The camp was silent. Only the faint rustling of the snow-laden canvas could be heard outside Noah's tent. The wind had quieted for the first time that night, leaving behind an uneasy stillness that felt almost sacred — or perhaps foreboding.

Noah sat alone at the wooden table in the corner of his tent, the dim lamplight flickering against the scattered reports and maps before him. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, the fatigue of recent days heavy in the way his fingers barely lifted to unseal the wax on the letter that had just arrived.

The seal bore the emblem of the Church of St. Eldred — a silver cross framed by wings. He stared at it for a long time, unmoving, the faint scent of wax and parchment filling the tent.

Then he broke the seal.

The handwriting was familiar — neat, steady, and deliberate. Maya.

To General Noah Ashen,

The Church bids me write to you with urgency. After examining the Saint's relics retrieved from Frostveil, our scholars have come to a grave conclusion.

They believe the relics have been touched — corrupted — by demonic influence. The purity of St. Eldred's divine grace has been defiled.

The higher clergy now suspect that this corruption may have spread to those who came in contact with the relics during the investigation.

Noah… they believe you might be in danger — that the corruption may be festering within your body or soul.

Please, I beg you, surrender yourself to the Church's custody. They promise safety, examination, and absolution. Do not act rashly.

If you receive this letter, come to the Holy Citadel immediately. I will meet you at the gates myself.

—Maya Brenthall

The words blurred slightly under the lamplight as Noah's grip tightened around the parchment. His jaw set, eyes steady as they traced the lines again and again. The fire outside crackled faintly, but inside, the silence was suffocating.

He leaned back, exhaling a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Demonic influence," he muttered under his breath. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth — humorless, cold.

It wasn't the first time they'd accused him of something. It wouldn't be the last.

But this was different.

Maya's words carried something he hadn't seen from her before — fear. Not for herself, but for him. Her tone wasn't one of the Church's mouthpieces or the Empire's nobles. It was personal. Genuine.

He could almost see her face in his mind — sitting in that cathedral chamber with the light of the stained glass falling over her, lips pressed together in quiet worry, fingers gripping the quill too tightly.

He sighed and looked back down at the letter. The ink shimmered faintly in the light, as if the parchment itself carried a trace of the sanctified.

For a moment, he just sat there. Listening to the quiet. Feeling the weight of those words press against the back of his mind.

Then he reached for the corner of the paper.

The sound of tearing parchment filled the tent — sharp, deliberate, final.

He tore it again. And again. Until the words were nothing but white shreds scattered across the table.

The lamplight caught on the torn pieces, their edges curling like burned leaves.

"Safety," Noah murmured to himself, voice low and almost bitter. "That's what they call a cage now."

He gathered the torn fragments in one hand, letting them slip through his fingers, falling to the ground like snowflakes.

For a moment, his gaze lingered on them. The faintest flicker of conflict passed through his eyes — gone as quickly as it came.

Outside, the campfire cracked once more. Someone was laughing faintly near the barracks, the sound distant and muffled by snow.

Noah reached for his gloves, tightening them around his fingers. The faint lines of chrome light pulsed along his wrist beneath the fabric — a quiet reminder of who he was now.

He blew out the lamp.

Darkness swallowed the tent, leaving only the soft glow of mana veins on his hand. His voice came barely above a whisper — not to anyone, but to himself.

"I don't need their absolution."

The night wind answered with silence, brushing through the canvas like a whisper of disapproval.

Noah leaned back in his chair, eyes open in the dark, staring into the nothingness ahead.

He knew what the Church's "custody" meant. He'd seen it before — men dragged from their homes in the name of purification, never to be seen again.

So no, he wouldn't go.

He couldn't.

The Saint's relics might have been corrupted. The Church might be right.

But if something inside him was truly dark, then it was his to bear — not theirs to cleanse.

The snow outside fell heavier, muffling the world beyond.

Inside the tent, Noah sat motionless — the torn letter lying at his feet, half-buried in shadow, as if already forgotten.

But the look in his eyes told another story entirely.

He had read ienough and that was enough.

