[ byleth looks... stricken, at that. as ugly as this had gotten, as much of the king of delusion as she had seen in him, she hadn't expected... the tension leaves her. her shoulders slump. a blank mask slips over her expression, but it doesn't do anything to hide the hurt in her eyes.

faerghus propaganda painting her as a monster and madwoman, the heretical emperor's pet mercenary, had been one thing. the names—the whore of enbarr, the false saint, the traitor scholar, child of nemesis, defiler of seiros, always and incessantly ashen demon, and so many others—she had been able to bear, even if they had felt like a thousand cuts upon her slowly growing humanity.

but something about that dehumanization coming from the boy she had once known, and not the madman cut down on the field, shatters any desire she has to keep arguing with him. ]

... I was never very close with the Dimitri I knew. And by the end, there was no reasoning with him. [ that comes softly, with a touch of regret to it. ] But maybe you'll listen now. See me how you like, I've no control over that, but all that separates me from your teacher is a single choice.

[ she begins to make to leave. if there's any productive dialogue to be had with the boar prince, byleth can't imagine that it will come in the dream. ]