something like that. Are you daft?”
Jeralt shakes his head, he knows there’s nothing to worry about.
“Byleth, what did you find?” He shouts down the corridor before he can even see his daughter and although his brigidian may be rusty, it’s still understandable.
She answers soon enough, more comfortable speaking her second language than her first. “Children here. We found them, pa.”
Jeralt’s blood runs cold.
When Hubert is outright ordered to remain outside in the mercenary camp while the others go inside, he protests vehemently.
He was never one for tantrums even in his childhood and whatever will he had to behave so had quickly been beaten out of him a long time ago – all the same, his chest swells with fear .
He could not stay behind, would not, and so he got into an argument with the Captain.
“I am more than capable of defending myself, sir.”
“I am not bringing you along either way, what do you expect to do down there? We don’t play heroes here.”
Said argument does not last long, for Hubert has yet to learn the proper rules of fine negotiations, but it isn’t him who stops it.
It’s the girl, the one who was spying on them.
“He’s scared, pa. Do we need to leave him?” She asks the tall man in near perfect brigidian and had Hubert been any less dedicated to his role as future Marquis, he wouldn’t have understood her.
And for a moment, his mind wanders as he begins to question whether his assessment had been wrong – for starters, he had immediately assumed she was fódlani due to her appearance, but to be fluent at such a young age like him…
Either she wasn’t from Fodlán at all or she had been taught as fervently as he had. That idea alone made him flinch, for his own education had not been kind to him.
“You I can trust to kill whatever we’ll find down there, but this boy is too scrawny to do much of anything.” The man scoffs, a click of his tongue showing his displeasure. “I’m not saddling you with dead weight.”
Despite the slight, Hubert holds his tongue as he pretends not to understand a word. It will be better if neither knows that he can speak just as fluently as them, if only for gathering information.
Even then, he’s sure that he won’t be as useless as they’re expecting him to. He’s Hubert von Vestra, he’s been trained since before he even knew how to walk on magic so as to protect the royal family – he was too young to help before, couldn’t he help now?
It’s with a step forward that the girl pulls him away from his thoughts. Hubert almost snaps at her, on edge as he is, but he stops right as he opens his mouth at the look that she gives him.
Stern, resilient.
“I will save them. Stay here.” Is all she says.
Hubert almost expects more, but he doesn’t hear anything. The girl and her father, two pillars that the entire company of mercenaries seem to rely on rather heavily, turn away before he can say a word in response – and they leave without looking back.
Hubert grits his teeth.
Lady Edelgard… forgive me for not being there to save you.