Edelgard is trying her utmost to concentrate on the lecture—and not the professor—when a conspiratorial whisper from the desk behind her draws her attention away.

"Hey! Edie! Professor's looking pretty good today, huh?"

In a panic, Edelgard covers up her notes. She's sure she hasn't written (or drawn) anything untoward or incriminating, but lately she's fallen into a habit of absentmindedly doodling when her thoughts are on a certain someone. Assured that her artistic expressions haven't been exposed, Edelgard acknowledges Dorothea. "Be quiet, Dorothea. We're in class. And I have no idea what you are talking about." Or so Edelgard quietly protests, but the heat blooming in her cheeks betrays the truth.

"Stop lying, Edie," Dorothea croons in that knowing voice of hers. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with noticing that the professor is a stunning beauty. Perhaps I should ask her to dinner tonight?"

"You can't!" Edelgard reactively shouts, shooting up out of her seat and bringing the entire class to a screeching, silent halt.

Byleth looks at the young emperor-to-be, confused by her pupil's outburst. "I'm sorry, Edelgard. I can't what?"

Edelgard meekly sinks back into her seat, wondering if it is possible to cease to exist as she feels the withering stares of her classmates sear themselves into her soul. "I-it's nothing, my teacher. I'm sorry."

"'My teacher!' Oh, Edie, you've got it so bad!" Dorothea snickers, and Edelgard pointedly ignores Dorothea's subdued hysterics, trying (and failing) to focus on the lesson.

Despite what Dorothea insists is the truth, Edelgard knows that she has not developed any feelings toward the professor. Admiration or appreciation, maybe. That's all. But a crush? Foolishness. Someone of her station, the future emperor of Adrestia, has no time for silly things like a crush.

In the seat at the desk he shares with Edelgard, Hubert roughly massages his temples, feeling as if he's going insane. "This is utterly absurd," he rants to himself under his breath. "If this keeps up. . .no, not if. It has gone to far already. I must take action. . . ."

In the desk to his right, Bernadetta cowers in absolute terror, tearily praying that Hubert's ire isn't direct towards her.

If Edelgard is unwilling to accept that there is a problem (and it is plain as day to anyone with a brain and at least one working eye), then it is Hubert's duty to make sure that problem goes away. In any manner he deems necessary.

Byleth is pleasantly surprised to see that Hubert of all people stays after class. Usually, he's always waiting in Edelgard's shadow or off doing who-knows-what in her name. But today's lecture has sufficiently piqued his interest, or so Byleth assumes, and she quickly rifles through her prepared materials for any references she or Hubert may need.

"Professor. A word, please," Hubert requests politely, if a bit authoritatively. Byleth thinks nothing of it—she's come to understand that's just how Hubert talks.

"Of course," she obliges. After all, what kind of teacher would she be if she refused a student's request for help?

Hubert joins Byleth on the other side of the teacher's podium, his attention fixed on Byleth's notes. "As you are likely aware, my talents lie in the school of reason magic. But in today's lecture on combat arts, you mentioned certain techniques that incorporate a mage's magical power into a physical attack. Being able to combine the advantages of a physical weapon and magical arts would provide me with more options on the battlefield, so I am interested in pursuing further study."

All the while, Hubert furtively produces a handkerchief from his sleeve, the cloth already suitably dampened with a particular substance Hubert is rather fond of when it comes to committing some of his more nefarious deeds.

Meanwhile, Byelth lights up, excited to have sparked a desire to learn in Hubert, who has never spoken to her much outside of the classroom or off the battlefield. Except that time he threatened to kill her. But he didn't mean it. At least that's what Byleth tries to tell herself, but Hubert is not one to make jokes. "I think it would suit you well, Hubert. You've recently demonstrated quite the aptitude for lances, so there is one—hey, isn't that—"

Hubert does feel just a little bit guilty when he clamps the rag over the professor's nose and mouth. He wasn't expecting her to be so excited to help him, and he was telling the truth when he said he was interested in those combat arts. He's also still ashamed to recall his past doubts and threats to the professor, though he doesn't feel any guilt at all for those. Edelgard comes first, after all. Still. it isn't even the professor's fault that it's come to this—the fault lies squarely with Edelgard, but Hubert can hardly subject his liege to a similar operation. So he'll just have to settle for the next available option.

When Hubert covers her face with the cloth, the first thing Byleth thinks is that she recognizes it. She remembers finding it on the floor of the classroom one day and noticed a faint sweet smell and correctly deduced the object's owner. That same artificially sweet smell fills her nostrils, and soon Byleth's vision grows dark at the edges and her body grows weak, and finally she slips into darkness.

