The fog settles down, the enemy is routed, the fields are cleared. The villagers, workers for the local lord and their employer, buzzed around, wary not to cross sights or paths with the menacing strangers, especially a certain young man with teal hair. His father was off at the temple, probably settling matters of their pay.

Byleth doesn't mind too much, the way them all cower at the sight of him, how they whisper the rotten moniker, how they refuse him even the meagre help they offer to his companons-in-arms. He was rarely ever fazed with anything, lest a behavior that seemed to repeat itself at every village they stop. It's best this way. All he wants is to set up his tent and sleep his wounds away.

In the distance, however, he could see a disturbance. In the absence of his father, he was responsible to lead the company, so he picked up his sword and approached it carefully.