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Altered Emblem Ch. 17
🕑 Added 2025-01-18 12:00:06 +0000 UTCThey moved as one.
Her boots sank into the soft mud as she slipped between dripping branches, Sylvain on her right and Ashe just behind. The rain made the world feel narrow and dim, every sound muffled except the heartbeat thud of water against leaves. She could hear Dimitri’s group circling to the left, their footsteps more confident now that there was a clear goal. Thunder rumbled from somewhere above, but it only blended with the low roar of the downpour.
Her cloak clung to her shoulders, heavy and damp, but she welcomed the chill. It kept her senses keen. Ahead, the watchtower loomed through the rain, an old structure of stone and crumbling mortar. Torches sputtered around its base, their light dancing on wet flags and half-collapsed crates. She pressed against the rough bark of a tree, lifting a hand to halt Sylvain and Ashe.
A guard ambled near one of the crates, spear resting against his shoulder. Another squatted by a small, makeshift fire that fizzled in the storm. Neither looked alert. Clearly, they hadn’t expected intruders in this weather.
She glanced at Sylvain. His fingers clenched around his lance. The lines of his face were rigid, but he met her gaze without wavering. With a small nod, he moved forward, boots silent against the soaked earth. Byleth followed, eyes flicking to Ashe. He nodded, pulling an arrow from his quiver, stringing it as smoothly as he breathed.
The guard near the crate turned just as Sylvain lunged. His lance cut through the rain, striking the man’s spear before he could lower it in defense. There was a dull clang of steel on steel. The second guard jerked upright, startled, but an arrow sank into his pauldron before he could shout for help. Ashe was already nocking his next shot.
She felt a pang of unease at how swiftly it ended. There was no time to dwell on it. Ashe’s arrow whistled past her, hitting another guard who had barreled into view. A startled yelp cut short. More shouts erupted to the left, where Dimitri’s team engaged. Sharp bursts of light signaled Annette’s spells from somewhere behind as Gilbert’s support squad advanced.
Before she could check on Dimitri, Sylvain gestured toward the tower entrance. A glimpse of movement - two more guards sprinting down the steps, alerted by the noise. Their blades caught the weak torchlight, reflecting an orange gleam through the haze.
“Professor!” Ashe called, loosing another arrow. It struck one of the guards in the leg, sending him to his knees. The other kept running.
Byleth rushed in. The guard’s sword sliced the air inches from her shoulder. She shifted back, pivoted, and caught him across the torso with the Sword of the Creator. His weapon clattered against stone. Then the man collapsed in the muddy grass, breath rasping before it ceased.
The quick intake of breath from behind her made her close her eyes. It was one thing to kill in the middle of a battlefield. It was another to do so in such a personal manner.
Yet another talk she'd need to have with Ashe when this was all over.
She heard Dimitri and Gilbert's groups walking towards them.
Byleth exhaled, trying to quiet the rush in her ears. Dimitri and Gilbert appeared from opposite sides, water streaming off their armor. Sylvain took a step away from the corpse at Byleth’s feet. His grip stayed tight on his lance. Ashe lowered his bow, though his eyes were still wide.
“Professor,” Dimitri called, shifting his spear. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right.” Byleth looked around. The bodies scattered near the tower were eerily still - except for one. The guard with an arrow in his leg groaned and clutched at the wound. He tried crawling backward, dragging himself through the mud.
Before any of them could react, a figure emerged from the rain. The Archer. His coat was soaked through, black fabric plastered to lean shoulders. Both of his gun-blades hung at his side as he strode toward the wounded guard.
“Wait-” Ashe said, voice catching in his throat. The Archer didn’t so much as glance at him.
Byleth took a step forward. The Archer crouched beside the guard, who stifled a pained gasp, “Where’s Miklan?” He asked, his tone flat. “Where’s the Lance?”
The man set his jaw. He was pale, trembling, yet defiance still flickered in his eyes. The Archer’s free hand closed over the broken shaft of the arrow, nudging it just enough to make the man flinch.
“Answer.” He said. His gaze held no warmth, no anger. Nothing at all.
Dimitri hesitated, but Byleth placed a hand on his arm. She wasn’t sure if she was telling him to stand down or preparing to pull him back if he lunged. Either way, she knew the Archer was their best shot at getting information quickly.
The guard shook his head, jaw clenched, “Like…hell….” He forced out, voice rough.
