What do I do now? Seteth said I had the day to myself. Just head back to my room and sleep? It's tempting. Maybe I should crack into The History of Fódlan. I should probably grab a meal myself at some point, but I'm not hungry right now. Maybe sitting for an hour in fear will do that to you.

I'm about halfway across the bridge when I hear someone call my name.

"Harrison!"

I turn around, and Flayn is skipping towards me, a bright smile on her face that I can't help but match.

"Hi, Flayn," I call back as she approaches. "What's going on?"

"Seteth requested that I run some errands for him at the market," she says.

She must be talking about where you could buy weapons and items in the game. But I haven't seen that area be used for a market square in the past week. It's not impossible that she's talking about something else.

"Where's that?" I ask.

"Every Praesday, some merchants come to the monastery and set up shop close to the monastery entrance to vend their wares," she explains. "Would you care to accompany me?"

"Sure," I reply. I remember the brass coins from yesterday. "Seteth paid me the other day, actually, so maybe I could find something to buy for myself."

"Wonderful!" Flayn says. She clasps her hands. "Let us away, then!"

Flayn and I continue crossing the bridge, heading over to the market square.

"So what are you after at the market today?" I ask.

"Soap and tea," Flayn says. "Especially tea. Seteth is quite a devo-tea of the beverage, if I do say so myself!" She giggles at her own lame pun.

I chuckle and shake my head. "That's a terrible joke."

"Ah, but you laughed anyway!" she says. "I have been honing my comedic talent under the tutelage of Alois. Oh, I don't believe you have met him yet, but he is an officer of the knights, and a very humorous man indeed!"

"I guess I ought to brace myself for when I do meet this Alois," I mutter. Still, I'm not sure I remember Seteth being so into tea from the game. I mean, everyone had their favorite blends if you (as Byleth) invited them to a tea party. "That aside, I'm not sure I would've taken Seteth for the tea-drinking type."

"He enjoys the calming effects of tea," she says. "He is a diligent man who takes his responsibilities at the monastery very seriously, but he sometimes stresses and overworks himself—this time of year especially." Flayn sighs.

"This time of year?" I ask. I look up at the sunny skies, and suddenly become cognizant of the cool breeze on my skin. I remember Rhea saying how the spring choir festival heralded the coming of the new year, of 1180. "I guess work must pile up towards the end of the year for him."

"Indeed," Flayn says, nodding. She frowns ever so slightly, and I detect a hint of sadness in her voice. "The end and beginning of each year bring all sorts of dreadful labors for my brother. I hardly see him except for the morning and night, with his days so consumed by paperwork and meetings. And I do not mean you any offense, but I am dubious that your situation makes matters any easier for him."

"None taken," I reply.

Flayn continues. "So I do what I am able to to ease his burden, such as purchasing his favorite blends of tea. He does go through it even faster than his usual rate at such times."

We exit the audience hall, and down a short flight of stairs is the market square. Students, knights, and monks wander from stall to stall. Flayn pauses to greet a helmeted soldier standing by the gate.

"Hello there, Mister Gatekeeper!" she says. The Gatekeeper himself? No way. I struggle to fight down a grin. "How goes your day?"

"Greetings, Flayn!" he says, his voice no less chipper than I'd expect. "Just guarding the gate as usual. Nothing to report!"

"Excellent!" Flayn replies. She turns to me. "Ah, Harrison, if you have not been by the market yet, you probably have not met the Gatekeeper, have you?"

I shake my head, and turn to the man himself. "Hey there," I say. "I'm Harrison. I just started working at the monastery."

The soldier straightens to attention, planting the blunt end of his spear in the ground.

"Well met," he says. "My job is to guard the gate here. That's why they call me the Gatekeeper."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I just give an awkward nod. "Makes sense."

Flayn smiles. "We must be getting to our shopping," she explains. "Farewell, Gatekeeper! We shall see you later!"

We wave him a quick goodbye, and he gives us a salute.

From the top of the stairs, Flayn points out some of the stores to me. I take in the sights, starting from the right row of stalls: an armorer, with weapons and armor on display in neat racks, the metal shining in the midday sun; produce merchants with carts full of fresh fruits and vegetables; and the blacksmith, with the sound of hammers clanking on metal ringing out above the chatter in the square.

There's an apothecary, selling all kinds of products in little bottles. In the back is what I assume to be the battalion master's post, a stall with all sorts of recruitment signs and fliers. Someone else has a stall with trays full of cookies and pastries and candies, and there's other merchants with a wide variety of wares, from clothes to jewelry. Where do we even start here?

Flayn seems to know what she's doing. She heads over to the apothecary, and without being asked, I follow her like a lost puppy. The stall has all sorts of bottles and canteens for sale—are they vulneraries or antitoxins, something I'd recognize from the game? I can't quite tell. Flayn, for her part, picks out a small paper parcel tied with twine—a wrapped bar of soap, I presume.

"Two silver drachms," the merchant replies. Flayn opens a small coin purse slung around her shoulder, the dark leather the same color as her dress. She fishes around for a few coins and hands them to the merchant and retrieves the soap in return.

I pull out the five brass coins from my pocket. Sword, child, wings, voice. How much is one of these in relation to a "silver drachm?" Is there anything here I can buy? Anything here I want to buy?

"I am heading over to the general shop to purchase the tea," Flayn says. It's not an instruction, but I dutifully follow as if it were, not sure what to do with myself otherwise.

The 'general shop', as its name implies, is the one with the greatest diversity of products. It's run by a familiar redheaded, ponytailed face—an Anna. She's got all sorts of things for sale here—candles, ink and quills, books, hairbrushes and hand mirrors, wooden board game sets and packs of playing cards. Prominently displayed is a selection of teas, up for inspection in glass jars. The names and prices are listed out on a small chalkboard—Ginger Tea and Sweet Apple Blend are fairly typical at around "1 d 6 p" (d as in drachms—silver drachms? But that doesn't explain p.) per ounce; some, like a lavender blend, sell for a fair bit more at "3 d".

I try not to stop and stare too much, just watching Flayn pick out a few ounces of this, a few ounces of that. Anna scoops out the blends she's selected, weighing them on a scale and wrapping them in small parcels of paper.

"All told, that'll be twelve silver, please," Anna says.

Flayn reaches into the purse once again and hands Anna two coins, which she makes change for, and in exchange gives her the stacks of wrapped tea. In order for change to be made, Flayn had to have given Anna even more valuable coins. So just how broke am I?

"Seteth will be very pleased that I purchased him some of his favored ginger tea," Flayn says, a smile on her face. "Of course, I am always sure to buy my own favorite: the Sweet Apple Blend. Oh, what is your favorite kind of tea, Harrison?"

