The world was beginning to turn against Noah.
Even before dawn broke, the whispers had already reached Frostveil's borders — travelers murmuring by torchlight, soldiers muttering by campfires, merchants clutching their coats as they spoke the name that once stood for fear and precision.
"Chrome Hearts' Leader slaughtered the priests."
"He burned their relics."
"The Saint's killers wear silver eyes."
Lies. All of them. But lies, when carried by wind and coin, moved faster than truth ever could.
By the time the first light touched the tents, Noah was already awake, sitting at the center of his command post. His fingers drummed softly against the table where a spread of parchment maps lay marked in ink — trade routes, military patrols, and merchant convoys that threaded between frozen valleys and outposts of the Northern Dominion.
His men stood quietly before him, tension so thick it could be carved.
"Say that again," Noah said at last, his voice cold and even.
