The snow hadn't stopped for three weeks.
It fell endlessly.
Noah stood by the frost-crusted window of the command tent, watching the silhouettes of his soldiers struggling through the blizzard outside.
He'd sent Division Seven out two days ago to secure a supply route along the northern ridges leading to the frozen sea. They hadn't reported back. No messenger. No smoke signals. Nothing.
"They're gone," whispered a voice in the back of his mind.
Noah's hand trembled slightly over the parchment.
"They might still be alive."
He turned away from the light, pulling his heavy coat tighter.
The emblem of the Northern Alliance gleamed faintly against the frost.
Chrome Hearts' funds had nearly vanished. His false reports of "steady progress" were already starting to circulate among the troops.
Every lie he wrote was another shield against collapse.
He told himself it was mercy and it was necessary
---
