Chapter 46 – The Winter That Followed Fire
Two years.
The war had devoured two entire years.
When Sirius von Ross first arrived at the Western Front, the air was choked with smoke, and the ground was soaked in blood. The flames have long since gone out—but the silence they left behind was heavier than ash.
He was eighteen now.
And the war was over.
The Empire had won.
But victory had not come with trumpets, nor fanfare. It came with his name whispered across nations. Cities surrendered at the rumor of his presence. Generals fled before battle. Armies collapsed in quiet, as if war itself had grown afraid.
Now, as Sirius stood on the stone balcony of the forward command tower, the view before him was unfamiliar—not the shattered earth or burning skies of the past, but snow. Clean, soft snow. A strange contrast to the scorched legend he had carved through the continent.
Behind him, the war room was being dismantled. Maps rolled up. Flags lowered. The generals' voices were tired, their hands slower than before.
None approached him.
They never did.
He had led countless charges, stood at the heart of every critical battle—but not once did he dine with the commanders or share in the soldiers' jokes. He existed beside the war, not within it.
A weapon that walked.
Nothing more.
A knock echoed behind him.
"Your Grace," came the voice of a messenger, carefully measured. "The carriage to the capital awaits. His Majesty has ordered your presence at the victory ball."
Sirius didn't turn.
Only nodded.
The messenger left without another word.
The journey back to the capital was slow, stretched over days. Every city along the route raised banners in his honor. Flowers rained from balconies. Crowds knelt as he passed.
But he never looked at them.
He never waved.
He rode with the windows drawn, his eyes distant, his mind somewhere else—somewhen else.
Abylay's name remained tucked behind his lips. Unspoken. Unwritten. But constant.
The capital had changed.
Banners of white and gold fluttered over its spires. A statue of a young man—tall, cloaked in flame—had been erected near the gates. The face was unfamiliar, carved by hands that had never truly seen him.
And yet, the plaque bore his name:
Sirius von Ross. Ninth-Class Magician. Grand Sword Master. Pillar of the Empire.
He did not stop to look.
Inside the estate of House von Ross, the staff lined up in two quiet rows. They bowed deeply when he stepped from the carriage. Some of them trembled. Others stared too long.
He ignored them.
The manor was as he remembered. But colder.
Even the silence had changed.
He made no announcement of his return. No reunion with the nobles, no grand entrance into court. He walked through the halls like a shadow reclaimed.
His room was untouched.
Paintings still leaned against the far wall, covered in dust-cloaked cloth. A single book lay open on his desk, the page warped where it had waited too long.
He set his sword down beside the door.
And for a long while, he stood there—silent.
No celebration. No relief. Just the distant chime of bells in the city below, echoing the joy he did not share.
He was home.
But it didn't feel like it.
Not yet.