It was fortunate that Chrom was present at the school, but not entirely coincidental. He had little to do at home, and his services in aiding the refugees were not really required at the moment. Simply put? He came to the school because he didn't know where else to put himself. He felt lost. But training made sense; it always made sense. He simply felt better with a blade in his hands, whether it was crafted of the finest steel or a blunted length of wood meant solely for practice.

He moved through his routine fluidly, Falchion in his hands as he guided the point of the blade to dip and weave, cutting down enemies that didn't truly exist. His form was excellent, and his strength was obvious in the tautness of his muscles. He was young, and not quite the broad-shouldered powerhouse of muscle that some of the other Heroes were, but he seemed comfortable in his own skin.

Chrom paused at the sound of footsteps, relaxing his stance and sheathing his blade before taking a step forward. From what he understood, there had been no further murders after Zelda's tragic death. But there were also no leads to finding the culprit.

Narasimha, he'd been named. And apparently he was the one responsible for transporting all of them to the Empire several weeks before. Chrom had no idea what the man looked like, and doubted it mattered, if he was a skilled Illusionist who could change his appearance as he pleased.

But it was not Narasimha who stepped through the door, it was Sephiroth. Chrom smiled. Any ally was always a welcome sight. "Greetings," he called out, stepping off of the mat.