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The life of a mercenary was a simple one without many rules. Most often one ended up as a mercenary by necessity more than by choice or occasionally out of subservience to someone else. While typical sellswords traveled the lands on their own, to be in a band meant stability, safety, solidarity, though it also meant less freedom.
Still, Jeralt Eisner imposed few rules on his group. Infamous in his own right for his ruthlessness, the Blade Breaker gathered the best of the best alone. To be part of the Blade Breaker’s band of mercenaries was both an honor and a death sentence because there were bounties on their heads to eliminate these threats to the underworld.
Thus, rule number one in Jeralt’s band of mercenaries: save yourself first. If it came down to a battle to the death that couldn’t be won, there was an expectation to escape—even if it meant another might be put in harm’s way in the process. It did not often come to this; the group was so skilled that missions rarely remained unaccomplished. But if it had to happen, Jeralt expected his mercenaries to survive.
After all, a dead mercenary was no use to anyone.
Of course, as the mercenaries bonded, this was easier said than done. Jeralt touted the benefits of independence in a group built on interdependence. Every man for himself. But when it was your best friend on the line, it was hard to walk away.
Rule number two: control your emotions. It was impossible to suppress them altogether, so Jeralt’s rule was in place as a reminder not to let them get in the way. Anger meant recklessness, love meant weakness, confusion meant hesitation, and the list went on. When on the battlefield, the only thing you could control was yourself, which meant looking out for number one in the only way possible.
No one was better at this than Jeralt’s daughter, Byleth. In fact, the other mercenaries could not help but find her odd in that she felt nothing at all. It was unusual for a kid to be pulled into a band of mercenaries, but she had no choice given that her father was the leader. New members felt unease seeing a kid around, thinking she would bring risk with the energy and noise children tended to carry around with them—until they found out she was less rowdy than even the adults. In fact, to hear her speak was considered a rare treat, one that meant she trusted you.
Byleth Eisner, by the time she hit adolescence, had killed more than most experienced mercenaries. It was no surprise that she earned her nickname, the Ashen Demon. She expressed no joy, no pain, nothing whatsoever. When she killed, she did so as if the very task was a chore to get over with, like her very life asked too much of her.
The other mercenaries would never admit it, but Byleth frightened them. She made her first kill at seven when her father finally let her join the others, and she hadn’t even blinked about it. Meanwhile, grown men cried over their memories of their first kills. It was as though the girl was not even human. A demon by name and by being.
The unspoken third rule was therefore no trouble to follow. Byleth was off-limits. She grew into a lovely girl, and by adulthood she could turn the head of any man who didn’t know better. Recent recruits might be lured in by her beauty and think to make a move, at least until they learned one of two things: that she was the leader’s daughter, and thereby unattainable, or that her beauty went only skin deep. Beneath that, she was nothing more than a human weapon.
Jeralt treasured his daughter, certainly, since she was the sole reminder of his beloved late wife, but he was not the most affectionate man. He referred to Byleth as “kid” more often than by name, and rumors spread that she was not even related to the man. The resemblance between the two didn’t go far. But he certainly treated her well, always making sure she had a full plate at supper and ruffling her hair when she did well. Some of the veteran mercenaries told stories of the time Byleth was small enough to be carried around Jeralt’s neck whenever they made camp—the cutest damn thing anyone once saw, it was, if you could believe it.
So, even if Byleth was a normal girl by any stretch of the imagination, she might as well have been the kid of the troop anyway. A frightening kid, but one under the supervision of all nonetheless. If Byleth was ever up against danger, rare though it was, not one mercenary would hesitate to forgo rule number one because of her.
Only the newbies risked breaching the unspoken rule, particularly foolish ones at that. One such boy of nineteen who had given up a life of nobility to join Jeralt’s exalted band of mercenaries was so stricken with Byleth that he cared not of her lack of personality. He had had enough of personalities in his old life and could do with a girl who felt nothing.