I shrug. "I'm not really sure," I reply. "Tea-drinking isn't that big a thing where I'm from. Coffee is more popular," I explain. And has more bang for your buck in terms of concentration of your daily adenosine antagonist. I'll freely admit that my first few mornings here, I had some caffeine withdrawal-induced headaches.

Flayn shakes her head. "Coffee is far too bitter and acrid for my taste."

"I never said I drink it black," I reply. "That's what milk and sugar are for."

"I suppose," Flayn says. "Still, it is curious to hear that it is more prevalent than tea at your home. Coffee is not unheard of in Fódlan, but tea is far more popular among both nobles and commoners."

"At the end of the day: hot bean juice, hot leaf juice, what's the difference?" I ask.

"'Hot leaf juice' is a new term for it indeed," Flayn says, giggling. "I suppose you will simply need to sample as many teas as you can until you find one that suits you."

I just shake my head and laugh. "I don't think I could afford that," I reply.

Speaking of, I can't help but find myself looking over the merchants' wares as Flayn and I walk past. Something does catch my eye—folding straight razors. I rub my hand along my chin and feel the beginning growth of the rough, patchy stubble. Putting the risks of slicing open my jugular aside, I could really use one of those. I tell Flayn to wait up a minute and head over to Anna to ask how much they are.

"The razors?" she asks.

I nod.

Anna puts a finger to her lips. "Those nicer ones there'll run you six or seven silver depending on which one," she explains. "But they're worth it, I tell you. Imported from the Kingdom! Those knights are as picky about their weapons as their beards!"

I smile at the joke. "I don't think that's gonna work for me," I reply. "How about the cheaper ones?"

"I see," she says. Her expression drops a little bit at the realization that she can't upsell me. "Well, the lowest I can go on those—" she points out a few razors a little smaller than the others, the handles rougher and unpolished "—is three silver, no less. They are from the Kingdom, and my supply lines through Magdred have been taking some hits lately. Bandit trouble's getting worse, you know. Losses are up these days."

I think back to the coins in my hand. I still don't know what these are worth. I fight through the embarrassment, working up the courage to show her the coins and ask: "How much are these worth?"

Anna looks at the coins in my hand, then back at me, and laughs. "Are you serious?" she asks. "That's not even close!"

I feel my face heating up. I should've known better. "Sorry for asking," I reply bashfully.

"Wait, wait," Anna says, still unable to contain her smirk. She holds out a hand. "Sorry, I just—I can't help myself! Ah, sheltered monks who don't know how money works! It always gets me. Let me give you a crash course in shopping, alright?"

I consider refusing the offer, or correcting her that I'm not actually a monk, or something, but the sting of embarrassment cows me into just going with the flow.

"So those things you got there? Those are brass pieces," Anna says. "I don't bother much with 'em, 'cause those won't buy much on their own. Some fruit, a candle, an ale at the tavern. Small stuff, really. Then twelve of those for each silver drachm, and it just goes up from there, you know? You probably don't need to concern yourself with the higher-value coins, anyway, even if they are my favorites."

All I can do is nod dumbly.

"So, overall, it's pretty easy. Even easier because the three countries and the Church all make the same types of coins! Goddess, if I had to deal with money-changers…" Anna waves a hand dismissively. "Anyway, the moral of the story is: if you want the razor, you'll need to put up quite a bit more coin," she says, the condescension in her words crystallizing.

Twelve pieces to one drachm, and the razor cost three drachms. "Plus the five, I'll need two drachms and seven pieces," I say, defeated.

"Now you've got it," Anna says, like being able to add and subtract in my head is a goddamn achievement. She looks at me expectantly.

I bite my lip. Fuck. She thinks I have the money and just didn't know how to pay.

"Sorry," I reply. I shake my head and laugh nervously. "That's all I've got. So, thanks for the money lesson?"

Anna frowns. "Seriously? I thought you were just a clueless monk, not actually broke." She folds her arms. "Ugh, come back when you're serious, alright? Time is money, and you're wasting mine."

Message received. I step away from the stall back to where Flayn is. She looks back at me, the concern evident in her green eyes.

I sigh. "Let's go. Guess I'll have to save up for, what, two months?" I run a hand over my chin again. "Maybe some people like the rugged look anyway."

Flayn frowns for a moment, but doesn't say anything.

With that, we unceremoniously leave the market square, drop off the supplies with Seteth, and go have lunch—Flayn recommends the fish and bean soup, naturally, and it's a solid choice. Afterwards, Flayn leads me to a quiet corner of the monastery, by the fishing pond, with no one around in earshot. We sit down by the water, and I let myself relax as I take in the cool spring breeze, watching fish swim about under the surface, as a few knights—including the stolid Gilbert—cast fishing lines around the other side.

"What did you think of the service?" Flayn asks.

"It was all right," I reply, carefully choosing my words. Some part of me still feels like Rhea can hear my thoughts, and it doesn't help matters that I know Flayn is, well, who she really is. "You know, I'm not the most experienced with these things, so it's hard to say more than that."

Flayn nods. "I understand," she says. "Certainly, I imagine it would be strange to you. But I hope you did not feel unwelcome."

"It's complicated," I reply. I recount briefly, quietly and certainly without naming names, the issue with Catherine and Mercedes. "But it was all resolved," I conclude.

"I see," Flayn replies. Her tone takes on an uncharacteristically serious nature. "Those who trouble others over such things make it clear that they have not taken the words of Saint Cethleann to heart."

"What's that?"

"Saint Cethleann is the symbol of kindness and forgiveness, and her writings argue that the faithful ought to reach out to others, not to push them down, but to elevate them," Flayn explains. "All faithful people, and all those pure of heart, will be accepted by the goddess. And I do not think you bear any ill in your heart."

I find myself chilled, yet comforted, by Flayn's words. This is Cethleann describing her own theology—I bet some of this stuff is written in that Book of the Saints! "Ah, I'm not so sure I'm pure of heart," I reply.

"Saint Cethleann also writes that those who are convinced they are faultless, are the ones who are the most sorely mistaken," Flayn rebuts.

I nod. A good point, and perhaps more applicable to certain figures at the monastery than Flayn realizes. "Well, either way, I don't know if I'm faithful," I say. "I—you know."

Flayn goes quiet, just looking back at me.

I nervously continue. "My people believe in one God. Singular. That's the whole thing. No other gods before me, no idols. The first prayer you learn basically says: 'Listen, our God is the only God, and He is one.'"

"How did going to services feel, then?" Flayn asks, like she's a therapist. She's not even fazed by the denial of her own grandmother as the goddess.

"Scary," I admit. "I mean, Saint Cethleann's words are nice, I guess. But it doesn't change that people still gave me a hard time, and I felt so out of place. And it even felt a little wrong, too—not that I mean any offense."

Flayn nods, prompting me to continue.

