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The archbishop arrived in Fhirdiad on the twelfth of the Blue Sea Moon.
The king himself greeted her at the gates of Castle Blaiddyd, as befit a dignitary of her status. He bowed at the precise degree afforded to an equal, and took her hand with a polite smile, but did not kiss it as he would that of a noble lady. The archbishop was above such a gesture. She was the representative of the Goddess. Perhaps even Her vessel, if the whispers of the devoted were true.
Under the reverent eyes of the nobility and clergy, the king and the archbishop exchanged greetings. She thanked him for the invitation to the ball. He expressed gratitude that she had honoured him with acceptance. They spoke with such formal cordiality that no one could believe the rumours from the war had been anything but idle gossip.
Still smiling, the king led the archbishop down the waiting line, introducing her to each of his advisors and council members until they reached the young woman at the end. Dark-haired and pretty, she lowered her eyes modestly at the archbishop’s approach, a lovely blush lighting up her face.
Only those closest to the king would have noticed the way his composure wavered. “May I present the Lady Marta von Menja to the attention of Your Grace,” he said, gallant smile fixed in place.
The king did not introduce the lady as his betrothed. He did not need to. Though the engagement was not yet official, everyone knew the announcement was to be made at the ball that night.
The archbishop allowed the lady to take her hand, an honour bestowed only upon royalty. “The flow of time has brought us together,” she said with perfect serenity. “May the Goddess watch over you.”
There was only one person who could see the cracks in her mask.
The future queen curtsied low. “I am honoured, Your Grace. Please, allow me to escort you to your chambers.” She was radiant with pride when she rose, eager to take her first step as the castle’s hostess.
The archbishop nodded graciously, following the lady inside. She did not look back at the king. He did not watch the archbishop depart. They continued on with their separate duties, paths leading them apart.
As was to be expected, of the archbishop and the king.
When she entered the ballroom that night, the crowds parted before her.
It was supposedly an anonymous event. A masquerade, with each guest’s face hidden behind an animal mask. But there was only one person who would come bearing the visage of the Immaculate One, white scales gleaming in the candlelight and delicate silver horns curling through pale hair.
Others might abandon social rules that night, but the archbishop was always the archbishop. One step apart from the mundane world, untouchable and serene.
It was a lonely existence, but at least it made it easier for her to reach the banquet table undisturbed. Byleth walked at the measured, regal pace of the archbishop, shoulders back and head held high, even beneath the weight of her mask. In the heat of the ballroom, sweat was already gathering on her skin beneath its stiff, shimmering material.
Uncomfortable as she was, Byleth was grateful that the mask left her mouth uncovered. Others weren’t so fortunate, but she was able to nibble on a fancy pastry, watching numbly as couples swayed across the ballroom in a dazzling display.
It was a far cry from the last time she’d been in the royal ballroom. Two years had passed since the liberation of Fhirdiad, the capital transforming from a starved city to the heart of a new kingdom. It was encouraging to see the growth, and yet Byleth found herself longing for the ballroom of that past night. When the food had been plain and the dancers were soldiers, and everyone laughed as they made up the steps.
When she’d walked out into the gardens, and he had followed, arms wrapped around her as the moonflowers bloomed…
The pastry was tasteless in her mouth.
Byleth forced herself to swallow. There was no point in dwelling on the past. She’d made her choice, and could only continue to walk forward—even if it meant watching the man she loved marry another.
He was somewhere in the crowd of dancers, a lovely masked maiden in his arms. That was the role of the king at his betrothal ball. He would spend the evening dancing with an endless line of ‘anonymous’ women, until the moon reached its peak. Then beneath the watchful eyes of all, he would unmask the mysterious girl who’d stolen his heart that night, proclaiming her his future queen. To finish the night, the archbishop would approach, blessing their union as fated by the goddess.
