“How?” Dimitri asked, and the question was not accusation but a plea.
Byleth felt the steadiness return, like a lost rhythm found again. “We teach,” they said. “Not just soldiers. Farmers. Artisans. Children. We make sure the next bell tolls for lessons learned, not for more graves.”
Byleth looked from face to face: youthful scarred to the bone, hardened leaders, survivors who once bled together in classrooms and battle lines. The monastery’s bell, single and stubborn, began to toll beneath the bruised sky.
They listened until the last note dissolved into the dark, then turned back toward the courtyard where people still worked, where life, imperfect and fierce, continued.
Please confirm you want to block this member.
You will no longer be able to:
Please allow a few minutes for this process to complete.