"Back in the old, old days, doing what I did, going to another religion's house of worship, would probably be a sin. But I don't mind it for the sake of appearances, as long as I don't betray my principles." I string together my thoughts almost as if I'm trying to convince myself more than Flayn. "I didn't join in to pray to the goddess. So I don't think I broke the rules. But maybe I'm a failure—we're survivors who hold onto our faith—that's our thing—"

Suddenly, I catch myself. I got lost in my own thoughts, and before I knew it I was telling a literal saint about my fucking guilt complex, admitting that I don't believe in her religion. Somewhere in there, a line has been crossed.

I bite my lip. "Oh, I shouldn't be saying this, should I?"

Flayn just smiles and shakes her head. "If you want to talk, Harrison, I will listen," she says. "I sense that talking may ease some of your burdens, and I find you a most interesting person indeed."

Second time I've heard that, today, huh? "Well, I trust you not to rat me out for heresy or whatever," I say. "But all the same, I think I've said enough for today. Thanks for listening, Flayn."

"It is no problem," she says. "I would recommend you read Saint Cethleann's writings sometime. You may find them more reassuring than most of the other writings."

I nod. Something tells me she's right.

I look back out over the pond, studying the gentle ebbing of the water. Without something to distract me, I have to fight down my hurt and embarrassment towards Catherine and the shopkeeper (who may or may not actually be named Anna, for all I know). This is the ugly truth of it—I don't fit in here, and for some people, that's going to be a problem. Others, like Mercedes, might have an easier time with it, but what if she knew the truth? What if Dimitri and Annette knew the truth?

I turn my head to look at Flayn sitting next to me, idly twirling a lock of green hair. She looks back at me and smiles. I smile back.

Flayn knows the truth—as much as I've told anyone—and doesn't hate me. Is there more I can really ask for?

I spend most of the rest of the day relaxing in my room, a much-needed break from the hard labor of the past week. Before dinner, I drop off my dirty uniforms for the washing and pick up clean ones for the week, as per Cyril's instruction. After, I return to my room and finally get around to reading The History of Fódlan. I idly flip through the first chapter, about life under the harsh rule of Nemesis, rife with disorder, infighting, suffering, and bloodshed. Lovely light reading for Praesday evening, isn't it? It all leaves an awful taste in my mouth. But this is the world I'm living in now, and I have to face it.

I find myself asking the same question I did during services earlier this morning: how much of all this is even true? As one would expect, none of it contradicts the party line. And while I know that the other version of the story, where Nemesis was rebelling against the alleged tyranny of the Nabateans (and actually earning the epithet 'King of Liberation'), isn't true either, it still doesn't sit totally right. Could anyone find the truth?

As the sun sets, making it too dark to read, it feels like I'm being released from my labors. I close the book. If anyone can figure it out, it isn't me—not now.

The next day, it's back to hard work, and Cyril slowly starts to give me more autonomy. When we're cleaning the cathedral, rather than inspecting my handiwork with such scrutiny, he only gives what I've cleaned a passing glance before moving on.

"Hey, Harrison," he says, as we're making our rounds by the greenhouse. "Do you think you can do something for me later?"

"Yeah?" I ask, quirking a brow. It's quite unlike Cyril to ask me to do something on my own indeed. "What's up?"

He sighs. "So, ya know how the students are taking their final exams," he says. "Well, there's a lot of papers to get organized and be moving back and forth between the classrooms and the professors' offices."

"And that's part of our job?" I ask.

"Yeah," Cyril says. "The thing is, ya know, I can't read, so I won't be of much help there. But since you can, I was thinking ya might be able to help out the professors more easily by yourself."

"Really?" I ask. Something about this whole situation seems off. "I thought you said you wouldn't let the fact that you can't read slow you down."

"Well, I try not to," he says. "Don't get the wrong idea. I would help them, but I think you could be more helpful. I could get more work done somewhere else."

I nod. "That makes sense," I reply.

"Once classes are out for the day, we'll go over by the classrooms. You can handle the papers with the professors, and clean the rooms out when you're all done."

Asking me to help out the professors with a task requiring literacy made sense, but this is very uncharacteristic of Cyril. I recoil with mock surprise. "I'm shocked that you're letting me clean anything on my own," I reply. "Did you get enough sleep last night?"

Cyril gives a slight smile for a moment. "No, I'm serious. You've been putting in good work this past week. Most of the acolytes who try to help me out barely last an afternoon," he says, as if it's a boast. "Really, if I didn't think ya could help them on your own, I wouldn't have asked ya to."

"I won't let you down," I reply.

As I turn my attention back to the plants, I think over what it all means. If I'm going to be helping out the professors, plural, I'm going to be meeting Manuela and/or Hanneman later today. But the odds are also good that I'll have to deal with our old friend Caius Goneril again.

Later in the afternoon, Cyril and I head over to the classrooms. A taller man in a long brown coat stands outside the classroom, talking to a brunette woman in a white shawl. Hanneman and Manuela. As we approach, I can better make out Hanneman lecturing Manuela, apparently over some issue with the final exams.

"—cannot believe you gave your students an extra minute on that section!" Hanneman exclaims.

"Are you telling me you stare at the hourglass every second you're giving the exam?" Manuela replies.

"No, but in the interest of fairness above all else—!"

Manuela, clearly desperate for some way out of the situation, looks over in our direction. "Oh, Cyril!" she calls out. "You're just in time to help us sort out the papers."

"Hi, Professor Manuela," Cyril says.

Hanneman remains unfazed, refusing to turn around and look in our direction. "Don't think you'll get out of this so easily," he continues. "At any rate, the only—"

Manuela continues ignoring him. "And I see you've brought a friend," she says, looking in my direction. "I don't believe we've met before. I'm Professor Manuela—physician, songstress, and available." Of course, it figures that line wasn't bespoke for Byleth in the game.

All I can do is laugh nervously. "That's quite the resume," I reply.

"It is, and yet I find myself so lonely without someone to bask in the glory with," she says with a flirty bat of the eyelashes—another practiced maneuver.

It's at this point that Hanneman turns around to face us and groans. "That's enough, Manuela," he says. "The young man hasn't even introduced himself yet and you are all but falling over yourself to win him over!"

"Well, let me introduce myself, then," I cut in, interrupting Manuela before the argument can escalate. "My name's Harrison, and I'm working with Cyril. He told me I'd be a better help to you sorting out the papers because I can read."

Manuela ignores Hanneman and nods in the direction of Cyril and I. "Cyril is such a thoughtful one, isn't he?" She smiles at him, then at me. "Delighted to make your acquaintance."

"I suppose I also ought to introduce myself," Hanneman says, looking over to me. "I am Professor Hanneman von Essar—pleased to make your acquaintance as well. And have you met our other colleague, Caius?"

I nod slowly and glance back to Cyril. "Yeah," I reply.

