Since the deployment of the three groups to the Central for the first time in weeks, the soldiers weren't marching or sharpening blades.

Instead they were laughing, singing, and drinking until their words slurred into the howling snow outside.

The entire outpost buzzed with warmth that didn't come from fire alone.

Barrels of northern ale were rolled out like treasure, the smell of roasted meat and smoke hanging thick in the air. The soldiers of the North had earned it. For once, they had won something worth celebrating — a decisive defense against Central raiders that had nearly breached their borders.

Inside the main hall, torches burned golden against the stone walls. Tables stretched long and wide, cluttered with plates, mugs, and laughter.

Noah sat at one of them — the farthest end, near the wall, half-shadowed by the flickering light. His cup of ale sat untouched for a long while as he listened to the roar of celebration around him.

The generals sat nearby, broad-shouldered men with loud voices and heavier appetites. One of them, General Rhys, raised a tankard high.

"To Frostveil's blood and to the young devil who keeps it sharp!" he shouted, nodding toward Noah.

The others roared with laughter and cheers.

Noah only lifted his cup in quiet acknowledgment and took a slow sip.

He listened as they talked about victories, land, women, and gold.

None of them mentioned peace.

None of them spoke of rebuilding the villages burned in the crossfire or the children sent to orphanage wards because of "strategic losses."

It struck him again that none of them fought to end the war.

They fought to own it.

And yet here they were, smiling, their laughter echoing off the wooden beams above, men who would order thousands to die by sunrise and sleep soundly before dawn.

Noah set down his cup. His reflection rippled in the ale's surface.

He hated being among them...but they were his allies in this war.

Rhys leaned toward him, grin half-drunk and voice heavy with the ale.

"You should loosen up, General! You're acting like a ghost at his own funeral."

"I'm fine," Noah replied quietly.

Another general, older and missing a few fingers, snorted.

"Fine? You've got that look again.

The one that says you're thinking too much."

"I have to," Noah said, eyes flicking up from his cup.

"Someone has to."

That only made them laugh harder.

"Ha! You're too young for that kind of thinking!" Rhys slapped the table, the impact making his drink spill.

"You should be chasing women, not ghosts, lad!"

Noah's lips twitched...not quite a smile.

The laughter swelled again, louder this time. Soldiers from other tables started joining in the chants, banging their mugs and stomping boots against the floorboards. The whole hall trembled with cheer.

Amid the noise, one of the officers leaned forward, his tone sobering.

"But in all seriousness, general... this impostor problem is bad...real bad.

You can't just ignore it."

Noah tilted his head slightly.

"I'm not ignoring it."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Waiting."

That answer silenced a few of them.

"Waiting for what?"

"For the lie to become loud enough to expose itself," Noah said, voice calm as ever.

"And when it does... I'll make sure the world remembers the difference between truth and imitation."

The table went quiet for a heartbeat. Then another general let out a chuckle.

"You really are one cold bastard, aren't you?"

HAHAHA...I remember how you threatened to rip off the nobles limbs at the parliament...that was badass I can't lie..."

Someone poured him another cup. The conversation shifted back to drinking songs and bragging contests, though Noah remained still, sipping his drink slowly, gaze unfocused.

It was then that one of the generals who was young, drunk, and honest in his inebriation leaned toward him with a grin that wasn't cruel, just curious.

"You know," he said, blinking as if the realization had just hit him.

"...it really just struck me... You're barely an adult, aren't you?

What are you...seventeen? Eighteen?"

The others chuckled.

"Yet everyone talks to you like you're some old warhound.

I almost forget you've barely lived a real life, boy."

Noah met his gaze and said nothing.

The general shrugged it off and raised his drink.

"To youth that dies too early!" he declared, earning a round of applause and laughter.

Noah smiled faintly and drank to it anyway.

The feast stretched late into the night. As the hall emptied, the music dulled into faint echoes.

Some soldiers had passed out over their mugs; others stumbled out into the snow singing broken songs.

Noah slipped out quietly, stepping into the crisp air outside. His breath came out white in the moonlight.

He stopped near the edge of the encampment, where the snow reflected the pale glow of the northern moon.

"Happy birthday."

The voice came soft, from behind him.

Noah turned.

Iris Star stood there, her black hair loose against the cold wind, her crimson eyes glimmering faintly in the night.

In her gloved hands, she held a small plate covered with cloth.

Noah blinked.

"...What?"

She smiled slightly.

"You forgot, didn't you?"

He stared, confused.

"Forgot what?"

"Your eighteenth birthday."

A faint laugh escaped her, one that sounded softer than he'd ever heard before.

"Everyone's been too busy to remember, but I didn't."

Noah looked at her for a long moment before exhaling quietly.

"Eighteen..."

He repeated it as if testing the sound.

"I didn't even realize."

She stepped closer and set the plate in his hands.

When he lifted the cloth, he saw a small loaf of bread, unevenly shaped and dusted with sugar.

"It's all I could find," she said quickly, cheeks turning red.

"Don't laugh."

Noah didn't and only stared.

"You made this?"

"Maybe," she muttered.

He almost smiled.

"Then it's probably better than any cake I've ever had."

Iris rolled her eyes but smiled back, relieved. Then she raised her hand slightly, focusing her mana. A faint shimmer of red light danced above the bread.

In a moment, the magic took shape of a delicate butterfly of flame, its wings glowing soft crimson, fluttering just above the bread's surface like a candle flame caught mid-flight.

Noah stared at it, the reflection flickering in his eyes.

"Go on," she said softly.

"Make a wish."

He hesitated. What did he even wish for anymore?

How old was I back on Earth? The thought came unbidden.

How long has it even been since then?

Does time move the same here?

He couldn't tell anymore.

The years blurred between lives, between deaths, between wars.

He'd been living so long under other people's skies that he'd forgotten how his own once looked.

I need to get back.

The thought pulsed through his head like a whisper.

I need to go home.

Noah exhaled slowly and blew out the flame.

The butterfly vanished into the cold air, leaving a faint trail of red embers that drifted up like stars.

When he looked back at her, Iris was still smiling a small, honest smile that didn't belong to this world of wars and masks.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Her gaze softened.

"You shouldn't have to carry everything alone, Noah...I want you to know I'm always here for you..."

"I don't mind," he replied.

"I know," she said.

"That's what scares me."

The wind brushed past them, cold and clean. Their breaths mingled briefly in the air, two fragile traces of warmth in a world that had long forgotten warmth.

Iris took a step forward.

The distance between them disappeared.

When their lips finally met, it wasn't desperate or sudden but slow like two people trying to remember what tenderness felt like after years of forgetting.

And for a brief, quiet moment, the world stopped spinning.

The war, the lies, all of it vanished beneath that single, fragile heartbeat.

"..."

The kiss lingered —