Not-so-satisfied with his handiwork, Hubert takes care in gently lowering the professor to the floor so he can adjust his grip on her. Once reoriented, he easily hefts the limp woman onto his shoulder. Getting out of the classroom would not be an easy task, especially in broad daylight, but Hubert has faced worse odds.

The heavy doors to the Black Eagles classroom glide open thanks to regular maintenance and care, and they just as easily swing shut behind Hubert as he exits the classroom, cargo in two.

"Excuse me, Hubert. Have you—uh, is that the professor?"

Hubert turns to face his interrogator, his heart filling with an unfamiliar emotion as he recognizes the speaker's voice. Perhaps this is how his victims feel when they know the end has come.

"Prince Dimitri," Hubert addresses him. "Yes, it is the professor. We were discussing some schoolwork when she suddenly said she was feeling unwell and collapsed. So, I am returning her to her quarters to recuperate."

"Oh, I see," Dimitri says, naively accepting Hubert's explanation at face value. "Do be careful, and make sure she is well. And please give Edelgard my regards."

"Of course," Hubert says impatiently through gritted teeth. "I really must get going. Good day, Prince Dimitri."

Dimitri watches Hubert leave, finding himself reevaluating his judgment of Hubert. He figured Edelgard's loyal servant to be responsible but not exactly the type to go out of his way to do good deeds. Looks are deceiving, after all. "I thought he would have left her where she fell," Dimitri says aloud to no one in particular. "But good on him, I suppose. Oh?"

Dimitri kneels and picks up a fine silk cloth that he hadn't noticed before. "Did Hubert drop this?" He lifts the handkerchief to eye level, searching for a name or insignia embroidered on identify the owner, when he catches a faint whiff of a fruity chemical smell. So naturally, like any other perfectly reasonable human being, Dimitri brings the cloth to his nose and tries taking a deeper breath, curious as to what the smell could be.

Suddenly, Dimitri is overcome with a wave of lightheadedness, and the handkerchief slips form his fingers. He touches a hand to his forehead, checking if he might have come down with a fever. "Was the professor contagious?" he wonders. "I hope Hubert won't get sick. I. . .I think I need to lie down."

Dimitri faceplants into the finely manicured lawn, the lush grass cushioning is most ungraceful fall. If he were awake, he would probably be supremely thankful that he was in one of the few islands of green in the stone ocean of Garreg Mach.

Edelgard massages her neck as she finally returns to her dorm room after another long day, physically and mentally fatigued. After classes ended for the day, she headed to the library for further study, but that wasn't too productive. Not with Hilda fussing over Marianne (who is an absolute disaster when it comes to cleaning and organizing) nor with Linhardt loudly snoring underneath one of the tables. She would resolve to talk to the Hevring heir about his conduct, but countless failed reprimands have yielded no results, so she writes him off as a lost cause. And Edelgard is sure she's pulled something in her neck or shoulder because a certain Ferdinand von Aegir is terrible at knowing when to give up. It may be unbecoming, but Edelgard did find some joy in repeatedly knocking the future prime minister on his ass over and over again. But at some point it became an exercise in insanity. Perseverance is a virtue, but Edelgard knows that she shouldn't have to defeat an opponent so many times that she loses count (but she does know the number was in the triple digits).

Returning to her room for some peace and quiet and time alone is almost enough for Edelgard to give thanks to the goddess. Almost, but that's not really Edelgard's thing. So, she offers a short prayer to the next closest thing in her mind, which would be the professor. And Edelgard knows that if it weren't for her daily interactions with Byleth, she would have lost her mind long ago.

When Edelgard slips inside her room and locks the door behind her, it seems that her prayers were somehow answered: in the form of Byleth, who deeply slumbers in Edelgard's bed.

"W-What are you doing here?!" Edelgard shrieks at the sleeping woman, then promptly faints where she stands.

Byleth doesn't answer.

Byleth can groggily feel herself regaining consciousness, though her body resists her urge to awaken. Was she this tired? She can hardly remember anything that happened, only an expansive void of black and green and a shrill voice shrieking in her ear. Oh, right. Sothis. But why can't Byleth remember that dream, either? She's never had trouble recalling any of her times with Sothis.

She tries to blink the fogginess from her eyes, but the motion is futile. Whatever the reason for her blurred vision, it isn't something physically wrong with her eyes. Limited, Byleth still tries to make out her surroundings, and she can at least tell that she's not in her own room. Her quarters are fairly spartan, everything the same dull brown wood that it was when she first arrived. But her environment now is a richer shade of red with hints of gray.

Curious, Byleth insistently rubs at her eyes, trying to will away the fog that clouds her mind and vision. After several seconds she stops and tries her luck again, to much better results. Her hypothesis is confirmed: she is not in her room, or even a room in the commoners' dormitory. She must be in a room in the nobles' building, which then begs the question: whose room?