"I see," Hanneman says. Manuela just nods sympathetically.

Cyril speaks up in the ensuing lull of the conversation. "I'll leave you all to it," he says. "I've gotta go chop some firewood. Just make sure to clean out the classrooms when you're all done, Harrison."

"Got it."

With a quick wave goodbye, Cyril heads back the way we came.

"Well, let's just not stand around here," Manuela says. "There's plenty of work to be done, and I don't want to spend my whole night here."

"There is only so much work to be done because you fail to comprehend the most basic principles of organization!" Hanneman sighs and looks towards me. "I must thank you for lending your assistance, Harrison. Allow me to apologize in advance for my colleague's inability to maintain order in the classroom."

I just shrug and smile awkwardly.

Manuela folds her arms and rolls her eyes. "Oh, come off it, Hanneman," she says. "I bet you want to get out of here too, so you can get back to tinkering with your Crestalyzer or whatever."

"It is called the Crest Analyzer and it is an unprecedented advancement for Crest scholarship the continent over!" he retorts.

God, how could Byleth stand to be in the middle of this all the time?

Just then, a man exits the Golden Deer classroom. Caius strides up to us, a scowl written across his face, and a large stack of papers in hand.

"Hello there, Hanneman, Manuela," he says. I'm not surprised that he doesn't acknowledge me. Does he even remember my name?

Hanneman and Manuela, for their part, meet their colleague with stiff expressions and cold politeness, betraying their discomfort. I'm not surprised that a noble jerk from the Alliance wouldn't be the kindest to a renounced Imperial noble who never really drank the Kool-Aid and a commoner who made her own way on talent.

"Well met," Hanneman replies.

"I trust administering the exam went smoothly for you?" Manuela asks with a smile that's ever so slightly strained.

He shrugs. "As well as one could imagine," he says, then looks at me. He shakes his head, and I fear that he actually did remember me from the other night. But Caius just looks back to Hanneman and Manuela and glares. "Did I happen to overhear that you are engaging an ordinary servant in processing the examinations?"

"That's right," Manuela replies.

I take it as my cue to cut in. Manuela and Hanneman seem to like Caius not much more than I do, so I'm feeling a bit more bold. I try to be saccharine-sweet to catch Caius off-guard. "I'd be happy to help you as well, Professor Goneril."

A look of recognition crosses Caius's face. I guess after that first impression, it would be a bit much to ask him to completely forget me. Caius's glare sharpens, but only momentarily, as he seems to collect himself in front of his colleagues.

"I must refuse the offer," he replies. "I cannot understand why my colleagues would potentially compromise such sensitive materials as final examination grades."

Manuela sighs. "I don't see why it has to be such a big deal," she says. "It's just faster and more efficient with a little help."

Hanneman interjects as well. "Further, Manuela's management of the infirmary and my own research require more of our time and attention," he offers. "I do not see the problem with lightening our load in times such as this."

"Simple excuses, nothing more. Can you not imagine one of those brats flicking a thaler in the direction of this young man and asking him to tamper with the documents?"

Is a thaler another type of coin? One of the ones Anna didn't tell me about? It must be, and Caius is insinuating that he fears I'd take a bribe to help some kid cheat. I feel myself tense up at his remarks, but I'm not sure what to say. Just blanket denial wouldn't get me anywhere with him. I've learned that much by now.

"Oh, that's just ridiculous," Manuela mutters.

Caius ignores her and continues. "Though, I will leave you to conduct yourselves as you please. If you will pardon me, I have my own grading to take care of." With that, he leaves, heading over to the main building where the offices are.

Once he's out of earshot, I relax and exhale audibly. Manuela does as well. "Oh, Fódlan's nobles, they never change," she says. "They say the most ridiculous things just to hear themselves talk."

Hanneman shakes his head. "You forget that I am of noble birth."

"And you don't think that describes you some of the time?" Manuela rebuts. She sighs dreamily. "Some nobles out there are sweet, you know. If only I could meet a single one who'd sweep me off my feet, look past my common birth—"

"And your cleaning habits," Hanneman interjects.

"Hmph!" Manuela folds her arms. "Your cleaning habits may be impeccable, but your attitude? You'll have a hard time winning over any lovely ladies with that."

Feeling increasingly awkward at the exchange, I clear my throat. "I don't mean any disrespect, Professors," I begin, "but maybe we should get started on the work?"

"Right, right," Manuela says.

Hanneman nods, then turns to me. "Go see to Manuela's aid, will you? I suspect she will need quite a bit of assistance."

Manuela grumbles, and I follow her into the Black Eagles classroom. We set to work organizing the papers, and as Hanneman predicted, it's a mess. Without movable type, copiers or even those little blue exam books, everything is left to be handwritten on loose, unevenly sized sheets of paper, which Manuela has collated with little regard for any semblance of organization. And that leaves me to sort it all out.

Thankfully, the students at least wrote their names on most of the papers. Handwriting styles help fill in the gaps, and reading the beginning and end of each page help string each students' work together in a coherent order. Even through simple skimming I get a sample of the types of questions that are being asked. Students have to compare the strengths and weaknesses of different unit, weapon, and battalion types, explain applications of magic, and devise and draw out strategies that look more like football play diagrams than Fire Emblem maps.

Once the students' works are compiled into individual stacks, we bind each stack together. The process is unusual in the absence of modern conveniences like staples or paper clips, but relatively straightforward. We punch a hole in the paper with a small awl, then run a piece of twine through the holes and tie a knot, securing a packet together.

The work is a nice break from the hard labor I've been doing with Cyril. The mind-numbing tedium of floor cleaning is replaced, or at least, mitigated, by the mind-numbing tedium of office work and the general cleaning of Manuela's mess. I don't mean to harp on her too hard, though—for what it's worth, she's effusively appreciative of my help, though I can't tell if that's just because she's still trying to come on to me.

Once we're all done, I help Manuela and Hanneman carry the papers back to their offices. Manuela's is adjacent to the infirmary, and predictably a disaster. The place is littered with trash like scraps of paper, and her desk has the remains of a meal eaten God-knows-when. As I shuffle books around on a shelf to make room for the papers, I can't help but sneeze—in the process I've kicked up a nice cloud of dust. Yet that's all there really is to it. Manuela waves me off after she's done, saying that she'll handle the rest from there, and to go help out Hanneman.

The first thing I notice when I walk into Hanneman's office is what must be the Crest Analyzer, in the center of the room. It's a large dark box equipped with ominous dials and switches on all sides, pronged clamps and attachments, and a wide, circular pane of glass on top. My eyes move from the Crest Analyzer to the back corner of the room, where a large sheet hangs on the wall, displaying sketches of Crest designs, with copious notes surrounding each one.

