The night smelled of iron, smoke, and rain.

The war had stretched on for so long that time itself had stopped meaning anything. The Northern banners hung torn over blackened soil, their silver crests dulled by soot. Airships hovered low, their propellers whining like dying birds, while fires flickered faintly across the horizon... the only light left in a world smothered by war.

May trudged through the mud toward the command tent. Her uniform was soaked, her coat burned along one sleeve, her face hollow from nights without sleep. Her once-steady hands trembled now as she adjusted the strap of her pistol belt. Behind her, the remnants of the artillery division marched with heads bowed.

The ground was quiet except for the soft hiss of falling ash. When she reached the tent, she hesitated. The light inside was dim.

Noah sat alone at that desk, his shoulders hunched, the gleam of his silver epaulettes lost in the dark. His hair had grown longer over the campaign, falling into his eyes.

The table before him was covered in letters — hundreds of them. Some written in trembling ink, others sealed with crude wax. Some smudged with tears. Some never finished.

Noah's gloved hand rested on one as he whispered the words aloud, barely audible.

["To my daughter Freya — I'll be home soon. I promise. When the snow melts, I'll teach you to fly the kite we made…"]

His voice faltered.

May didn't announce herself. She just stood there in the doorway, her boots sinking into the damp earth.

Outside, the war howled. Inside, there was only the sound of paper.

---

-Weeks earlier, before the war.

The campfire circle glowed faintly in the night as twenty soldiers sat together, shoulders pressed close against the cold. They passed around a flask and tried to laugh louder than their fear.

"Alright, one round before dawn!" shouted Wolf Drayne, grinning despite the bandages on his arms. "Tell us what you'll do when this is over. Assuming you don't die in the next charge."

The men groaned, but one by one, they spoke.

"I'll go back north," said a young private, clutching a cracked harmonica. "There's a tavern near the capital bridge where I left my heart and half my pay. I'll get both back."

Laughter rippled through the group.

"I'll buy a fishing boat," said another. "Name it Mercy. Won't ever kill another thing."

A burly soldier beside him snorted. "I'll just sleep for three days straight."

Someone tossed a pebble at him. "You already do that!"

The laughter was brief but warm.

Then an older man, Corporal Jens, spoke softly. "My wife's expecting. I've never seen my boy. I just… want to hold him once. Just once."

Silence fell. A few heads bowed.

"I'll plant roses," another whispered. "For my brother. He didn't make it past the first winter."

"I'll cook," said a man from May's artillery unit. "Properly. Not this burnt sludge. I used to be a chef in the capital. I'd make stew that could make you forget you were poor."

The others chuckled again.

"I'll travel," said a thin, bespectacled mage. "See the Central seas. I heard the sunsets there look like spilled wine."

"I'll get married," said another quietly, rubbing the silver ring tied to his dog tag. "Her name's Lia. She said she'd wait. I told her not to, but she's stubborn."

"I'll build a house," murmured one soldier, staring into the flames. "Small one. Wood. Somewhere with snow."

"I'll join Chrome Hearts," a younger boy laughed, looking toward their captain. "You lot look cooler than the rest of us."

The laughter came again, small but real. Even Wolf cracked a smile.

"Alright," he said, grinning. "As for me… I'll drink myself into a coma, then find whoever designed these rations and hit him with a shovel."

The soldiers burst into laughter, their shoulders shaking, their eyes glimmering with something between hope and exhaustion. For a brief moment, it almost felt like peace.

When the laughter faded, one voice spoke quietly from the edge of the fire.

"I just want to go home," said a man with frost in his beard. "Not as a hero. Just alive."

They all fell silent.

The fire crackled, and somewhere in the dark, the wind carried the sound of distant thunder.

---

Now, the thunder was real.

It was artillery.

And every man from that fire — every single one — had gone to fight.

Somewhere between the burning trees and the shattered ridges, their laughter had been left behind.

---

May stepped into the tent quietly. She didn't salute. Noah didn't look up.

The candle flickered, casting his shadow across the wall — long and tired. There were ink stains on his gloves, blood on his cuffs, and letters stacked like small tombstones in front of him.

She cleared her throat softly. "Sir… we've lost seventy percent of the artillery division. Supply lines are cut, and Central's forces are pushing from the east. What are your orders?"

Noah didn't answer. He was staring at a letter, lips moving faintly.

"If I don't make it, tell my wife I died smiling. She likes hearing that."

He folded it carefully, as if afraid to break it.

"Sir?" May pressed, softer now.

Noah blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere deep. His voice came hoarse, distant. "Do you know what this is, Captain?"

He gestured to the pile.

May frowned. "Letters?"

"Names," he said. "Names that don't exist anymore."

He picked up another, unfolding it with trembling fingers.

"To my sister Elara — I'll bring you a feather from one of the airships when I return. You'll see how high we can fly."

Noah smiled faintly, then his voice cracked. "He was seventeen. He thought the sky would wait for him."

He set the letter down gently and reached for another.

"Tell my mother I wasn't afraid. I lied, of course. I was terrified. But don't let her know that."

May's throat tightened. She had seen Noah command armies, defy generals, and survive assassinations — but she had never seen him like this.

Each letter he read chipped away at the steel in his eyes.

"Why… why do you read them all?" she whispered.

Noah's hand paused midair. The candlelight trembled with him.

He didn't look at her when he spoke. His voice was quiet, almost broken.

"Because someone should remember the names."

The words lingered like frost in the air.

He finally looked up. His gaze wasn't that of a commander anymore — it was of a man drowning. "If I don't… who will?"

May's lips parted, but no words came out. The sight of him — this man who bore the weight of nations — hunched over scraps of paper, eyes hollow yet burning with grief, was too human to process.

Noah reached for the next letter. His hands shook. His breath caught.

"General Ashbourne — if you're reading this, it means I didn't make it. But it's alright. You told us to hold the line, and we did. Tell the others we kept the flag flying till the end."

The paper blurred in his vision. For a moment, Noah couldn't breathe. His chest ached, his throat closed, and his hand clutched at the letter as though it could bring the dead back.

May stepped forward instinctively. "Noah…" she whispered, no longer using his title.

He didn't respond.

Instead, he reached for the next one — desperate, trembling, unrelenting — as if reading them all could somehow atone for something unseen.

"My captain — don't forget me, okay? You said we'd all go home together. I'll wait there. Promise."

The ink bled from the tears falling onto it.

Noah exhaled shakily. "They all wrote to someone. Every single one of them. Someone waiting, someone hoping. And I…" He swallowed hard. "…I keep sending bodies home instead."

The tent fell utterly silent. Outside, the war raged. The ground shook with distant explosions, yet inside, time itself seemed frozen — a single candle burning against the void.

May took a hesitant step closer. She saw the letters up close now — hundreds, maybe thousands — sorted in neat piles, some already marked with inked seals, others left open, half-read.

She noticed a smaller stack to one side, folded carefully. The ink on those was faint, written in the same hand.

She reached for one, but Noah's voice stopped her.

"Those are mine," he said softly. "Letters I never sent."

Her heart stuttered. "To who?"

Noah didn't answer. His hand tightened around the edge of the desk, knuckles pale.

Outside, thunder rumbled again. The war went on. The world demanded he move, decide, command. But Noah stayed still, surrounded by the ghosts of men who believed in him.

He finally looked at May again — eyes red, voice raw.

"You asked me how we advance?" he said quietly. "We don't. Not yet. Let them rest for tonight. Just one night."

May's breath hitched.

She nodded silently.