[His dismount comes easy, sliding off the wolf's back and landing in the familiar grass with a crunch of earth beneath his feet. They're close, now — close enough that the dead grow restless in his ears, drawn forth by the familiar sights and sounds of the monastery he's come to think of as his own.

Byleth's voice has yet to join theirs. Every time he comes back, he hopes this won't be the time it does.]

Bandits. Thieves. Looters. Whether common or wearing the colors of a highborn house, we shall slaughter them all for their trespass.

[He rubs his hand against the wolf's side, sunk deep into the fur.]

Are you tired, after so long a journey?