It was an old tradition, stretching back to the days of Loog. It was said that the King of Lions truly had met and fallen for his beloved Maiden of Wind at a masquerade ball. His descendants had dutifully followed his lead ever since—in appearances, at least. Everyone knew that the fortunate lady was chosen long before the ball, and rarely for reasons of love. The masquerade was a formality. Nothing more.
That thought might have been a guilty comfort, but it didn’t change reality. Whether he loved her or not, Lady Marta would be the one to share the king’s life. And his heart had always been open and empathetic. Surely it was only a matter of time before it softened to the woman forever at his side…
“You.”
Waking from her haze, Byleth found herself accosted by an angry black cat. Beneath the velvet of his mask, Felix was scowling, lip curled back in a hiss. It was easy to imagine a tail flicking impatiently behind him.
“Dance with me,” he ordered shortly. When Byleth only blinked in confusion, he took a step closer. “Please.” Felix spat out the word like a curse, but she could hear the pleading note in his voice.
It would be scandalous for the archbishop to dance, even on this night of weakened social boundaries. But for better or worse, she never had been able to reject her students in a time of need.
At her nod, Felix marched stiffly out onto the dance floor. A few whispers broke out when Byleth followed, but not as many as she’d expected. Allowances could be made for the Duke Fraldarius, it seemed.
As a new song began, Felix pulled her into position—technically. Rather than the way the other couples danced, bodies brushing together, he held her at a distance that went beyond polite. It was almost enough to make Byleth laugh. No one would be accusing them of a secret love affair, not when she could barely reach his shoulder.
It didn’t take long for him to make his motivations known. “I thought the old man was bad, but that hag is a thousand times worse,” Felix complained. He glowered at a short woman in a snow leopard mask watching them from the sidelines. Her crossed arms and confrontational stance would have made her identity clear even if her dress hadn’t been embroidered with the Crest of Fraldarius. “She has a whole list of women she wants me to dance with. Flighty things from Adrestia who’ve never even held a weapon in their lives.” He scoffed. “As if I would ever be interested in the boar’s leftovers—”
Felix flinched at his own words. It was a sign of how much he’d grown that he now looked away guiltily, instead of pressing on without a care for his companion’s feelings.
Byleth did not react. She’d never been particularly open with her emotions, but in the last two years she had perfected the even serenity of the archbishop. Not even one as close to her as Felix would have noticed the flaws in her calm demeanour.
Felix hesitated. He frowned. He glared at someone behind her in the crowd of dancers. He hesitated again.
In the end, he couldn’t resist.
“I don’t know what idiotic thing he said to you,” Felix said through gritted teeth. “But it’s not true. You know what he’s like. Always has to be the martyr, because he’s so stupidly convinced he doesn’t deserve to be happy.” He leaned toward her, not quite able to hide the care beneath his anger. “The boar’s a stubborn fool, but it’s not too late, Professor. You can still—”
“It was my decision,” Byleth interrupted quietly. “Not his.”
Once she’d dreamed of a different future. One where his wish to be together forever came true. But when the war ended, Byleth couldn’t ignore reality any longer. The king needed to marry advantageously for the sake of peace. Wedding the archbishop of a church half the continent had raged against would only invite discord. Surely even the faithful would be offended, to see their spiritual leader abandon celibacy for the distractions of married life.
Perhaps she could have rejected the position. But the people needed someone to reform the church, to guide them through the trauma of war. Byleth could not abandon them, just as he could never forsake his duty as king.
And even if she had…what then? She was a commoner. A mercenary, with no alliances to protect the peace or dowry to support reconstruction. A nobody, who a dutiful king could never really marry, no matter what his heart might believe.
He would have realized that eventually. It was better that Byleth had put an end to any foolish dreams and forced him to accept the cold practicality of life, instead of dragging out their misery.
She knew that he hadn’t really agreed with her. Not at the time. But he’d kept his promise to respect her answer, and thrown himself into the role of king. It was painful to hurt him, but time flowed ever onward. Just as she’d hoped, tonight proved that he’d moved on from clinging to their past.
Byleth did not acknowledge the selfish ache in her heart, that had wished he never would.