In contrast to Manuela's, Hanneman's office is far better kept—in fact, a little too well-kept. I spend more time than I might otherwise like shuffling files around under Hanneman's supervision. In between filing the students' exams in with all their other work (the names alphabetized and all their coursework and other paperwork in chronological order—"as it logically ought to be", Hanneman is sure to emphasize), I reshelve some of his other tomes that have gotten mixed up in the shuffle. There's plenty of books on magical theory and even more on Crests: some appearing to catalogue the designs, some that talk about their uses in battle, and others tracing the heritability of Crests through individual noble families. I can't help but wonder if Fódlaners would have a more intuitive grasp on genetics given that superpowers are literally heritable.

When I'm all done with the work, Hanneman gives me an approving nod. "Thank you for your assistance," he says. "Now, if you have a moment, Harrison, may I ask you a question?"

Oh boy, this is it, I bet. Hanneman's going to give me the 'do you have a Crest?' speech. "Sure," I reply.

"Do you, by any chance, bear a Crest?" Called it.

I consider my response for a moment. I haven't told anyone but Seteth or Flayn a thing about my origins, so knowing what Crests are isn't suspicious. As far as Hanneman's aware, I'm simply a commoner who can read. And I would say I don't have a Crest, but this tiny voice in the back of my head is yelling: what if something happened to you on your way over to Fódlan? What if you were transformed, made into something different? The thought gives me a sudden chill. Do I even want to find out?

"Not that I know of," I reply. It seems like the safer thing to say.

"Ah, 'not that you know of.' We can ascertain such a thing for certain," he says, pointing a finger into the air. "Would you be so kind as to allow me to test you using my Crest Analyzer?"

"Okay, I guess," I say. Refusing just might be more suspicious at this point.

"Excellent! Now, I will just need a few hairs…"

Weird as it is, it certainly isn't difficult to pull a few hairs out from my scalp. Hanneman takes them from between my fingers with a pair of metal forceps and places the hairs into one of the clamps of the Crest Analyzer. He turns some knobs and dials and throws some switches. He slides open what looks like a lens cover under the glass pane, and...

Nothing. Nothing happens.

Hanneman furrows his brow. "Did I turn the blasted thing on? No, I must've." He walks back over to the Crest Analyzer and fiddles with it some more. Still, no change results. He takes a step back from the machine and puts a hand to his chin. "Everything seems to be in working order."

"What's wrong?" I ask. "It looks like no Crest to me."

"One would think so, yet..." Hanneman replies, his voice trailing off. He sighs. "How do I begin to explicate the mechanisms of the device?"

"Well, what's supposed to happen if there's no Crest?"

"Perhaps it is best if I simply show you," he says. Hanneman removes my hair from the contraption. He wipes off the instrument and the forceps with a small towel, then goes to unlock one of the boxes I helped move around. He fishes around for something inside, and retrieves a cork-stoppered glass vial, holding some translucent liquid.

Hanneman removes the stopper and plunges the forceps inside. When he pulls them out, I realize from the way the light catches the residual liquid that he's removed a hair from the vial. The liquid must be some kind of preservative or fixative for maintaining samples. Creepy, maybe, but it makes logical sense. I suppose if the machine can act up like this, it's just more effective than asking a million times.

He places the preserved hair into the Crest Analyzer and switches it on once more. After one particular knob is adjusted, suddenly, something appears on the viewing-glass. The lens projects something with a faint, ethereal glow. It's completely uneven, with some parts fading in while others disappear.

"What the hell is that?" I ask.

Hanneman ignores me, muttering to himself. "Well, the instrument certainly seems to be working." He turns to me and begins explaining in a louder voice. "This is the projection of the hair of a non-Crested individual. Observe the pattern, or rather, the lack thereof." He gestures with his hand towards the viewing-glass.

He's right—it's just random noise, the Crest equivalent of radio static. But when he put my hair in the device, he got nothing.

Hanneman continues. "For the case of Crested individuals, by contrast, the projection is a consistent pattern characteristic of the nature of their Crest. Observe once more."

I wordlessly watch as he repeats the procedure for a fresh sample from another vial. But this time, when he places the hair into the Crest Analyzer, a distinct pattern emerges, but it's somewhat skewed and out of focus. As Hanneman adjusts the dials, the pattern becomes clearer: an inner circle, surrounded by outer curves and lines that make the thing look like a targeting reticule. Still, there are some gaps and smudges in the projection, and I can't exactly remember what Crest it is.

"The Crest can be determined by examining the projection," Hanneman explains. "Generally, the task is far easier with individuals who present Crested bloodlines more robustly—what we term as Major Crests. The few I have had the good fortune to study project with such exquisite clarity. But the weaker Crests such as this—a Minor Crest of Goneril—are often incomplete, oblique, or sometimes downright inscrutable."

My eyes go back from Hanneman to the viewing glass and I nod, taking it in. "Still, that's a far cry from the first sample you showed."

"Quite right," he replies.

"But when it was my hair being analyzed, we didn't see anything at all," I say, though I'm unsure what saying it accomplishes.

"And therein lies the rub," Hanneman says. "I suppose it could be a very weak Minor Crest that we simply aren't seeing. Traces of it, even. Enough to dull the standard interference response, but…"

I recall my own thoughts from before. What if something happened? What if I have become something different?

My gut sinks. "Hang on—wait a minute," I reply. "You can't be serious. There's no way I have a Crest."

"It is impossible to tell at the moment," he says. "But a family history would be useful, as would a blood sample."

Family history? No, no, I don't even want to make something up. "It works with blood, too?" I ask, then hesitantly venture a real question that's been on my mind: "How does it work, exactly?"

"Oh, yes," Hanneman explains. "The device contains a small sliver of a Hero's Relic. The Relics are made of materials unknown, but it is well-understood that they are related to Crests—after all, each Relic can only be wielded by those bearing a particular Crest with its Crest Stone."

Oh, that's interesting, actually. I think I'm starting to get it. "So what we're observing is some sort of interaction between the sample of the Crest material and the Relic."

Hanneman turns to look at me and quirks an eyebrow. "That is precisely correct," he says. "The Principle of Crest Interference, I call it. The Crest Analyzer visualizes the magical interference that results between two Crested materials, and that can be interpreted to determine the specific Crest that an individual bears—or that there is none."

"I see," I nod, taking it all in. The more I think about it, the more it does make a lot of sense. It's like magical Raman spectroscopy, maybe. I never learned the real technique in detail as an undergrad. But the general concept is that if you bombard a molecule with certain types of radiation, rather than being entirely absorbed by the molecule, it'll be scattered, and you can use that to learn something about its structure. It sounds a lot like the way the "interference"—whatever that even physically means—can be visualized and projected. So maybe it's that my body, being from another world, just doesn't respond to Crests in the same way or something.

It's not like I could tell Hanneman any of that, though.

