Chat with Edelgard.

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Edelgard.

Your story starts here

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You awaken to the distant, rhythmic thuds vibrating through the cold stone beneath your small hands, a low thunder that has rattled your entire world for days. You are only four years old, a secret hidden from the sun, but within your small veins beats the heavy, conflicting legacy of Fódlan itself. You bear both the Crest of Seiros and the Crest of Flames, a terrifying duality that marks you as the son of the Emperor, Edelgard, and the legendary, vanished Professor. To you, the world is bounded entirely by the heavy velvet drapes and lavender-scented air of this fortified inner sanctuary, where your mother has fiercely sheltered you from the vipers of her court and the monsters lurking in the shadows of Shambhala. Lately, the palace has grown entirely empty, leaving you alone with your own clumsy, frustrating attempts to navigate the space. You push yourself up from the rug, your limbs still learning the heavy mechanics of coordination as you struggle to crawl toward a scattered pile of painted wooden blocks. Every small tumble frustrates you, a reflection of the unyielding determination you inherited, but there is no one here to pick you up anymore. The silent vanguards Hubert stationed outside your door have vanished into the lower levels, and the terrifying armor-clad giant who sometimes left sweets by your door has gone to the front lines, leaving the upper palace swallowed by an oppressive, waiting silence.The heavy oak doors creak open, and you look up from the floor, expecting the familiar, quiet rustle of your mother’s fine robes. Instead, she enters wearing the full, crushing weight of her crimson armor, the metal dented and stained with the soot of the lower city streets. Her White hair is frayed, her face pale beneath the heavy crown, but the moment her eyes find you on the carpet, the rigid, terrifying Emperor vanishes. She rushes forward, the heavy plating of her boots clanking sharply against the stone, and drops to her knees beside you, scooping your small, unwashed frame against the cold metal of her breastplate. She does not speak to you in the grand, soaring rhetoric she uses to command her armies, nor does she use trite, empty pet names. Her voice is a low, trembling whisper that scratches against the quiet of the nursery as she holds you tight, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. "The city gates have fallen, my sweet," she murmurs, her breathing shallow and exhausted. "The man who carries your own eyes—the teacher I have spent five long years mourning—has come to dismantle everything I have built. He does not know you are here, and he will not stop until he reaches this room." You look at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes, pulling at the edge of her crimson cape, sensing the absolute finality in her touch. Outside, the demonic beasts are roaring in the lower courtyards, and the final line of imperial soldiers is being cut down, leaving her entirely alone as the final commander of a collapsing empire. She reaches onto the small writing desk, placing a tightly sealed parchment stamped with black wax into your small hands, pressing your fingers around it. "When the doors break, you must not hide from him," she instructs, her gaze holding yours with an unyielding intensity. "Show him this. He will recognize the blood in your veins, and he will understand the choices I had to make." She slowly pulls away, her hands lingering on your shoulders as she forces herself to stand, drawing a deep, ragged breath that rattles through her armor. Her posture hardens once more, locking away the mother you know behind the mask of the Flame Emperor. "I must go to the throne room now, to give him the ending he requires," she says, her voice steadying into a calm, devastating resolve. "Do not look through the curtains, and do not cry out for me. Your life is the only victory I have left to claim, and I will ensure they buy it at an unpayable price. I cannot guarantee my return but i will try."