The mercenaries made camp where they could, occasionally in rooms opened for them in desperate villages pillaged by bandits or more often in tents in the woods. It was as they set up such a makeshift dwelling that the boy approached Byleth.
“Hey,” he greeted. “I’m Michel.”
Byleth looked up at him through her eyelashes from where she knelt on the ground. “Byleth.”
The majority of the mercenaries in Jeralt’s troop was men, though Byleth was hardly the only woman and certainly not the only beautiful one. But none was as valuable as Byleth. If Michel could get in with her, he had a straight shot towards Jeralt, and when the old man fell, he would be next in line.
The thought crossed many a mercenary’s mind, but most learned their lesson quickly.
“Need help?” Michel offered.
“No.”
Michel frowned. During his noble days, he was used to women pretending to be damsels in distress just to get close to him. At the very least, he expected some sort of excuse when Byleth denied him.
“I can give you a hand. I’m done setting up my tent,” he tried again.
“I’m fine.”
No breaking down that wall, it seemed. He shrugged and left, determined to try again later.
The other men tried to warn him, tried to tell him that he better leave Byleth alone. He had yet to see her in battle, had yet to see the demon she became—worse, he had yet to see how Jeralt would react if he got too close.
But Michel liked a challenge. He reached out to Byleth again and again until she remembered his name, though he never got a different reaction than her quick dismissals. He would need to change his tactics; she was certainly no damsel in distress.
Jeralt and Byleth tended to bunk together, meaning that Byleth got the best accommodations when they took up residence in villages. On this most recent stay, she ended up in a home with a small library, and she could be found lounging outside in off-time reading. This would be Michel’s opportunity, he decided.
He approached her in the evening, just before the sun was about to dip behind the trees. She had little time left to continue reading out here.
“How’s the book?”
Byleth never looked up from the book and finished her page before responding, “Good.”
“You know, I was looking for something to read myself,” Michel continued, still with no reaction from the girl. “I heard the owner of this house here has a pretty extensive collection and was hoping you might let me take a look at it.”
She finally let her gaze drift from the page, lifting slightly but not high enough to rest on him. She seemed to ponder for a moment, as if she had such permission to give. The master of the house had clearly given her permission to peruse his collection, so would he mind if she let someone else take a peek?
“Okay,” she decided. She stood, sticking the stem of a flower between the pages to save her spot and then snapping the book shut.
She did not wait for him to follow, but instead immediately disappeared into the house. Michel blinked in surprise but followed in the next moment. The house was not as ornately decorated as what Michel came from, but in the corner of the room were beautifully carved wooden bookshelves filled to capacity with leather-bounded texts. Such a collection likely costed a fortune that others might have spent elsewhere.
Byleth stood in front of the leftmost bookshelf and pointed to the middle shelf. “I enjoy this author’s work.”
It was perhaps the most she spoke to him yet. Michel stepped beside her and looked at the gold engraving on the spine. It was a name with which he was unfamiliar. Perhaps foreign.
“If you like fiction,” she continued and brushed past him to the middle bookshelf, “I recommend this one.”
She pulled a book from the shelf and held it out to him. Michel took the text from her and paged through it. She watched him earnestly, as if demanding a reaction, but still showing nothing for the effort of it.
Michel nodded and smiled at her. “Looks excellent.”
Byleth did not smile back, but he imagined she was pleased enough, since she turned back to the bookshelf as though satisfied.
“Hey, Byleth?”
His prompting made her turn back, and before she could object, Michel leaned in, looped one hand behind her neck, and kissed her.
He furrowed his brow when he realized she did not kiss him back but also made no motion to move away. It was as if he was kissing a statue, as still as stone, as cold as ice. He backed away from her with his brow still lowered.
Nothing? No anger. No pleasure.
But someone else felt those things. Byleth looked beyond Michel, and he hesitantly turned on his heel. Jeralt crossed his arms, and the silence might very well have been the blade that ended Michel’s life if he let it.