Either way, I don't exactly want to get stuck with a needle right now—nor am I really sure I even want to know what's going on here—so I demur by asking more questions. "Well, it looks like there's a lot of adjustments and settings on the instrument and things like that," I say. "And I bet there's all sorts of factors that can affect the result. What the distances and angles are, if the hair is fresh or preserved…"

I glance away from the Crest Analyzer, back to Hanneman, who is regarding me curiously. I nervously continue.

"Maybe you should check that all out before we move on to blood? If your calibration's off, that'll ruin the whole thing. Everything could affect the interference, or how you visualize it, whatever that stuff even means."

Hanneman smiles and doesn't say anything for a moment. I fear I've said something wrong and embarrassed myself in front of the good professor.

"Harrison, you have not studied magic, have you?" he asks.

I sigh and shake my head. "No, sir. I was just trying to think it all through logically," I reply. Of course my intuition was an overreach. I don't know anything about Crests or magic.

"I suspected as much," Hanneman replies. "All told, those are astute considerations to raise, especially for someone without formal education in the field. Not that I hadn't considered them myself, of course. But even without a detailed theoretical foundation, your intuition is uncannily acute."

I balk at Hanneman's praise. "I was just thinking it through logically," I repeat.

"The mystery of your Crest, or lack thereof, may take a while longer to decisively solve," he continues. "But that aside, I must ask: would you care for private instruction in the magical arts?"

Hanneman's offering to teach me magic? Me, an ordinary servant? I laugh nervously, not quite sure what to say. I mean, on one hand, I can't deny that it sounds awesome. And it would give me a way to defend myself if it came down to it. But what if I can't use magic—because I'm from Earth? And why is Hanneman offering to teach me anyway?

I punt the question—I'm realizing that I'm getting pretty good at that. "That's flattering, but I'm not sure why you would offer that to me of all people. I'm sure your time is better spent with the students or on your research."

"Ah, but research is made more fruitful in the company of like-minded colleagues," Hanneman rebuts. "And such colleagues tend to be in short supply at Garreg Mach. Yet in you, I see such potential—potential that, as an educator, I seek to nurture. In our work together this afternoon, you have demonstrated an aptitude for detail and the fortitude for hard work. And in our discussion of your Crest results, you have similarly displayed the intuition and curiosity of a scholar, which remain unserved and unsatiated by manual drudgery."

So Hanneman wants to mold me into a magical thinker, huh? I guess my own scientific education got the better of me. Asking all those questions about calibration and how the thing works—I should've known that would have been used against me. Though it makes sense that he hasn't even brought up my Crest that much. The poor guy just wants someone to talk about his ideas to, and outside of the rare Annette or Lysithea with such a magical-academic bent, he won't find receptive audiences.

Still, I'm not quite sure what to say. What would Seteth or Cyril think? I hesitate to reply.

"Or perhaps I was incorrect," Hanneman muses sadly.

"No—no, not at all," I reply. I've made my decision. "I'll take you up on the offer. It was just really unexpected and flattering." I nod resolutely.

He grins. "Excellent," he says. "Though I venture to make one stipulation before we begin in earnest. You simply must clean Manuela's office!" he declares.

I can't help but laugh. "It's a bit of a mess in there, definitely."

"A travesty is what it is!" he exclaims. "I care not how she conducts herself in her personal quarters—though I certainly do not approve—but her office is intended to be a somewhat public space! I have seen her students go to the doorway, intending to meet with her, only to take a glance in and turn away in horror! Consider it a final test of dedication, if you like. If you clean Manuela's office, I will teach you all that I know about magic."

"Sounds like a deal to me," I reply.

Hanneman nods. "We ought to work out when it all can be accomplished later. For now, I will take your recommendation under advisement and inspect the instrument's calibration. I believe you have your own work to attend to as well?"

"Yeah," I reply. "Cyril asked me to clean out the classrooms."

"In that case, the investigation of your blood shall wait for another day," he announces. "But fear not, Harrison. For when there is a mystery in Crestology, Hanneman von Essar does not rest until it is solved."

I smile. "I don't doubt it."

I bid Hanneman a farewell. I look over to the infirmary—I suspect Manuela's headed out for the night—then over to Caius Goneril's office, to which the door is shut. It seems hardly unusual for him to be so reclusive, but still slightly strange for some reason. Not that it matters to me—I've got one more job to do today. I head down to the classrooms to get started.

I give a cursory glance into the Golden Deer classroom. Considering Caius is out of the picture for now, it's as good as any other to start with. I grab my trusty bucket, mop, and broom and head inside. I know the routine by now—clean off the tables and the chalkboard, reshelve any misplaced items, and sweep and mop the floors. It's nothing complicated, even if it is a bit awkward doing it entirely alone.

I work through the Golden Deer classroom and move onto the Blue Lions. Their classroom doesn't present any real difficulties, either. Lastly, I go to the Black Eagles room, the only thing standing in the way between me and dinner and sleep.

I notice pretty quickly that the room is in a little worse shape than the others. It's not unexpected—by now I've realized that Manuela just doesn't seem to run as tight a ship as Hanneman, or even Caius. Over by the podium, notably, there are crumbs and scraps of food. Was she snacking on the job? It's more likely than you think. But it's nothing too difficult to clean up. It is my job, after all.

Once I'm done sweeping away the remains of Manuela's meal, something else catches my eye. I've missed something on one of the tables in the back corner of the room. It's a book, so I walk over to pick it up and reshelve it. I give the title and author a passing glance: Theories of Statecraft by one Erdem Kemal. The name strikes me as unusual, at least for Fódlan. And "theories of statecraft"—I mean, I took a poli sci class and a history class or two (and even read a few history books just to get inspiration for writing my own fanfiction) but that's not anywhere close to the same as this. Where is this book from, and who could it belong to?

I look around the room. Nobody's here, so it couldn't hurt to take a peek, right?

I idly flip through the book. Many, many pages are dog-eared, with notes in the margins written in delicate, narrow lettering. I turn to the table of contents. The book is divided into chapters with some titles that seem like they'd be anathema to the political structure of Fódlan: "Proposing a Revised Merit System," "On Language and Law," "In Defense of Scholarly Bureaucracies," and "Criticisms of the Role of the Nobility." Nevermind the author's name, the content of this book makes it stand out in Fódlan. If Inorganic Chemistry and Abnormal Psychology were suspect enough to be destroyed, I doubt this would be allowed, either.

