The snow had finally stopped.
For the first time in months, the world was quiet. The wind no longer screamed through the camps; the tents no longer shuddered from its fury. The Northern sky stretched open like a wound slowly healing, and beneath it, soldiers began to move again—limping, exhausted, but alive.
Noah sat in his quarters, the single lamp flickering weakly beside a pile of sealed reports. His hand hovered over a letter that bore no seal of any kingdom—only the faint trace of a crimson ribbon knotted around pale parchment.
He knew the handwriting before he opened it.
"Noah."
His name, written in a hand that trembled slightly, as if the writer had hesitated before finishing the first stroke.
He unfolded it carefully, the edges stained faintly with blood and snow.
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Noah,