Jeralt seemed levelheaded enough, but for the first time since Michel joined the troop, the anger made itself obvious on his face. “Sorry to interrupt,” he grumbled. “Carry on.”
“J-Jeralt, sir.” Michel stood up straighter and clutched the book Byleth picked out against his chest. “I was just getting your daughter’s opinion on some books.”
“But not on other things?” Jeralt asked. “Did you ask her your opinion of you?”
Michel looked back at Byleth, whose face was still unusually blank. “U-um. No, sir. But you see—”
“Kid?” Jeralt looked at his daughter. “What do you think?”
“A-ah, she doesn’t have to say! It was a mistake. I misread the room,” Michel interrupted before Byleth could say anything. He made a low bow to Jeralt and then to Byleth. “My apologies.”
“He wanted a book,” Byleth said.
“Yeah, and something else,” Jeralt quipped, which seemed to go over Byleth’s head. He lowered his arms to his side and tilted his head towards the door. “Get out.”
Michel stood straight and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He hurried from the house still carrying the book Byleth picked out and wondering if the owner of the house would care if it went permanently missing—because he didn’t want to go back there ever again. No, the other mercenaries were right. There was something wrong with that girl, and he was better off not getting on Jeralt’s bad side.
Young Michel was not the first to make the mistake of trying to get close to Byleth, and he would not be the last. He might be the first to warn the newcomers, though, if they ever wanted to try.
Jeralt trusted Rhea, and she betrayed him. That was why he warned Byleth. Whatever the archbishop had planned for his daughter, it wasn’t going to be good. The woman had to know that Byleth was the very same kid he stole away in a fire—no, not a kid he stole. Byleth was his child. He had every right to take her.
But given that Rhea did something to his daughter that prevented her from being a normal person, Jeralt wanted to take no chances. He very well could not walk away now that he had been found, but he could protect Byleth from whatever Rhea had planned. The closer to Rhea he was, the better he would be able to do so.
To make Byleth a professor, though, made little sense to him. Why not put her to work in the kitchens or make her a knight? Her combat skills could not be denied; he taught her everything he knew, and she surpassed him. But Byleth looked the same age as these rich brats. They would walk all over her.
Or so he thought. Byleth took command of the Blue Lions house, and with it, earned the immediate respect of a well-trained prince. With his trust apparent, the other kids would fall into line, so far as Jeralt could see.
Annette… he knew her to be the daughter of the esteemed and then dishonored Gustave of the Kingdom. He secretly hoped her bubbly personality might rub off on his daughter so that he might see her smile for once. Mercedes, too, proved a pleasant girl who might be a good influence on Byleth. Even Ingrid would be a good friend to her. Byleth needed some female companions, after all, not just mercenaries.
Jeralt was less convinced about the boys. He had been alive long enough to know exactly what happened in the Kingdom. There was no way that prince was as honorable as he acted. In fact, Jeralt would prefer that the little prince drop the façade because at least that way he could protect Byleth a little more easily.
The Duscur boy seemed kind but reserved, as would make sense for a survivor of that tragedy in enemy territory. Still, Jeralt didn’t want to trust him as far as he could throw him, which wouldn’t be very far considering the kid was huge.
And then there were the two Jeralt was most worried about: Felix and Sylvain. Jeralt didn’t like Felix’s attitude. He seemed strong enough and had a good work ethic, but he also seemed the type who would fight to the death in a practice match and end up getting hurt. And Sylvain? Well, the reasons for disliking him were obvious.
The only one that seemed worth befriending was that Ashe kid, but even he moved with a certain stealth—even if unbeknownst to the kid himself—that hinted that he might make a good pickpocket.
No, Jeralt would be happy if Byleth just got along with the girls and left the boys well enough alone.
Which was why it bothered him so the first time he saw her smile at something the prince said.