Felix was staring at her. His mask did nothing to hide his incredulity. When Byleth failed to offer any further explanation, he sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t realize you were such a fool,” he said, but the words lacked any bite. “I meant what I said though. It’s not too late.”
Byleth didn’t respond. There was no point in arguing. Clearly, Felix was more sentimental than he pretended.
The remainder of their dance passed in silence. Felix continued to stew, lips bared like he wanted to hiss and yowl and force her to agree with him, but he knew better than to ignore the warning in her cool composure.
As soon as the music came to an end, Felix dropped her hand. He lingered though, staring past her to give someone a long, hard look.
“Don’t forget what I said,” Felix snapped, loudly enough that Byleth wondered who the order was meant for. With one final imperious glare, he stalked back off into the crowd, seeking a new shield from his mother.
Byleth should have returned to her spot at the banquet table. But before she could move, the rich, rumbling voice of the man behind her froze her in place.
“My lady. Might I have the next dance?”
Expression betraying nothing, she faced the King of Lions.
His mask was simple yet striking. The tawny visage of a lion covered the upper half of his face, an intricately carved sapphire over his right eye the only sign of extravagance. Rather than the polished half-ponytail he’d worn at her arrival, his golden hair now fell loose to his shoulders, a lion’s mane to complete the illusion.
There was no mistaking the man asking her to dance. It was His Majesty. The king.
Dimitri.
Byleth took his offered hand silently. She couldn’t have said how the crowd reacted, whether whispers chased their steps or scandalized eyes studied their every movement. The moment Dimitri pulled her into his arms, hand settling onto her hip like it belonged, the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was all that she could do to stare at the golden lions embroidered on his chest, and keep her breathing perfectly, unrelentingly even.
Neither spoke.
The silence was torturous. Byleth pressed her lips together, trying to ignore Dimitri’s warmth as she puzzled over his intentions. There must have been a reason why he had asked her to dance, yet now that she was within his grasp, he proved stubbornly mute.
Was it a test, perhaps? Not for her, but for himself? To prove that he had truly moved on, and could dance with her for a quarter of an hour and feel nothing…
It would be cruel of him. But Byleth supposed she deserved that, for breaking his heart first.
When the song finally reached its end, Byleth tried to pull away. She wanted this painful encounter to be over, but Dimitri’s hold was too tight for her to escape without causing a scene. Unfamiliar anger coursed through her. Byleth refused to look up from his chest, impatience banging against the still façade of her face. She waited, feigning indifference, as Dimitri leaned down and pretended to smooth out a ribbon mussed by their dance.
“Meet me in the gardens,” he whispered in her ear, so softly it might have been a breath. “At that place.”
Dimitri took a step back and bowed. The King of Lions smiled at her, gallant yet vague, in the way he smiled at all the ladies at the ball, and turned away, already entreating a dark-eyed doe to be his next partner.
Hands clasped tight before her, Byleth began her measured retreat. Calm. She had to appear calm, no matter the turmoil of her soul. With her back straight and her steps unhurried, she let the crowd part before her, showing no sign of her dizzying thoughts.
Dimitri wanted to meet her. There. Cryptic as his words had been, Byleth understood. That hidden alcove in the gardens, where the moonflowers bloomed. That place where for the first time, his lips had pressed to hers…
The mask clung to her face, uncomfortably heavy. Byleth was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to tear it off, to feel cool air on her skin and breathe for the first time in years.
She needed to find somewhere to hide. Some shadowy corner, where she could crush her inconvenient emotions and reconstruct the serenity of an archbishop. And when the time came, she would emerge, and bless the happy couple as duty demanded.
Byleth continued to walk. She barely even noticed the foreign dignitary with golden antlers chasing her for a dance (though the mercenary part of her mind, watchful even now, whispered familiar), nor the respectful bows and curtsies that followed in her wake.