I turn to the title page of the book. Did books even have title pages back in the day? Well, either way, maybe it'll have some information on who this Erdem Kemal is. But writing on the inside of the cover catches my eye. Written in a hand wider and less consistent than the notes in the margins is the following:

22 Garland Moon 1176

My dear El,

Happy birthday. I hope that the coming year brings you more joy than the previous, though my heart aches knowing that such a thing will not be difficult, all things considered. As I write this, my fist clenches the pen with indignity, knowing that there is so little that I can do for you. If all I am able to do is acquire this book as you requested, then that is what this poor excuse for a father shall do. My men told me that procuring it was no easy task given the last year's war, but no sacrifice is too great for you—not now. I know you will use this book well, my daughter. The fate of our Empire will one day be in your capable hands. Never again will anyone suffer as you have.

With love,

Your father

This isn't just a Dagdan book of political philosophy—at least, I think it's Dagdan, given the mention of the war. This is a piece of the relationship between Edelgard and her father, a single frame in the story of her trauma and suffering. At the age of, what, 13 or 14, she requested—sought out—rare books by foreign thinkers to give her the insight and perspective to create her vision of the future, a vision where "never again will anyone suffer" the way she did, and her father did what little he could to support her. Whatever you think of what she does (will do? Might do?), that's pretty powerful.

A shiver runs down my spine as I glance over the words one more time. I close the book and set it down. I feel as though I've seen something that wasn't meant for me, as though I've violated something intensely intimate and private. Of course, I already knew the broad strokes of her story from the game, but that's something I'm not supposed to know. That's something she has to confess to Byleth, and I'm not Byleth.

I'm a fucking janitor and this book is above my pay grade.

But what do I do with it? It doesn't seem right to just reshelve it with the other things. Even putting aside the question of how the Church would view the contents of the book, the personal nature of it makes it feel wrong. This isn't a missing hair clip or ink bottle. This is part of who Edelgard is.

And, I remind myself, Edelgard is someone I haven't met, and someone who no one's explicitly told me about. She isn't even in the class of 1179 that was taking their final exams today, so why she would have been in the classroom, I have no idea. Was she just sitting in on observing the exams, quietly reading along in her book? Either way, it would be awfully suspicious to surmise her identity from the book itself. So directly returning it, or asking someone else—if I could even trust anyone—to do so, seems out of the question.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" a voice says from my side. Jesus Christ! My heart skips a beat, and my nerves all twitch at once. I whirl around, looking for the source of the voice. I hadn't heard or seen anyone come in.

"Wh-who's there?" I ask. A guy about my age is standing in a corner of the room. He's intimidatingly tall, wearing a school uniform, with jet-black hair and a very displeased scowl. It's none other than Hubert—the butler who really would stab a bitch just for looking at Edelgard the wrong way. What's he doing here? He starts towards me, and I instinctively step backwards, right into the corner of the classroom. I couldn't run if I wanted to.

"I should be asking the same of you," Hubert replies. "After all, you are in possession of the property of Lady Edelgard von Hresvelg."

I glance at the book on the desk, next to me. "Oh," I say, like a dumbass. "You mean that."

Hubert nods. "Tell me who you are and what your intentions are with that book, immediately."

"Just take it back!" I reply. I pick up the book and hold it out in his direction. "Take it!"

"If you insist," he says, snatching the book and tucking it under his arm. "Yet you still have not answered my questions."

I exhale sharply and furrow my brow. "Look, I don't know what else you want. My name's Harrison. I'm just monastery staff," I say, trying to work as much confidence into my voice as I can muster. It isn't very much, but it's the best I've got. After all, however scary he is, Hubert is a student. "I work here. It's my job to clean the place up. And that includes cleaning this classroom of things the students—I assume you—leave lying around."

Before Hubert can reply, a female voice calls out from the doorway. "Hubert? Have you found it yet?" None other than Edelgard von Hresvelg strides into the room—her scarlet cape and platinum hair flowing behind her as she enters. Speak of the devil, and she doth appear.

She looks at Hubert, then at the book, then at me. I do my best to match her piercing gaze. I can tell that those lilac eyes are studying me. Analyzing me. Searching for weak points, of which there are many. "Pardon me—what is going on here?"

I open my mouth to speak but Hubert cuts me off. "Lady Edelgard," Hubert says in a supplicating tone, "I have indeed found your book. This individual claims he found it in the classroom as part of his normal cleaning duties, but—"

"But what?" Edelgard interrupts.

"I witnessed him perusing your book and its contents," he says, turning his glare back to me. Oh, goddamnit. "You ought to explain yourself."

I choose my next words carefully. This could make or break my case here, and Hubert and Edelgard are not to be trifled with.

"I was trying to determine who the book belonged to so I could return it to its rightful owner," I reply, glancing back at Edelgard every couple of words. She gives a nod, so I continue. "It seemed like an unusual book—not monastery property. I've been around the library: they don't keep foreign books on political philosophy."

Hubert strokes his chin with a white-gloved hand—the one that's not holding the book. "This is rather curious," he says. "Even among monastery servants who are literate, I doubt many have the intellectual acumen to understand and articulate such a thing."

Are you fucking kidding me? First Hanneman thinks I have potential because I ask obvious questions. And now, using words that show I went to middle school is enough of an "intellectual acumen" to get Hubert to give me the third degree? If I give him an inch, he takes a mile. I can't yield anymore, or else I'll make some other mistake and give everything away. I need to stand firm.

"So, what's your point?" I say, exasperated. "You don't think I really work here or something? Based off of hunches and guesses and suspicions?"

"Lady Edelgard has many enemies," he replies. "It is far from inconceivable that they could have infiltrated the monastery."

And of course, we get right to the point—Hubert thinks I'm a spy. "I don't know what to tell you!" I reply. "I really do work here at the monastery! Look, if you don't believe me, just go ask Seteth. He'll vouch for me."

Hubert opens his mouth to reply, but Edelgard holds up a hand. "That's enough, Hubert. Allow me," she says, and turns to me. "I don't believe you've told me your name."

"I'm Harrison," I say.

She nods. "And I am Edelgard von Hresvelg," she says. "I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but given the circumstances, such pleasantries seem hollow and insincere."

So Edelgard and Hubert are pulling the good cop/bad cop routine. I don't doubt that she's aware that Hubert's going a little too far, but I'm sure she's also just acting more reasonably by comparison for the sake of actually getting information out of me. Either way, I've got to play the game, too.

I nod. "I appreciate the honesty," I reply, the irony of my own words—given it's her—painfully clear to me. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but—" I steal a wary glance back at Hubert "—here we are."

"Hmph," Hubert chides. "Do bear in mind, Harrison, you are speaking to the Crown Princess of the Adrestian Empire."

Edelgard shakes her head and sighs. "I apologize for Hubert's rashness. I hope you understand that he simply seeks to protect me, though he can sometimes be overzealous."

"I understand," I say, making eye contact for the briefest of moments with Hubert once more. "It's not a problem."

"The situation seems resolved, does it not? The book has been returned to its rightful owner. Now, we ought to leave you to your work," Edelgard says. "Again, I am sorry for the confusion, and you have my gratitude for returning my book so promptly. If you really were reading it, I am sure you could tell it is precious to me."

