The campfires along the ridges of the Northern army glowed faintly in the distance, and in the center tent of black canvas, Noah sat at a desk lit only by a single lantern. His gloved fingers tapped against the table as he read the report for the fifth time, though every word still felt unreal.

["Eldred Monastery. Burned to the ground. No relics recovered. Few survivors. Witnesses claim to have seen a silver eyed man."]

Noah's jaw clenched. "Silver eyed…"

The phrase repeated like a curse in his head.

The Saint's relic—one of the last uncorrupted sacred objects believed to belong to St. Eldred—had been housed deep within Northern lands at a Southern-built monastery, guarded under neutrality by both nations. Its loss would spark more than outrage; it would ignite suspicion, conspiracy, maybe even war.

And now, his description was tied to the attack.

He pushed the parchment aside, exhaling sharply.

Outside, a shadow moved beyond the tent flap. "Enter," he said.

One of Chrome Hearts' scouts stepped in—cloaked, snow dusting his boots. "Sir. You were right. We confirmed the monastery's destruction from three separate posts."

Noah's gaze lifted. "And?"

"Survivors, sir. Two monks and a courier. Frostbite, burns, barely alive. They were found along the valley path. One of them kept repeating the same thing before he died."

The scout hesitated.

"What did he say?" Noah's voice was low.

"That the Saint's flame turned black, and a man with silver eyes stood amidst the ashes…"

The tent went still. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.

Noah leaned back in his chair slowly, his expression unreadable. "Where are the bodies?"

"Brought to Frostveil's outpost, sir. The Church already sent envoys to collect them."

"The Church moves fast for once," Noah murmured, tapping a finger against the table again. "Too fast."

The scout bowed. "Your orders, Commander?"

"Send a team to secure what's left of Eldred. Quietly. If the Church gets there first, they'll turn it into a holy war."

"Yes, sir."

The scout disappeared into the snow.

Noah stood, the lanternlight catching the faint metallic lines etched along his right hand—the mark of his runic bindings. They glowed faintly for a heartbeat before dimming again.

"Silver eyes…" he whispered again. "You're mocking me."

---

By morning, Chrome Hearts had spread across the valleys like silent smoke.

They weren't soldiers—not anymore. They were information brokers, spies, and assassins embedded in Frostveil's shadows. Each carried no banners, only the faint insignia of a silver heart etched into their gloves. And when one of them moved, the others followed, wordlessly, efficiently.

Their reports came back by noon.

The monastery was gone. Only the outer stone skeleton remained, scorched black by something that had burned hotter than any normal fire. The Saint's relic—an emerald crystal believed to contain the Saint's divine echo—was shattered beyond recognition.

What disturbed them most wasn't the destruction itself, but the precision.

Every chamber that once held relics or archives was destroyed. Every corridor containing records of Southern influence erased. But the residential quarters? Untouched. Beds still made, candles still standing.

Whoever had done it wasn't attacking at random. They'd come for one thing—the relic—and had staged the rest to look like chaos.

---

Noah stood at the northern overlook of Frostveil when Iris Star arrived beside him. The snow crunched under her boots.

"Chrome reports just came in," she said, handing him a sealed file.

He read it silently.

"It's worse than we thought," Iris said. "The Church believes you're responsible. Rumors are spreading that the man seen at the ruins matched your height, build, and—"

"Silver eyed," he finished flatly.

"Yes."

He didn't respond immediately. He just watched the horizon—the wind dragging clouds of snow across the plains.

Iris continued, her tone careful. "They'll move to indict Machiavelli. If the North's nobles believe the Church, they'll—"

"They won't," Noah said, voice quiet but certain. "Not yet. They need Machiavelli alive for this war."

"But this could—"

"I know what it could do," he cut her off sharply. Then his tone softened. "I know."

He folded the report, sliding it into his coat. His eyes drifted toward the smoking line in the far distance—the direction of Eldred.

"Someone's writing my death in advance," he said. "And they're doing it beautifully."

"Sir?"

"It's a perfect illusion. A man with my eyes. My stance. My pattern of command. They're not trying to kill me, Iris—they're trying to replace me."

Iris frowned. "You think it's Central's work?"

"No. Central deals in weapons, not faith. This… this is psychological."

He looked down at his gloved hand, flexing his fingers slowly. "Whoever did this knows what the Saint's relic means—to the South, to the Church, to me."

"To you?" she echoed quietly.

Noah didn't answer.

---

That night, the wind grew colder, harsher.

Noah sat alone by the fire inside his tent, the map of the North stretched open before him. The monastery's mark was still faintly circled in blue ink from weeks ago—his own handwriting. Back then, it had meant little more than another potential point of conflict.

Now, it was gone.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the flickering flame. His reflection danced faintly in the metal cup beside him—eyes pale gold in the firelight, eerily close to silver.

He thought of the survivor's final words: the Saint's flame turned black.

Was it metaphor—or had the relic itself been corrupted? If so, then whoever was behind it wasn't just political. They understood divine magic. Enough to warp a relic of purity into something heretical.

His thoughts tightened. That kind of power shouldn't exist here.

Not unless—

A faint noise interrupted him. Footsteps, muffled, outside the tent.

"Come in," he said.

A messenger entered, saluting stiffly. "Sir. We recovered fragments of something near the monastery site. You'll want to see it."

He handed over a small wrapped bundle. Inside was a shard of green crystal—burned and cracked, but faintly glowing.

Noah's eyes narrowed. He turned it over in his palm. Along its edge was a single rune carved in precision.

He recognized it immediately.

It was his.

A modification rune he'd created years ago—one no one else should have known about.

The air in the tent felt heavier suddenly.

He set the shard down gently on the table. "Whoever did this," he murmured, "has been watching me longer than I realized."

"Your orders, Commander?" the messenger asked cautiously.

Noah's gaze sharpened. "Spread the word across Chrome. I want every shadow in Frostveil searching..."

The messenger saluted and vanished into the storm.

---

Alone again, Noah let the silence stretch.

His gloved hand hovered above the crystal shard as its glow flickered weakly, reflecting in his eyes.

A mirror. That's what it felt like a distorted reflection of himself, staring back.