The northern banners flew half-mast over every fortress that week. The smoke of the Central Continent's "peace conference" still haunted the sky—ashen plumes curling like silent screams.
Noah stood at the balcony of the Citadel, the freezing wind cutting across his face. Below him, thousands of soldiers gathered in the square, their armor reflecting the pale northern sun. The air was heavy, charged with grief and the metallic scent of mourning.
Reports had poured in through the night. The explosion that had shattered the Central Hall was not an accident. The blast had been deliberate—planted under the delegation floor, timed for when both sides raised their glasses to toast a truce. The North had lost nearly all its envoys: dukes, generals, advisors, and envoys who had believed that words could save them.
Noah had been one of the few survivors.