He regretted not being around enough to keep a close eye on his daughter, but he suspected Rhea did that on purpose. Still, at some point while Jeralt was gone on a mission, Byleth opened. It was as if some cork on her soul had been loosened; he wondered if it might burst someday, opening the floodgates to an eruption of emotion within.
It took months for that cork to loosen, but what sort of catalyst might cause it to burst?
Dimitri almost forgot his quest for revenge when he saw the look on his professor’s face after conquering the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. He meant what he said: he loved seeing her looking so happy. These seven months so far were highlights of his life. He thought, even if just for a moment, that it might be nice to just carry on as they were, to enjoy his time at the Academy without satiating the desires of the dead.
But, alas, it could not be. The voices gnawed in the back of his mind, a cruel reminder that he would never get to experience this life as a normal student. He would always be subject to the desires of those gone before him, as punishment for surviving when they did not.
He might temporarily enjoy getting to know the professor and his classmates, might even start to feel something again. He could hardly help it when he saw the professor smile—she charmed him so, like an enchantress might bewitch a fool. Whatever she was when they first met, sullen or perhaps just indifferent, she had changed.
Occasionally he would catch himself looking at her from across the room, and he hung on her every word during lectures, too. He knew this yet made no effort to resist. She was a distraction from everything else in his head. He expected nothing else from her.
And although he did not try to hide such feelings from himself, he thought he did a well enough job keeping them from others. Sylvain had yet to tease him about it, which was sign enough that the mask worked well. Felix, too, was too focused on his other mask to worry about anything else, and Ingrid mistook such affection for admiration.
There was one person he could not seem to fool, though.
Dimitri might not have known that Captain Jeralt was Byleth’s father if not for the fact that they had claimed as such, but he supposed their mannerisms were similar enough. Neither person was particularly approachable. But Captain Jeralt brought that lack of approachability to another level. It was like the man knew exactly what the voices in the back of the prince’s head said.
He could tell, though, that Captain Jeralt was a proud father. If Byleth hurried by with books in her arms without so much as a passing glance at her father, you could still bet he saw her. When she greeted him in the dining hall, he beamed until anyone caught the look on his face, when he would restore his general grimace.
Proud enough, in fact, that Dimitri’s attention did not go unnoticed.
“Hey, Prince. I need to talk to you a minute.”
Dimitri had been walking by the captain’s office on his way to the library when a voice from within stopped him in his tracks. He pulled back, sticking his head in the room to find Jeralt standing behind his desk hovering over an open book.
“How can I help you, sir?” Dimitri asked. He tried not to make it obvious that he was trying to see what the book was, but Captain Jeralt slammed the book shut in a way that indicated such an attempt failed.
“No need for the formalities. You’re the one who’s royalty here,” Captain Jeralt said, and he opened a drawer in the desk to stick the book in.
Dimitri smiled. “Oh, I’m just a student like everyone else.”
Captain Jeralt did not return the smile. “And a good one, too, I’ve heard. Byleth’s been singing your praises.”
Dimitri tried, again likely in vain, to keep his surprise—and happiness—from rising. “I am hardly worth praising. I’m not such a good student like Annette or Ingrid. They’re the ones who deserve praise.”
“Modest, too,” Captain Jeralt commented. Dimitri couldn’t tell if he meant that as a good thing or not. Based on his tone, probably not. “And what do you think of Byleth? She likes you kids a lot, but I’d be lying if I said I thought I’d ever see her end up a teacher. Especially when she’s your age and all.”
“No, she’s wonderful!” Dimitri countered, probably too enthusiastically, and he winced at the volume of his own voice. “I know I speak for the entire Blue Lion house when I say that she has been our guiding light this year. We could not have won the Battle of the Eagle and Lion without her. Her tactics and guidance are par none, and she is a kind and effective leader. Which is, of course, to speak of your own skills, sir. You have taught her well.”
Captain Jeralt finally smiled and then laughed. “No.” Suddenly that smile appeared a little sad. “She didn’t learn that from me. She learned that here.”
Dimitri didn’t quite understand. “Sir?”