The Archer twisted the arrow just a fraction more. Sylvain’s eyes hardened, and Ashe gripped his bow until his knuckles whitened, but the Archer didn’t stop. The man’s defiance dissolved into a choked cry.
“That brute!” Even she couldn’t deny the wince that overcame her as she watched the Archer practically torture the man in front of them. However, she didn’t interfere. As disgusting as it may sound, the fact that Miklan had the Lance of Ruin meant that Byleth needed to be sure that everything would go according to plan.
That is to say, the plan to make sure everyone on her side made it out.
“Miklan’s…Miklan’s in the tower.” He gasped. “Top floor. He has men. They’ve…got the Lance.”
Byleth dropped to a knee beside him. “How many men?” She asked quietly.
He gulped, forcing out the answer through gritted teeth. “Ten, maybe more. Thieves for hire. Fools, half will probably run if you hit them fast.”
The Archer jammed his foot down on the arrow, grinding it deeper into the guard’s leg. A ragged howl tore from the man’s throat, echoing over the steady drone of the rain. Byleth’s breath caught even as he spoke.
"That's a lie. There are too many supplies here for less than two dozen men."
A hiss escaped the guard as he tried to steady his breath, fear flashing in his eyes. The Archer’s foot pressed more weight on the broken arrow, and the man’s fingers clawed at the mud in agony.
And yet, Byleth didn’t do any more than close her eyes, despite Sothis in her head retching at the display. To some, this would be too far. To her, this was just another means to an end. The Archer was right in his observations. She refused to send her students into an easily preventable ambush just because they didn’t do their due diligence.
The fact that nobody else, not even Gilbert, moved to truly stop the Archer told her they were either thinking the same, or were too horrified by the scene.
Byleth could only hope it was the latter.
“Tell me.” The Archer repeated, voice still devoid of feeling. “How many?”
The answers he wanted never came, the bandit had passed out in between the howls of pain. The Archer scoffed to the side, spitting on the ground.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Rainwater trailed off the rim of his coat, dripping onto the unconscious guard’s face. The Archer stayed rooted, his foot pressing the broken arrow deeper. Sylvain stepped forward, his anger flashing in his eyes.
“That’s enough.” Sylvain’s tone was low, but it carried a warning. “He’s passed out. You’ve got nothing else to gain.”
The Archer finally let up, pulling his foot back with a look of mild disgust. “Don’t lecture me on how to handle scum.” He said. The words were calm, yet laced with barely contained scorn.
Byleth’s jaw tightened. She’d put up with the Archer’s ruthless methods thus far. But that didn’t mean she had to like them - or him.
Dimitri frowned, wiping rain from his brow, “Whether he’s a threat or not, he’s out cold now. We can’t glean more.”
“That’s on him.” The Archer muttered, gaze flicking to the guard. “Maybe if he’d cooperated sooner, he’d still be awake.”
Byleth tore her focus back to the present. “We still have a job to do.” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm. “Miklan’s at the top of the tower, and there are more men than we first thought.”
…
They hurried toward the old tower entrance. Stones slick with rain underfoot. The low drone of thunder rumbled overhead, matching the pulse in Byleth’s ears. Sylvain fell into step beside her, jaw set. Ashe took a tighter grip on his bow, every so often casting a wary glance at the Archer’s back.
Gilbert advanced, his expression grim. Annette and Mercedes moved behind him, exchanging anxious looks.
The Archer brushed past them at the threshold without so much as a backward glance, coat trailing on the slick stones. Dimitri stiffened. For a moment, Byleth thought he might say something to rein in the Archer, but he held back.
Inside, the tower walls were cold and damp. Cracks in the ceiling let in thin streams of rain, forming small puddles on the uneven floor. Torchlight flickered, casting irregular shadows that danced on the walls. Byleth took point alongside Dimitri, eyes scanning every dark corner.
“Keep together.” Byleth said quietly. Even in such close quarters, losing track of one another was all too easy.
Sylvain took the left flank, his knuckles white on his lance. “This place stinks. Could be an ambush waiting.”
As if called forth by Sylvain's words, a soft shuffle echoed above, and then the rush of boots. Several men thundered down the spiral stairs, weapons drawn. The Archer didn’t hesitate. A crack of thunder from the weapons in his hands lit the corridor in a harsh flash, followed by a second. Smoke drifted in the stale air.
Two of the men hit the floor before they knew what struck them. Another lunged for the Archer, sword raised high. Dimitri knocked the blade aside, using his spear to push the attacker off-balance. Byleth dashed in, finishing him with a swift thrust. Sylvain took down the last man, the clash of steel ending in a grunt of pain.