***

Noah left the tent behind, the thin flap whispering shut as the wind brushed against it. He didn't take his coat this time. The cold bit through his shirt almost instantly, but he didn't care. The sting helped him think.

He moved away from the flickering fires of the camp, past the rows of sleeping soldiers and the faint glint of steel spears reflecting under moonlight. The further he walked, the more the world became empty — just frost, wind, and the faint hum of mana crystals lining the distant ridge.

He stopped at a cliff overlooking the frozen valley below. Frostveil spread out in silence, the snow draped across its ruins like a burial shroud.

Noah exhaled, watching his breath turn to mist. He hadn't planned to come here — not really. It was simply the farthest point from the noise, the questions, the expectations.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the horizon.

Then, a soft voice came behind him.

"You're bad at pretending you want to be alone."

He didn't turn. "You followed me again."

A figure stepped out from the shadows between the pine trees — Iris Star. Her black hair was pulled into a loose braid, strands brushing her cheek as the wind caught them. The red of her eyes glimmered faintly in the moonlight, sharp and distant like embers in the snow.

She was wearing a soldier's uniform — the Northern insignia stitched cleanly against her arm — but there was nothing formal about the way she wore it. Her gloves were unbuttoned, her collar undone just enough to show the silver chain around her neck.

"I wasn't following," she said, walking closer, boots crunching softly against the frost. "You just happen to go to the same place every time you don't want to talk to anyone."

Noah smirked faintly, still not looking at her. "So you've been keeping track of my habits now?"

"Someone has to," Iris replied. "You don't make it easy."

He could hear the faint teasing in her tone, but also something quieter — the kind of concern she never put into words.

The wind picked up, brushing against them. Her coat shifted, revealing the glint of a short sword at her side. She stopped beside him, just close enough for her presence to cut through the cold.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The moonlight fell softly over their shoulders, the world beneath wrapped in pale blue silence.

Noah's eyes followed the horizon. "Do you ever wonder," he said quietly, "what happens to people after we leave the battlefield? The ones we save… or the ones we don't."

Iris turned to look at him. Her breath came out slow. "No. If I start wondering, I'll stop fighting."

He let out a low breath of laughter — more like an exhale than amusement. "Pragmatic as always."

She glanced at him then, red eyes narrowing slightly. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

He finally turned his head, meeting her gaze. For a brief moment, the space between them seemed to still. The cold air hung heavy, their breaths mingling faintly.

There was something in his expression — not coldness, not detachment, but exhaustion. A quiet kind of weariness only she ever seemed to notice.

"You shouldn't be here," he said softly.

"I should be wherever you are," she replied without hesitation.

That caught him off guard. He looked at her fully now. Her face was calm — not blushing, not shy, just certain.

The kind of certainty he had long forgotten how to have.

The wind moved her braid across her shoulder. She didn't look away. "You keep walking off alone, Noah. One of these days, you won't come back."

"I always come back."

"Not the same," she said quietly.

Her words lingered between them, hanging in the cold air like something fragile.

Noah said nothing. His hand brushed against the railing of ice beside him, the frost biting into his skin.

After a long silence, he murmured, "I thought you said you weren't following me."

"I changed my mind," she said simply. Then, after a pause, "Besides… it's warmer here."

He glanced at her, realizing she'd moved just slightly closer — close enough that the edges of her uniform brushed against his arm.

Despite the entire place carrying the smell of the campfire, smoke, steel amd beer Iris smelled of roses and perfume.

Noah exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half a laugh.

"You're impossible."

"You say that like it's new," she said softly, and her lips curved — not a smile, but close enough.

The two of them stood there in silence again. The snow fell around them, soft and slow.

Iris looked up at the stars, her voice quiet. "You don't have to carry everything alone, you know."

Noah didn't answer. He just watched the way the moonlight caught in her red eyes, and for once, allowed the silence to stay.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"I know."

And for a brief, fleeting moment under the frozen moon and the pale blue night...

... the great General Machiavelli...the cold tactician of the North, simply stood beside the one person who never bowed to him.