The sadness vanished from the captain’s smile as soon as it arrived, and he placed his hands on the top of his desk and leaned in closer. “And what do you think of her as a person? Not as a teacher but as a human being?”
A dangerous question. How was Dimitri supposed to answer that? What answer was the captain looking for?
“She’s the best of the best,” Dimitri settled on saying. “The light in the darkness.”
Captain Jeralt stood up tall again and crossed his arms. The two stared at each other for a moment, and then the captain nodded. “She has a lot to learn about the world. I hope that she can count on you.”
Dimitri didn’t like the way that sounded. Exactly how much did Jeralt Eisner know?
The captain did not wait for a response. He waved his hand at the prince, as if shooing him away like a bit of dust. “Off with you. I’m sure you have studying to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
No, things would not be able to carry on like they had. Because when push came to shove, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was not someone Byleth would be able to count on, and it sounded like Captain Jeralt knew it.
As Byleth stood on the battlefield watching her former students slaughter each other, she couldn’t help thinking of her father.
He would have balked at the idea of such a battle. There were no victors here. Indeed, all the rules Jeralt imposed on his mercenaries would be thrown out the window in a setting like this. How could anyone hope to save themselves here surrounded by classmates and friends? How could one keep their emotions at bay?
Byleth wondered why she never had trouble with that in the past. The answer proved simple: she never had friends before. Not friends who checked on her after she suffered the death of her father; not friends who held their breath for five years hoping she would return to them; not friends who stuck with her through horrible conditions and battles that seemed unwinnable.
And she certainly never had to kill them before.
Save yourself first.
“Professor!”
She looked up at the sound of her title. One of Edelgard’s men was charging at her. There was no time—no way to counter, no way to strike back. Byleth closed her eyes and braced herself for the hit, expecting the worst and wondering what death might feel like.
But it never came.
She opened her eyes. Sylvain dropped to his knees in front of her, a lance protruding like an extra limb from his shoulder, not far above his heart. His own lance cut right through the Imperial soldier’s neck, dark red blood pouring down the handle and onto his gloved hand. The Imperial soldier dropped, and Sylvain let go of his lance to grab the one in his shoulder.
“Sylvain!” Byleth cried, kneeling beside him. “Why would you—”
“I’ve got your back, Professor,” he said through gritted teeth and then forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on the battle and go help the others.”
Byleth looked up again at the scene before her. Soldiers from the Imperial and Alliance and Knights of Seiros forces, former students of all houses… their bodies painted the ground red with blood, the scent of death fresh in the air.
“But—”
“Go, Professor.” Sylvain pulled the lance from his shoulder with a grunt and slumped forward, kept upright only by his uninjured right arm. Blood dripped from the wound, a sure sign that he shouldn’t have removed the object.
He would… he would die here if Byleth didn’t do something.
Control your emotions.
Byleth could hear the cries of her students around the field. More importantly than that, perhaps, she could see Edelgard from where she was retreating across the battlefield. If she got up now and hurried, she might be able to end this now before the emperor got away.
Sylvain struggled to his feet, one hand pressed against his shoulder. “Professor, go,” he said again.
Byleth glanced between her student—no, her friend—and Edelgard.
And then she made her decision. She grabbed Sylvain’s arm and lifted his hand from the wound. “Sit back down,” she ordered.
Sylvain fought her as she shoved him down, but his strength was fading. “What are you doing?” he demanded as he gave into her and returned to the ground.
Byleth held up her hands, which she noticed were shaking, and then pressed them to the wound. Faith magic wasn’t her strong suit, especially compared to someone like Mercedes who excelled in it. But all the same, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that her magic was enough. That her magic would make this decision worth it.
Her hands burned. She peeked open one eye and saw the flash of magic burst from her palms, engulfing the both of them in the warmth of the spell. The light faded a moment later, and she lifted her hands. The blood flow had stopped, though he would need to get medical attention as soon as they could to get the wound closed up completely.