The Archer turned to glare at Sylvain, though didn’t say anything as they moved forward.
Byleth caught the hostile look between them. Sylvain, unsettled by the Archer’s glare, only tightened his grip on his lance. The tension in the air pressed around them, thick as the damp chill. Still, there was no time for infighting. More footsteps echoed higher up the staircase.
“Eyes front,” Byleth said, raising the Sword of the Creator. “We’ll sort this out later.” Dimitri gave her a curt nod and moved up, carefully but decisively. A single torch sputtered on the wall, casting long shadows onto a wide chamber.
As soon as they crossed into the chamber, a crossbow bolt hissed past the Archer's coat. He snapped up one of his gun-blades and fired in return, the noise shattering the hush. Sylvain and Dimitri both lunged to flank him, blocking any follow-up shots.
Much as her two students likely hated it, they were currently fighting on the same side. Even if the Archer looked like he could care less.
Bolts continued to fly through the half-lit chamber, clattering off broken crates and splintering wood. Dimitri shoved one makeshift barricade aside with his spear, forging a path. Beyond it, the stone steps led higher, the sound of scuffling boots echoing above.
Byleth took cover behind a toppled table for a moment, gesturing for the others to press in. Ashe loosed an arrow that pinned one of Miklan’s men to a rotting support beam, silencing the shout on his lips. The Archer vaulted over another obstacle, firing in rapid succession, the action thundering in the enclosed space so much that Byleth briefly thought she'd gone deaf. One bandit spun back from the impact, the other dropped with a strangled gasp. Once the chamber fell quiet, the group didn’t linger.
The next flight of stairs ended in a battered door, forced partially ajar. Beyond, a wide hall opened into the heart of the tower’s top floor. Rain seeped through cracks in the stone roof. There, a ragged collection of mercenaries circled their apparent leader.
Miklan Gautier.
In his hands, a spear that held Byleth's attention. The Lance of Ruin. She could see where it got its name from.
Sylvain froze at the sight of his brother. Miklan gripped the Lance of Ruin so tightly, his knuckles shone white.
“Miklan!” Sylvain spat, leveling his own lance. His voice hit the high walls like a crack of thunder. “You can’t run from this. You think stealing a Hero’s Relic will fix anything?”
Miklan’s sneer twisted into something raw and bitter. “Fix?” He echoed. “Little brother, you have no idea what I’ve been through - what I deserve!” His wild eyes flitted toward the Archer, the rest of the group, then locked on Sylvain again. “You, born with everything handed to you. Me, left with less than nothing. This Lance is all that stands between me and the gutter.”
“You’re wrong!” Sylvain tightened his grip, trembling with anger. “We had a family-"
Miklan gave a rough laugh, ragged edges of fury beneath it. “Family? Don’t make me laugh. The only thing House Gautier cares about is that precious Crest of yours. If I had one, I’d be the favored son, and you’d be here in my place.”
Sylvain’s jaw clenched. His retort died on his tongue for a second before it came back stronger. “I never asked for this crest and you know it! Stop blaming me for every mistake you’ve made.”
Miklan’s men shifted uneasily, uncertain whether to attack or await their leader’s command. From the corner of her eye, Byleth saw Dimitri and Dedue inch forward, spear at the ready. Ashe and Gilbert stood at opposite flanks, weapons raised, eyes darting for any sign of movement among the hired swords. Annette and Mercedes hung back, prepared to lend magic if needed.
Byleth stepped forward, trying to keep her voice level. “Miklan. You’re outnumbered. Surrender, and we can still negotiate-"
“Negotiate?” Miklan’s lip curled. “I’m done talking. I’ve got power in my hands now, and I’ll use it.” He lifted the Lance of Ruin, its crimson inlay glimmering like a predator’s eye.
Sylvain’s anger flared again, and he shouted, “Damn it, Miklan! Don’t do this!” But his plea fell on deaf ears.
Monstrous energy started pouring forth from the Lance, and Miklan’s eyes grew wider with unrestrained glee. He raised the Lance of Ruin. Byleth raised the Sword against him, prepared for whatever he might try. The mercenaries and students held themselves stiffly, waiting for whoever to act first.
Miklan opened his mouth to shout.
“How annoying.”
Only for the Archer to shoot him dead on.
Blood splattered as a hole opened on Miklan’s head.
…
Commissioned by: FireRogueWolf25