She didn’t stop until the noise and light and bustle of the ballroom fell away, replaced by the still darkness of night. Even then, she only paused a moment before resuming her foolish, ill-fated march. Down the ancient stone steps. Beneath the arbours, their trailing leaves and flowers indistinguishable in the night. Through the weaving stone paths, guided only by the moonlight, until she reached the familiar statue of a maiden whose skirts danced in the wind.
Pushing aside the canopy of vines to the statue’s right, Byleth slipped through a gap in the wall and into the hidden alcove. Just as it had that night, the sight of the moonflowers glowing white in the darkness filled her with awe. They covered the stone walls and the trellis overhead, gentle and quivering in the cool breeze, embracing her in their gentle light.
And yet, something was different.
Byleth paused, tilting her head as she studied the odd flowers blooming opposite her. They were white like the moonflowers, but their petals were unlike anything she’d ever seen—furled centres curling slowly open, surrounded by a halo of a long, thin petals. It almost reminded her of a crown.
“They are lovely, are they not?”
His footsteps were quiet, softer than the rustle of the vines falling back in place. Byleth didn’t look away from the strange flowers. She didn’t reply either, not trusting herself to speak.
“We call them queen of the night,” Dimitri continued. He stopped behind her, as close as when they’d danced. “They bloom only once per year, opening at twilight and wilting away by the dawn. It is considered an omen of great fortune to view one.” His hand rested lightly on her back. “A symbol that one should reach out and grasp happiness, no matter the struggles that might await.”
Byleth stepped away from his touch. She faced him reluctantly, anger fading into exhaustion at the sight of his radiance in the moonlight.
“What do you want, Dimitri?” she asked wearily. Her heart ached too much to waste time on pleasantries and riddles.
His outstretched hand lingered in the space between them. The lion mask obscured his expression, hiding his intentions from her gaze. It was unsettling, to be unable to read him—though perhaps that was the fault of two years growing apart, not the mask.
Before she could lose herself to that morose thought, Dimitri pressed his hand over his heart and bowed. “I wished to tell you that I…” He paused, lifting his head. “That I still love you, Byleth.”
Oh.
The crushing pain that followed a fleeting glimpse of hope was worse than if he’d rejected her. Byleth took refuge behind the mask of the Immaculate One, determined that not even Dimitri would see the cracks in her composure.
“Dimitri—”
“I promised to accept your answer, I know,” Dimitri interrupted, his words becoming hurried as his carefully contained emotions rushed out. “I have tried, Byleth. I have done my best to move on as you requested. And yet I—I could not allow myself to let this night pass without speaking to you once more.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, agitation clear. It took every ounce of her restraint not to reach out and comfort him. “You…That is. I…I must—”
Without warning, Dimitri tore the King of Lions’ mask from his face. Byleth nearly took a step back from the force of his stare. There was no more kingly composure. No more gallant indifference. His expression was pleading and earnest and overflowing with compassion, just like it had been back then, before she ruined everything…
“You were not wrong about the difficulties we will face,” he conceded, emotions burning bright in the darkness. “However…that night in the rain. You told me to live for myself. For what I believe in. You taught me that I was not merely a king, or a tool of the dead, but a man. One who deserved to be happy, even after all the sins I have committed.”
He was close. Too close. Byleth should have turned away, or fled back to the ballroom, where the crowds would keep her safe. Instead she remained frozen in place, enthralled by a spell more powerful than any magic.
“It was a difficult truth to accept,” Dimitri continued softly. “But over these past two years, I have thought long about your words. I will not abandon my responsibility to the people. And yet I see now that following my duty does not mean I must sacrifice my own joy…and neither must you.” His golden hair glowed gently in the moonlight, a halo adorned with moonflowers. “You are suffering, are you not? I saw it when you arrived. In the ballroom. Even now…”
Her breath hitched when his hand brushed against her cheek. Byleth was dazed by the contact, by the warmth following his fingertips. Dangerous, her mind whispered, yet she wanted nothing more than to lean into his touch.
