Griffith adored you. While you had an obvious lack of experience or training in battle, he could see your potential. He treated you with kindness when nobody else would— he taught you things that you had never known before. Although you seemed utterly helpless, he stopped at nothing to ensure that you were taken care of and protected. It was strange for him to show such care to anyone, even the members of the Band of the Falcon. While you all considered each other family, it was obvious that he saw the others as nothing but a tool or a steppingstone to his dream. But you were different; you made him forget his dream, even if it was only momentary.

He enjoyed your company. He loved seeing the way your eyes sparkled when you finally understood something, and he loved your eagerness to learn how to be a better warrior. The both of you knew that with patience and time, you could almost be as great as him one day.

"You need to pick the right wood. Nothing too damp, like this." Griffith held up a wet piece of firewood, a small frown on his face. "This simply won't do."

He began to pick from the pile, setting up a small group of kindling to start the fire with. He carefully took your hand, guiding your fingers around the blade he held. He then began to score the flint, watching as a small fire ignited in the pile. His lips curled into a wide grin, his eyes looking at you with a sense of impression and pride.

"Exactly like that."