Sylvain grabbed her trembling hands, sticky with his own blood, and then peered over her shoulder.
“It’s over,” he said. “Edelgard’s gone.”
Byleth refused to look. She made her choice, and now she would have to live with it. Like a novice mercenary—no, worse than that, a failed mercenary—she let her target go.
Her father would be ashamed.
But then she couldn’t help but wonder why.
Byleth knew of the unspoken third rule.
After a job well done (or a job botched, for that matter), the mercenaries liked to gather around a bonfire burning under the midnight moon and drink a toast to their own lives. They’d pour back one, gulp another, clear a keg out, and roll in another. Within a half hour, there was rarely a sober mercenary to be found.
Jeralt let Byleth drink once, and her fellow mercenaries gathered around to see what sort of affect it might have on her. What type of drunk was she? They all secretly hoped she would be the emotional sort, but there was a bet going around that she was probably the sleepy type.
As it turned out, Byleth took a sip of her frothy beverage and poured the rest out into the flame, not realizing that the drink caused an explosion resulting in twenty grown men pulling her to the ground to keep her from getting burned.
It was a good thing she didn’t like it because Jeralt vowed never to let her near the keg again after that.
But that didn’t mean she never participated in the rowdy events. She often sat by the fire either with a book or with the company of her father if he wasn’t making the rounds. The mercenaries, for the most part, tended to forget she was there, as she never said much and made few reactions to their drunken behavior.
At one such event, Byleth overheard several inebriated men bemoaning the fact that she was not more personable. “She’s a beautiful girl. If only she would just act like a lady, you know?” one of them cried out.
Another shushed him. “Don’t let Jeralt hear you.”
“Eh, what, that?” the man who first spoke of her nearly fell over trying to wave the other off. “There’s no need for you to even worry. No self-respecting person would ever make a move on her. She’s terrifying.”
Byleth sat up straighter and shut her book without even making note of the page.
“I would,” a young mercenary relatively new to the group offered. “Daughter of the boss man? Beautiful, deadly? What isn’t to like?”
The more cautious of the group threw his arm over the youngster’s shoulders. “You know what would happen to you if Jeralt found out? Death wouldn’t be good enough. He would slaughter you for touching his precious princess. It’s the first thing you should learn being in his company: Byleth is off-limits.”
“You really think so?” the young mercenary asked. “Jeralt seems pretty cool-headed.”
“You don’t want to see him angry. And you know how you make him angry?”
The young mercenary thought for what seemed like an unnecessarily long time. “By making a move on Byleth?”
“Exactly!”
Byleth sighed and opened her book back up, flipping through the pages until she reached something that looked familiar. She had never been interested in friendship or the like, so it didn’t particularly bother her.
But she couldn’t help but be a little bit curious.
Perhaps that was why, later, when that young mercenary did make a move on her, she let him. Maybe that was why, later, she let Jeralt scold her for allowing that boy to kiss her without permission, when truly she had done nothing to stop it from happening when she could very well have. Maybe that was why, later, she wondered what it would be like if someone really wanted to be with her and what it would feel like to want them back.
Byleth thought about her father a lot lately. She wondered if he would be disappointed with her.
She broke his first rule nearly every time she went to battle. She jumped in front of attacks for her friends knowing they would do the same for her—and had. Rodrigue himself gave his life for Dimitri’s, and if he hadn’t, Byleth would have.
Sothis once scolded her for not knowing the value of her own life. Such a statement reminded her of her father. But she had come to realize that her life was her own to do with as she pleased, and she would have no regrets dying in battle if it were to save someone she considered a friend.
And rule number two? Well, she had hardly any control over that now. Every battle fought nearly brought her to tears. She had been responsible for the deaths of many of the former students of the Academy, and it never got easier. If she could persuade them to join Dimitri’s cause and prevent a death, she would—something a mercenary would never think of doing.
A target was a target. A mercenary killed without judgment. Without feeling.
And rule number three?