It was only when his fingers reached higher, curling into the fasteners of her mask, that her senses returned. Byleth took a step back, grabbing his wrist in warning.
“Stop.”
Her order was firm. As unyielding as the grip of her hand. They both knew what it meant for the king to unmask a woman on this night.
Dimitri studied her in silence. Byleth met his gaze levelly, held together by her mask. She could do this—she could be the archbishop, the professor, the one he would never dare disobey, for a few moments longer.
But when he reached for her mask a second time, Byleth didn’t fight. She only breathed a sigh of relief, as he removed the oppressive weight of the Immaculate One from her face.
For the first time in two years, they were not the king and the archbishop. They were simply Dimitri and Byleth, no more masks between them.
Dimitri gazed upon her with an awe that had once been an everyday experience. Byleth did not resist when he grasped her chin gently, so gently, and tilted her head toward him. Her lips parted on instinct, memories of their last night among the moonflowers guiding her movements.
“Say the word, and I shall leave and never bother you again,” Dimitri murmured. He was leaning down without even seeming to realize it, drawn to her by the same lure that kept her in place. “But I beg of you, Byleth. Please consider your own happiness. Do not walk the path expected of you, if it is not the one your heart would choose. I have experienced the darkness that lies at the end of such a path…”
He was close enough now that his breath brushed against her lips.
“You saved me from that darkness once before. I would do the same for you. It is not too late, Byleth.”
Byleth wanted to deny him. To argue all of her carefully thought out points, to remind him of the bride waiting in the ballroom. Surely they could not truly be together. To believe otherwise, to cling to idealistic notions, would only cause more pain in the future. Byleth knew that, logically.
But she no longer had a mask to hide behind.
“Dimitri. I…”
His kiss silenced her last feeble protest. Byleth threw her arms around his neck, drawing him closer, closer, as close as possible. Warmth—his warmth, their warmth—flooded her body, awakening emotions she’d long thought dead.
It was foolish. Unbelievably foolish. Yet Byleth only clung to him tighter, desperate to lose herself in the dream.
Laughter shattered the illusion, reminding her that the world around them still existed. Their lips finally parted, but Dimitri only held her closer, shielding her from the view of any trespassers. They waited, tense and hardly breathing, as footsteps clattered on the stone path beyond their alcove, some giggling couple scurrying by without even noticing the gap in the wall.
Once the sound of their merriment had faded into the night, Byleth released the breath she’d been holding. As much as she longed to resume their kiss, the moment had passed back into the realm of dreams. Instead, she pulled away from Dimitri’s embrace. This time he allowed it without a fight.
Silence lingered in the air between them. Despite all that had passed, so much still remained unspoken.
High above them, the moon drew ever nearer to its peak. Dimitri took her hand, briefly, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Think on what I have said,” he murmured. “I shall be waiting in the ballroom. Whatever your choice…I will accept it.”
He left as silently as he’d arrived, disappearing through the shroud of moonflowers.
Byleth continued to stare long after he’d vanished. She felt dazed. Confused by her conflicting thoughts, by the battle between her reason and her emotions.
Their marriage would cause problems. People would be opposed. Dimitri could eventually find happiness with another, and a millennium of archbishops had ruled alone without issue. She knew that. Logically, at least.
Live for what you believe in…
A dry laugh escaped her. Using her own words against her—Dimitri had grown clever as king. Though then again, Byleth supposed he had been the one to teach her those sentiments first, in her father’s empty study.
Absentmindedly, she bent to pick up her discarded mask. It was heavy in her hands, the silver scales dull in comparison to the gentle glow of the moonflowers.
Even they paled before the queen of the night, however. Byleth turned to gaze upon the royal flower, its fleeting beauty striking in the dark. The petals had unfurled more since her last glimpse, approaching the zenith that would wilt away soon after. How bittersweet, to know such magnificence would fade before the night’s end. And yet the flower persevered, fearless of the future.
A symbol that one should reach out and grasp happiness, no matter the struggles that might await…
For once, Byleth did not think about what anyone else wanted or expected. She did not even think of Dimitri, and what would bring him joy.
