It wasn't until your hand turns the last page that you notice that one candle you had was about to die and the riveting sounds of crickets echo menacingly through your tent.

A sigh leaves your lips yet a smile quickly followed it — some habits never change, even in a foreign land. It is not a particularly engaging book, but it is something new . It is hard to tear your hands away from any of the literature that can be found and even harder to save your paltry wage for anything else but them.

A quick stretch alleviates a stiff back, courtesy of the long hours spent sitting on top of a rough sack. There is no luxury allowed for bringing small comforts such as a chair — it is a mercenary life. Only the spare necessities are allowed so that deployment is swift without hassle. You don't mind; it is no different than the time you spent travelling with the Shepherds.

Perhaps fresh air would calm your racing thoughts and allow some minor reprieve so that you can retire for the night with some ease. Outside of the musky and dingy tent, the twinkle of many stars offer to guide your path through the darkness. Foreign constellations as they can be, it is comforting to have some semblance of familiarity.

You head towards the spring of water, near where your mercenary crew made camp, but you hear something. A brief pause tells you it is a slight sound, but it is repetitive. Years of training with soldiers and friends narrow it down to one possibility. Someone is practicing with their sword.

Curiosity hurries your pace, but it was someone you did not expect to be up at this late hour: Byleth, the young daughter of their leader Jeralt.

The only indication that she notices your approach is a raised eyebrow as she continues with her strikes. A simple exercise that only serves to maintain her strength and form rather than push it to her limits.

"Isn't it a little too late at night for practice, Byleth?" you ask.

She stops, and the moonlight glistens the sweat that trails down her forehead and arms. Her face is deprived of emotions as always — a peculiarity that you notice within the first few days after you join — but you can tell that she is anxious.

It is the way that her brilliant blue eyes are unable to meet your eyes and how her feet shuffles around in the dirt. It is familiar enough to how Morgan reacts when she is caught in the midst of a prank, though Byleth is never a prankster. She could barely crack a joke to save her own life.

"I couldn't sleep," she murmurs, rubbing the hilt of her sword as if it is her only solstice.

You nod, beckoning her to come sit with you atop a fallen tree trunk nearby. She did not hesitate to do so, a sign that she at least trusts you more than some of the other mercenaries. Nothing but the songs of insect life and the occasional owl filled the air for a time, but that is fine.

There is no need to rush. A boiling kettle will not cool down in a few minutes.

"I had a dream again, or maybe it's better to call it a nightmare. I keep seeing it over and over again," she admits, her voice starts off soft.

"What was it about?" you smile to comfort her, and she finds some strength in that as she finally unclench her hand from her sword.

"It was a battle — if it could be called that. A man, with hair as silver as yours, but taller than even Father. He had this sword and with it, he swept away the opposing army with just one slash...there was so much blood," she shudders, drawing her shoulders inward as if she wants to hide away from the world.

You don't hesitate to wrap an arm around her and bring her into the warmth of your cloak. Anything to stop her from shivering, and it seems to work. She tries to huddle closer but stops. Her eyes are wider than you have ever seen them before.

"Sorry, no one really embraces me like this but Father, and I didn't realize," she stammers out, a rare display of embarrassment from her.

"It's okay, a proper overcoat offers more than an extra layer of protection against attacks," you fib, "It can also protect people from bad dreams too."

You know of her reputation as the Ashen Demon; a formidable moniker if not for the fact that the one it adorns is nothing but a mere child in her early teenage years. It reminds you too much of Lucina, how she had to bear the burden of becoming Exalt at a similar age.

Right now though, Byleth is not the unstoppable warrior who strikes fear into the hearts of her foes. She is just a girl who needs to know that the world is not all about death and blood and money — something that perhaps cannot be found in a life for a mercenary group.

"Really?" The innocence in her tone almost made you feel bad. Almost.

"Of course." You nodded as if it is a matter of fact, but this is not enough to help her. "You know, I too was plagued with similar nightmares. In them, I saw myself killing my best friend over and over again."

A small gasp escapes her. "Were you scared?"

"Yeah. There were times where I couldn't face my friend, and I was afraid that it would come true, and one day I would hurt him. But you know what got me through them?"

She shook her head as she hangs onto your every word.

"My bonds with my friends. If one of us gets hurt, then we support each other. Just knowing that they're there for you makes a great difference — that you don't feel like you're alone."

She frowns, "I...don't have anyone else but Father."

You rub her head in the same manner you do with Morgan: enough to mess her tidy hair up. "Well, you have me as well, kiddo. Until you can fall asleep, I will be at your side."

She said nothing, but you know her decision is made when she lays her head on your shoulder, and the last vestiges of her previous nightmares fade away from her complex.

"One day," you whisper, careful not to wake her up, "when you're able to meet people you can open up to, please value your bonds with them. They will protect you more than this overcoat can, but until then, it's all I can offer now."