I nod. "It's certainly well-loved," I reply. "You're welcome, Edelgard—"

I bite my lip as I notice Hubert staring daggers at me. Fuck.

"Lady Edelgard? Lady von Hresvelg? Your Highness?" I say, trying to backpedal quickly. One of those must be right.

Hubert furrows his brow more, and Edelgard tilts her head. The two exchange a look.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. Of course I fucked that up, but what else is there to say?

"There is no need to apologize," she says. "It's quite late; we really must be going. Goodnight, Harrison."

"Goodnight," I reply, not even trying to apply the proper title. That's a losing battle, I've learned.

Hubert and Edelgard turn and leave, the sound of their feet echoing against the stone floors.

I exhale deeply. That could've gone better. I should've known that if I want to blend in I can't act smart. And I don't think working with Hanneman is going to do me any favors. Not that I doubt his discretion, especially on the issue of my Crest, or lack thereof. But if word were to get around that he's taken on a servant as a private student, I don't think it'd be a great look.

But it could've gone a lot worse. I don't know if I could've gotten myself out of that situation if Edelgard hadn't appeared and stopped Hubert's aggression. She knows that she's better off just letting a minor matter like this go. Of course, now they know my name. Is Hubert going to kill me in my sleep now or something?

I find myself growing angry as I clean more. Why do I keep having to trip and stumble into things that are clearly just not meant for me to bother with, that are above my pay grade? The more I try to blend in, the harder it becomes.

Is it time for a change of strategy? Or would that be suicide?

A/N: Sorry for a slightly delayed chapter; my goal of getting these out two weeks apart was already pretty ambitious before I got swamped with some IRL commitments and stresses, and on top of that, TDB was pretty busy himself, so that delayed getting this properly beta-read. But everything's fine, I've just come to the end of the stuff I've extensively written ahead of time. I'm going to try to get things out every three weeks or so from here on out, but no promises. These are huge, chonky chapters and even though I'm super motivated, it takes a lot of work to get them done.

Overall, I'm glad to see that there was a mostly positive response to the potentially sensitive issues of religion and identity that I started broaching last chapter. I hope to continue to explore these issues in a meaningful way. As always, I can't thank my beta readers, ThreeDollarBratwurst and Syntaxis, enough. Your out-of-context TDB quote for this time is: "The casting couch was a ploy invented by furniture makers to manipulate you into associating leather couches with sex, thereby creating a visceral, sexual urge to buy overpriced furnishings."

DestructionDragon360: Yeah, Catherine doesn't joke around when it comes to heresy... we'll see what that means for Harrison the Heathen (tm).

DeadalusFlights: I know you're joking around, but Harrison's view of the service wasn't one where he views himself with smug, "enlightened" superiority, but one where he feels scared and unsure and out of place; that's not an eye-roll response at all.

Howling Armadillo: Thank you for the review!

CaptainSidekick: Excited to see the other houses? Well I hope this chapter delivered!

eseer: No matter what, you can't deny that in this case, the paranoia is at least a little justified.

Hwang Manuel: Thank you so much! I had a lot of fun coming up with ideas for fleshing out worldbuilding details of the Church, and I have a lot more up my sleeve.

Stormtide Leviathan: Thank you so much for the review!

Sonikah: Thank you! I felt like in the world of Fódlan, one simply can't ignore questions of religion, which pick up with it all sorts of other questions of identity and social customs that are really interesting to explore.

Caellach Tiger Eye: As always, thank you for your review! As I said to another reviewer, I do have more in mind for explicating the days of the week.

Izunama: Thank you for your review!

Heavenschoir: Thanks for your review! I decided to address some of the point you raise in the chapter itself. But to give a more comprehensive answer: it's complicated and depends who you ask, like many, many things in Judaism. Basically, the view you mention is one that is held, but it tends towards being a very strict and old-fashioned one. Harrison, who you'll note isn't very religious, doesn't think going to church services is inherently a problem on its own; he would be a lot more bothered by the whole thing if he was forced to participate rather than simply being allowed to silently observe. This represents more of a modern view on the subject that draws more subtler distinctions. There's more that can be said, but I don't want to get too deep into the weeds. My intent in bringing in questions of religion isn't to create drama or problems but just give these things a realistic look.

Caldon: I laughed at your mention of Edge of Dawn. Harrison might not have been singing that, but he was certainly caught another way.

Guest: Thank you so much for your review! No Claude yet, but the presence of the characters we haven't met looms large over the story, I hope - that's the intended effect. And doing research and coming up with the ideas for how the world works is some of the most fun I have (I have a little too much fun, in fact) in writing. Honestly, it sometimes makes me wish I had gone for a degree in history or political science, thinking about how interesting it all is and how that sort of knowledge can jumpstart ideas. Luckily the internet is a thing and research a thing, but sometimes I fear I'm "unqualified" to actually worldbuild in a way with versimilitude - so hearing that I've succeeded means a lot.

V01dSw0rd: You got "Sun" and "Moon", sure, but there's no Thor in Fodlan, only the Goddess, haha. There's another logic to the naming of the other four days of the week beyond the heavenly bodies (Sun, Moon, Blue Sea Star). But I'm saving that tidbit for later. As for Flayn, I'd argue that she does need to hide some aspect of her truth around Harrison. Sure, he knows she is Cethleann, but she doesn't know that he knows, or that he could know. So she's holding back something of herself; and he's holding back his meta knowledge, too. He is open with her about being from Earth, and that's a lot, but they're still both holding back some aspects of each of their truths.

Call Brig On Over: I'm glad I got the stress across and made it feel realistic!

EuclidWriter: Thank you so much for the review and I'm glad to hear from you! You have a totally valid point as far as people like Harrison getting overlooked, but do remember that most of the people he's met to the point of learning their names (with the exception of Shamir and Tomas/Solon) he's made enough of an impression on to be somehow memorable in one way or another. I wouldn't hesitate to throw in an instance of his name being forgotten, certainly, as long as it made sense, and so far for better or worse I think we can agree he's been making impressions on quite a few people, inadvertently. And as for shipping... well, I have my own thoughts, but I'm always curious to hear from the readers what their thoughts are on shipping. Harrison hasn't interacted extensively with too many people yet, but as always I'd like to hear what you all think.

King Gai: I think I answered this at the beginning of this A/N; in the future, I'd appreciate it if you don't spam the story with "update when?" reviews.

Pat: Thank you so much for your review! That's a very good question you ask, and that issue will come up later, but saying more would be a spoiler right now!

TheBraveGallade: Thanks for the review! I think 90% of the issues is a bit of a tall ask, but definitely 90% of the students (or more) would benefit, for sure.

Scoolio: Glad to hear from you, and thanks for the review!

Come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!