For once, she thought only about herself.
In the stillness of the garden, Byleth could admit that she was not happy. She did not hate her position. The opportunity to help and guide others was fulfilling in a way mercenary work had never been. But despite the people around her, despite the faithful praising her name, she was lonely. Stifled by expectations, by her self-imposed isolation. Clinging to the mask of the woman she thought she needed to become.
It was the path her mind had chosen willingly—and yet her heart cried out in protest.
Surrounded by her moonflower maidens, the queen of the night beckoned. Her white petals reached boldly into the night, an outstretched hand for those lost in the dark.
Byleth brushed her fingertips over the petals, and thought.
The moon was high when she finally stepped away. After a moment of hesitation, Byleth settled the mask back over her face. It was even more uncomfortable now, ill-fitting as she struggled to secure it without the help of a maid. With a horn cracked from the fall and her meticulously braided hair loosened by Dimitri’s kiss, she wasn’t quite the perfect archbishop from earlier in the night. But for now, it was enough.
It would be cruel to pluck the queen of the night at the height of her brief life. Instead, Byleth chose a moonflower for her companion. Clutching the flower to her chest, she retraced her steps through the garden. Its fragile light lit her way, never straying even as countless shadowed paths stretched out before her.
It wasn’t long before Byleth found herself back in the blinding light of the ballroom. She blinked, struggling to adjust after the gentle moonlight of the gardens. It took her a moment to realize that the dancing had ended. Instead, the crowds now gathered along the room’s edge, leaving space for the masked women waiting in the centre. A line of smiling maidens, leading inevitably to their future queen—the dark-haired swan standing proud before the throne, breathless with anticipation.
Byleth hesitated. Her resolutions made in the garden seemed pale and limpid before the harsh reality of the ballroom. Here the moonflower was just another white blossom. The memory of their kiss was just a dream. The future was already decided. Had always been decided, an unyielding servant of fate.
Before she could consider leaving, the grand doors to the ballroom opened. The crowd fell silent as Dimitri entered, his face unmasked.
It was time.
The first maiden played her role, curtseying before the king. But he was not looking at her. He was not looking at the girl in the swan mask either, but rather gazing out into the crowd. The maiden rose, confused, and shared a glance with the next in line. Rustling whispers spread as Dimitri continued to stand in place, wondering at the king’s odd behaviour.
No one else might understand, but Byleth knew who he was searching for. She could have shuffled back and hidden amongst the shadows, forcing him to follow his destined path in life. She could have turned away, or bowed her head, or done anything to avoid his gaze.
Instead, Byleth waited. After everything, he deserved an answer—whatever it might be.
When their eyes finally met, Dimitri stilled. Even from a distance, she could see the tension in his body, could hear the silent question lingering in the space between them. Once again, she stood at a crossroads.
Byleth thought of the queen of the night, defiant in the dark, and raised the moonflower to her lips.
The joy that broke over Dimitri’s face was instantaneous.
The crowd parted as he made his way toward her, confused murmurs spreading like wildfire. Byleth did not care about their gossip. In the moment, there was nothing in the world but her and Dimitri, their chosen paths converging forevermore.
Standing before her, Dimitri smiled brighter than the full moon. His fingers were clumsy with excitement as he removed her mask, this time baring her face for all to see. The whispers faded into shocked silence, no one daring to speak.
Free at last, Byleth smiled. How long had it last been, since the expression had felt so genuine…?
“May I present to you all Her Grace, the Lady Byleth Eisner.” Dimitri’s voice echoed around the ballroom, strong and clear. His grin only widened when Byleth slipped her hand in his. “The woman who has captured my heart this night, and every night since the day we met. The only woman who will ever reign there, until my dying breath.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles. “The future queen of Faerghus, and my beloved…”
Dimitri paused, smiling softly for her and her alone.
“Yes. My beloved.”
As they kissed, her mask fell to the ground, forgotten.