A cursory inspection of the rest of the room immediately provides an answer in the form of an unconscious Edelgard splayed across the floor. Concerned, Byleth is quickly by her student's side and taking note of Edelgard's vitals. She checks for a pule and heartbeat, and once satisfied, places her ear next to Edelgard's face to determine whether the younger woman is still breathing.

Which, of course, is the most opportune moment for Edelgard's eyes to shoot wide open. Byleth stares down at the Adrestian heir, not sure of what to say about having been caught in a seemingly compromising position. "Uh, hello, Edelgard," Byleth says awkwardly.

Edelgard covers her face with both of her hands, trying to hide her blush but failing as the tips of ears flush crimson. "P-Professor! Why are you in my room?" she asks.

Byleth pushes herself up and off of Edelgard, granting the white-haired girl a brief reprieve. "I'm not sure. . .I just woke up." Byleth wanders around Edelgard's room, looking at various things. She comes to a pause at the desk and brushes a few papers aside before picking one up and giving it a critical eye. "Is this a drawing of me? It's pretty good."

With a wordless berserker cry, Edelgard snatches the portrait from Byleth's hands and shreds it with inhuman speed. She can feel the prick of tears at her eyes as embarrassment threatens to overwhelm her, and before she can have a breakdown in front of her teacher, Edelgard knows she needs to leave. She makes a beeline for the door, unlocking it and pulling the handle in one fluid motion, before crashing heavily into the wooden frame. Which fails to budge, sending Edelgard tumbling to the floor.

From outside the room, Hubert's muffled voice explains everything. "You're being a child about your feelings, Edelgard. Just tell her how you feel."

"Tell me how you feel?" Byleth asks, lost.

"No! Let me out, Hubert! As your emperor, you will let me out! Right now!" Edelgard screams at the closed door.

"I only act in your best interest."

"Open the door!"

"Hey, Hubert. Why are you barricading Edelgard's door?" Claude's voice joins in.

"It's a private matter, Lord Riegan."

"Ah, I get you," Claude says. "It's the professor, huh?"

"No, it's not!" Edelgard denies it. "Shut up, Claude!"

Claude cackles wildly. "Hit the nail on the head! Anyways, you have fun, Hubert. I'm going to go pester Seteth. Maybe see if I can make Flayn say some bad words. Or something."

"Edelgard, do you have something you want to tell me?" Byleth asks calmly, trying to find a resolution to this predicament.

"Yes! I mean no!" Edelgard can't make up her mind, but Byleth has a sneaking suspicion as to why this is happening.

"Is that why you can't keep your eyes off me during class? And what about that picture you drew? Quite flattering, that one."

Edelgard sticks her face on the floor and covers her head with her hands. "I'm going to die."

"Please, Edelgard, let's just talk about this."

"Nope. Am dying."

"Pl—"

"Dying."

Byleth sighs, her escape attempt stymied. So she turns her attention to the hopefully more reasonable Hubert, but expectations are low. "Hubert. Can you please let me out?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, professor."

"Why?"

"It seems that Edelgard here has developed a crippling infatuation with you, and she needs to learn to face her problems properly," Hubert explains.

"Ah."

"So as you can see, so long as she refuses to address it, neither of you can leave."

"There's no food or water in here."

"If you die, you die."

"Edelgard too?"

"I didn't say Edelgard. I said you."

Byleth throws her hands in the air in frustration, the gesture lost on Hubert. Because he can't see through the door. With no other avenues to pursue, Byleth has just one path left to her. She sits down next to the forlorn Edelgard, who has yet to perish, and places what she hopes is a comforting hand on Edelgard's back.

"El, would it make this easier if I told you that I liked you too?"

"No."

"Well, Hubert, I tried," Byleth calls out.

"How unfortunate."

Dimitri groans, his face itching. He slowly pushes himself off the ground, a few errant blades of grass falling from his face. All around him, fires rage as the sounds of battle echo throughout Garreg Mach. Confused, he starts walking, searching for someone or something that can give him answers. After a short while, he stumbles across the gatekeeper, who dutifully remains at his post.

"Prince Dimitri! Nothing to report!" the gatekeeper cheerfully informs Dimitri. "Well, nothing except that the church and Alliance are at war."

"What?"

"It seems Claude got Flayn to repeat some inappropriate words to Seteth, so he mobilized the Knights of Seiros against the Leicester Alliance."

"Why's the monastery on fire?"

"That would be Edelgard."

"She declared war on the church as well?"

"Well, yes. But she's not siding with Claude or anything. She wants to overthrow the Church of Seiros and institute a new religion throughout Fodlan, one worshipping the professor. I could get behind that, personally."

"Is this some sort of twisted joke?!" Dimitri asks.

"Afraid not."

"I'm going back to sleep."