What would her father say if he knew she let the prince kiss her in the cover of darkness one night in the training grounds? What would her father say if he knew she let him sweep her off her feet and lead her to her room, where they got to know each other in ways unimaginable to her before? And what would her father say if he knew that she felt something for Dimitri, that she wanted all this to happen?
Would he be furious with her? No, Jeralt rarely got angry with her. He would scold her, certainly, but he would never yell at her. So, how might he react? Would she be scolded again like a child for carrying such foolish notions of romance?
Or would he be happy for her?
She hoped… certainly hoped.
Jeralt learned the hard way what happened when you got close to someone.
In his hundred plus years—it had been that long, hadn’t it?—he had never met someone like Sitri. He loved the way her eyes creased when she smiled. He loved how she chewed on her lip when she was embarrassed about something. And most of all, he loved the way she grabbed his hand and pressed it to the spot where little baby Byleth kicked inside her just so they could share in the wonder of the life they created together.
And when she died giving birth to that life, Jeralt thought he might never love again. But then Rhea brought that little baby girl to him and he realized that there were different types of love and that he would love this child no matter what.
But there was something wrong with her. She didn’t cry. He had no way of knowing when she was hungry, resulting in Byleth being underweight for the first couple weeks of her life. Worse yet, after having a doctor examine the child one evening when Rhea was out, he found out the child had no heartbeat.
Rhea did something to his daughter. He trusted Rhea… got close to her… and the result was some wicked twist of fate resulting in the death of his wife and a daughter who, by all rights, should not have been alive. Who, perhaps Rhea saved, but at what cost?
He didn’t know what to expect when he took Byleth away. Without a wet nurse, how would he provide for the girl? If she had no heartbeat, did that even mean she was alive? Would she grow like a normal human being?
Weeks turned into months. The little girl never made a peep, but she certainly grew. She didn’t smile at her father like other babies did. Didn’t coo. Still never cried. She learned to roll over onto her tummy and back fine. Her first word came before the end of her first year (“Dada,” of which he was immensely proud).
As those months turned into years, he learned everything about her. She was like an empty shell of a person, but he had grown adept at interpreting her actions and words to determine when she liked or disliked something. He could tell when she was immensely pleased about something even if she didn’t show it or annoyed with someone misunderstanding her. He knew she was scared when she squeezed his hand harder.
Yes, he knew. Her emotions were so subtle that to the average person, it looked like the felt absolutely nothing at all. But when he looked at his daughter, he knew everything in her head.
As for others…
Jeralt realized this might mean others would fear her. If she wasn’t a normal person, what was she? A monster? The first time he saw her cut someone down, even he winced at the fact she did it with a straight face and then wiped her blade clean without so much as a word about it. It wasn’t long after that she earned her nickname.
Demon. Yes, that sounded right. If she wasn’t a human, she was a demon.
And so Jeralt would keep the others away. These men, perhaps even the women, would take advantage of his daughter and her lack of emotions. They would manipulate her into doing what they wanted. They would play with her until they got what they wanted and then discard her. No one understood her, so they wouldn’t make an effort. So, in the end, no one would love a loveless demon.
But then they were brought to that damn Academy.
He watched her change. He saw her smile at him. She greeted him in the hall with a smile. She laughed at the jokes her students made. She narrowed her eyes in anger at that Sylvain kid when he made inappropriate jokes.
More than that, the brats understood her. The girls invited her to dinner with them. The boys wanted her to spar with them. They trusted her more than the mercenaries ever did.
It was his final moments, though, that made all the difference. Byleth held Jeralt in her arms, and the tears splattered onto his face as his consciousness faded.
Crying.
His baby… was crying…
So, he took back his thoughts. Took back that unspoken rule. He hoped that someday, she would let someone get close to her. He hoped that she would find the person she wanted to spend her life with. Because even when bad things happened, if she had someone she could rely on, like he relied on her, it didn’t matter.
With his final thoughts, he hoped for her.