The Exile to the Pickette

The Great Hall of Astad was a thing of majesty. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the marble floors. Pillars carved with the stories of Astad's triumphs rose high above, framing the throne like silent sentinels. The air was thick with tension, the murmurs of nobles and courtiers filling the space like the hum of a restless hive.

Osiris Redwyn, the Black Baron of Astad, stood before the throne, his black armor polished to a dull gleam. His crimson cape hung heavily from his shoulders, the emblem of House Redwyn—a wyvern in flight—embroidered in gold on its surface. In his hand, he held his helm, its sharp edges and dark metal as fearsome as the man himself. Yet, there was no fear in his stance, no sign of the ruthless general who had carved his way into Astad's history books.

Today, there was only defiance.

On the throne sat King Malgeris the Conqueror, a man who had earned his title through blood and ambition. His crown, a jagged circlet of iron and gold, sat heavily on his brow. His once-broad shoulders were now slightly stooped with age, but his eyes burned with the same fire that had built an empire. Those eyes, sharp and unyielding, were fixed on Osiris.

"You defy me, Osiris," the King said, his voice a low growl that carried through the hall. "You stand here, in my hall, before the other High Lords, and you dare to question my will?"

Osiris met the King's gaze without flinching. "I question not your will, my King, but the wisdom of your actions," he said, his voice steady but firm. "To march on Estil now, with our coffers depleted and our soldiers weary, would be folly. The Pickette holds strong. We have no need to push further."

Osiris bowed, "My Friend..." He paused a momoent, "my brother, we have grown up together, hunted together, even raised our children together. Byleth and Alden are brothers in all but blood. Do not do this!"

The murmurs in the hall grew louder, a mix of shock and unease. Few men dared to speak to Malgeris in such a manner, and even fewer lived to tell the tale.

"The folly," the King spat, rising from his throne, "is in hesitation. We are Astad! We do not wait for opportunity—we create it! Estil is fractured, its warbands scattered. If we strike now, we can claim their lands, their resources, their people. You, of all men, should understand this, Osiris."

"I understand the cost," Osiris countered, his voice rising slightly. "We will not just fight Estil—we will fight the land itself. The Lunar Storms grow fiercer the farther we push west. Our supply lines will stretch thin, and the men will freeze in their camps before they ever see a battle. This is not conquest—it is suicide."

Gasps rippled through the hall, and Osiris heard a few sharp intakes of breath from the nobles behind him. He knew the risks of speaking so plainly, but he would not hold his tongue. Not this time.

The King's face darkened, his hands clenching the armrests of his throne. "You presume to lecture me on war?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You, the Black Baron, whose name is spoken with dread from the Wyvern Isles to the borders of Lorian? Have you grown soft, Osiris? Has fatherhood dulled your edge?"

Osiris flinched at the mention of his family but held his ground. "Fatherhood has given me clarity, as much as it should have given to you," he said. "I do not wish to see the sons of Astad die for the sake of ambition. We have won much, but we risk losing everything if we push too far. Let us strengthen what we have, rather than grasp at more."

The King's lips curled into a sneer. "Strengthen? Or stagnate? You speak of clarity, but all I see is fear."

A ripple of laughter echoed through the hall, cruel and mocking. Osiris felt a flicker of anger, but he quelled it. He had not come here to trade insults.

"My loyalty to you is unwavering, my King," he said, his voice firm but measured. "But loyalty demands honesty. If I see a path that leads to ruin, it is my duty to speak of it. You taught me that."

The King's face twitched at the reminder. For a brief moment, Osiris thought he saw something flicker in Malgeris's eyes—pride, perhaps, or regret. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold fury.

"Your duty is to obey," the King said. "And you will obey, Osiris, whether you wish to or not. But I will not have your doubts poison my court."

He turned to the gathered nobles, his voice ringing out. "Let it be known that Osiris Redwyn, the Black Baron, is relieved of his command. He will take charge of the Pickette, where he can serve Astad without sowing dissent."

Osiris's heart sank, though he kept his face impassive. The Pickette was no command—it was exile. A border fortress, isolated, where men went to wither away in obscurity. He thought of his wife, his sons, and the promises he had made to himself. How would he protect them from a place like that? The answer was simple. They'd remain in Wyvernmore, while he took on the solitude.

"Do you understand your orders, General?" the King asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

Osiris straightened, his helm tucked under his arm. He met the King's gaze one final time, his voice steady and unbroken. "I understand, Your Majesty."

The King's eyes narrowed, as if searching for defiance in Osiris's words. But he found none. The Black Baron turned on his heel and walked out of the Great Hall, his steps measured and purposeful. The nobles parted before him like waves before a ship, their whispers trailing after him.

The chambers Osiris once called his own were now barren, stripped of any personal touch. His wife, a vision of quiet strength, stood by the hearth, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her expression was one of quiet fury.

"They have no idea what they're losing," she said, her voice sharp. "You carried this kingdom on your back for years, and this is how they repay you?"

Osiris set his helm down on the table, the sound heavy and final. "Malgeris has never tolerated dissent," he said. "I knew the risks when I spoke."

"And yet you spoke anyway," she said, her tone softening. She crossed the room and placed a hand on his arm. "Because you are not like him."

Osiris placed his hand over hers, his gaze softening. "I care about you. About Alden, and Ralik. That's why I did this. If Astad marches west, it will tear itself apart. I couldn't let that happen, no matter the cost."

She sighed, leaning her forehead against his chest. "The Pickette is far, Osiris. And dangerous."

"I know," he said quietly. "But I'll survive."

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

And so, as the sun set over Astsad, Osiris Redwyn prepared for his exile.