The court hall of Altherion—the heart of the Central Continent—was vast enough to swallow an army.

Silver pillars lined both sides, their spiraled designs carved with the emblems of every known nation. Frosted light poured through stained glass above, painting the marble floor in shifting hues of blue and white. The air smelled faintly of incense and steel, like a temple built by warriors.

Here, the "Winter Pact" would be signed.

For the first time in decades, representatives of the North and South had gathered under the same roof without their swords drawn. The Central Empire's council sat above them all, elevated on a dais of stone, serving as the supposed "neutral mediators."

Noah sat among the northern delegation, his black uniform pressed and polished, his silver cane leaning beside him. Around him were nobles and generals—faces that had argued, schemed, and bled for years in the frozen wars.

Across from him sat the southern delegates: proud, adorned in crimson and gold. Their leader, Duke Serath of the South, exuded the calm confidence of someone who believed he held the moral high ground. His every smile was a weapon.

And at the center—on the neutral ground between the two delegations—stood the high council of the Central Continent. Men and women draped in white, their sigils unfamiliar to both sides. They were the ones who had arranged this meeting, claiming a desire for "peace through winter's stillness."

Noah sat quietly as the opening statements began.

---

"Today marks the first step toward ending centuries of bloodshed," the Central Speaker announced. His voice carried through the marble hall, echoing like a sermon. "We gather here not as enemies, but as survivors of a history too long painted in red."

There was polite applause, mostly from the southern side. The North remained still.

Duke Serath rose to his feet, smiling graciously. "The South has suffered much," he began, his tone smooth as silk. "Our villages burned, our crops frozen, our sons buried beneath northern snow. But we are not without forgiveness. We come seeking an end to this—"

"—forgiveness?" General Rhys interrupted from the North's side, his laugh cutting sharp. "You call ambushes and raids 'forgiveness,' Duke?"

Serath's smile didn't falter. "And you call your conquests mercy?"

The Central mediators quickly raised their hands, silencing the hall.

"Please," one of them urged. "We came here to speak, not to bleed."

Noah watched the exchange in silence. The voices clashed like steel in a scabbard—controlled, but dangerous. Every word in that hall carried a thousand graves behind it.

When it was his turn to speak, all eyes turned to him.

"Noah," the Speaker said, "Commander of the Northern Army and bearer of the title Machiavelli."

Whispers rippled across the southern benches at the name.

Noah stood, unbothered. "I didn't come here to trade apologies," he said plainly. "The war won't end with pretty speeches. It'll end when we all stop pretending to be saints."

The Speaker frowned slightly. "And yet, you are here."

"I am," Noah replied. "Because even wolves have to listen when the forest goes quiet."

For a moment, the hall was utterly silent.

Then Duke Serath smiled again, as if impressed. "Blunt as ever, General. Tell me—do you truly believe peace is possible?"

Noah's gaze sharpened. "Peace is never impossible," he said. "Just inconvenient for those who profit from war."

That line hung heavy in the air. Even the Central mediators shifted uncomfortably.

The Speaker quickly moved the discussion forward. "Then let us proceed to terms. The proposal stands thus: an immediate ceasefire along the Frostveil border, exchange of prisoners, and shared access to the neutral trade routes leading through the Central valleys—"

Noah tuned out the words. He studied the room instead. The guards stationed along the walls, the servants moving with trays of parchment and wine, the subtle glances exchanged between certain Central delegates and southern nobles.

Something was wrong.

The air felt too still, the conversations too rehearsed.

His eyes flicked toward a servant carrying a silver tray of wine. The man's steps were off, like someone trying not to draw attention.

Then Noah noticed the faint gleam of something metal under his sleeve.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

"Get down!"

The explosion tore through the hall.

A blinding wave of heat shattered the marble floor, hurling tables and bodies into the air. The blast echoed like thunder trapped in a cage. The northern delegation's banners ignited instantly, torn apart by the shockwave.

Noah hit the ground, his ears ringing. Shards of glass and stone rained from above. Someone screamed—a sound cut short by collapsing debris.

Smoke filled the air, thick and choking.

He pushed himself up, coughing, his vision spinning. Around him, chaos reigned—men shouting, soldiers drawing weapons, blood staining the white marble floor.

Half the hall was gone.

The Central Speaker lay motionless, crushed beneath a pillar. Duke Serath's chair was overturned, his red cloak torn and burned, one arm missing entirely.

Noah's own side hadn't fared better—Rhys was pinned beneath the wreckage, unmoving. The rest were scattered, disoriented.

The smoke parted just enough for Noah to see movement near the upper balconies—figures cloaked in gray, slipping away through the collapsing shadows.

Central assassins.

So that was it.

The Winter Pact had never been a peace talk. It was bait—a stage to ignite the next phase of war.

Noah grabbed his cane, its chrome surface scratched and smoking, and stood. Every muscle screamed, but his eyes burned with clarity.

He turned toward the nearest assassin as the man leapt from the balcony, blade drawn. Noah sidestepped, his cane snapping up to catch the descending strike. The metal rang sharp. He twisted the weapon, swept the attacker's leg, and drove the cane into his throat.

The body hit the ground, lifeless.

Another one came from behind—Noah spun, ducked, and thrust the cane through the smoke. It connected. Blood splattered across the shattered marble.

More shouts. More blades.

"Protect the Duke!" someone screamed.

But it was too late. The assassins were already gone, their purpose fulfilled.

The damage was done.

The "peace" had ended before it began.

---

By the time the northern reinforcements arrived from outside, the great hall was nothing but ash and ruin.

Noah stood among the bodies, smoke curling around him. His uniform was scorched, his gloves torn, and a deep cut across his chest.