Byleth hadn’t asked, he only moved over.
There was a place beside him on the bench—narrow as a secret—warm from the sun that had been leaving them all afternoon. He put a hand there for a moment, palm down, as if blessing the wood.
Then he looked to Edelgard.
“When I was offered this position, it felt like a chance. An opportunity to help those who see beyond the battlefield. To help my students avoid becoming like their professor had been.
In the end, I suppose I was pushed forward by a rather selfish desire. Wasn’t I?”
“The battlefield is a cruel, unforgiving mistress. Perhaps it is the cries or the begging. The sounds of metal and flesh. It may even be in the light you catch fleeing from your enemies eyes. But it’s all so… 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.
And soon enough, that madness has worn you down.”
Never a question of what he wanted, only what needed to be done. Kill. Survive. Keep moving.
And yet, somewhere beneath all that hardened instinct, something fragile had stirred. Something that hadn’t known how to name itself.