Chapter 16 - Red Ice

Nerossia – The Corridors of the Palace

A heavy silence weighed upon the cold marble corridors of Skyrock Palace. No sound but the faint, weary steps of Countess Abigil upon the lavish carpet, walking as though she bore the entire world upon her shoulders.

She reached the chamber door. She stopped. Her trembling hand brushed against the ancient wood, yet she did not push it open. She peered through the small gap.

There, seated upon the play rug, was her young son, Cayun. His short, bluish-black hair glimmered faintly beneath the light of Arcadia's sun streaming through the stained windows. He bent over a faded sheet of paper, his ink pen flowing with childlike freedom. His world was still pure, untouched by the darkness that enveloped the palace.

Suddenly, he lifted his head, as if sensing her presence. His wide blue eyes gleamed under the candlelight.

Cayun: "Mother?"

Abigil flinched, as if awoken from a deep dream. She entered the room, her steps more steady now, trying to conceal the storm raging within. Every piece of furniture, every scattered toy, though burdened by her sorrow for the loss of her husband… reminded her of him—of Houston, the elder son who would never again tread these floors.

Her voice soft, forced:

Abigil: "What are you doing here, my dear?"

She bent down, attempting to smile, but the smile broke pale upon her lips. Then she saw the drawing.

It was not just a sun. It was a mass of shadow, a circle shaded so heavily that the black ink had spilled like tar across the paper, forming crooked lines like tears of darkness. Beneath it, the word Arcadia was scrawled in childish, uneven letters, as though the name itself was suffocating under the weight of that black sun.

Cayun, curious, utterly unaware of the weight of his words:

Cayun: "It's… the War of the Black Sun. I heard them say it at the funeral… they said Houston died in it."

In that instant, something within Abigil shattered.

Houston was no longer merely a name. He became an image—an image of the white shroud lowered into the cold earth. The mournful chant. The chill of his forehead when she kissed it for the last time, cruel as ice, searing her fingertips. She had hidden her tears then, for the Countess of Windsword had to appear strong.

But now, before the innocence of her child and his haunting drawing, there was no strength left to give.

She stepped back, her hand brushing against a small frame upon the table. It was a portrait of Houston, at Cayun's very age, smiling with pure innocence.

And the memories surged.

Not of the funeral—but of the war itself. Seven years ago.

The Serens shrieking. Black smoke blotting out Arcadia's sun. The screams of horses. The stench of blood and scorched iron. She stood upon the palace balcony, watching a column of smoke rise upon the horizon, where Houston fought. Powerless, wrapped in helplessness like a cocoon—a countess unable to save her son.

That war—the War of the Black Sun—had stolen his innocence first, then stolen his life.

She looked again at the drawing. At that black sun, its ink spilled like blood.

And in that moment, she understood: the war had not ended. It endured—not on the battlefields, but in the minds of children. In a boy's drawing of a dead sun above his homeland. In a memory that would never die.

She closed her eyes as hot tears finally streamed down her cheeks, unstoppable. Not tears of weakness, but of realization—that some wars are never won. They endure in wounds that never heal, in children's sketches carrying the weight of darkness unended.

Seven years earlier…

The great war between Arcadia, Nightforce, and Evalin.

The dawn of the first day was nothing but a deceitful veil. The sun rose above the capital, while the waters of the western sea swelled with hundreds of sails, white and black alike, bearing the crests of Nightforce and Evalin.

No one knew that within ten days, those sails would become a black cloud, raining blood and ash upon the whole kingdom of Arcadia.

The enemy divided its power as a butcher divides the carcass.

The first fleet, 182 ships strong, landed upon the shores of Wintersoul, the northwestern province. From there, it swept south until it touched the frozen valleys later named "The Snowfall," before curving northeast to reach Frostenov, where resistance proved weaker than expected.

The second fleet, with 188 ships, struck from the west directly, invading Astillaria through the land of Narvix in a straight line, advancing into Volkurth through territories it left in ruins—charred stones, skeletal towers—before merging with its other half at the kingdom's heart.

At every foothold, they planted fire.

Small villages burned like autumn leaves. Any man who raised a blade was slain. Any fortress that resisted was leveled to the ground.

Wintersoul – Town Center – The Road to the Palace

The snow never ceased falling, drifting from the sky in tender silence, as though heaven was sending its white letters to earth. Along the road, snow piled upon the sidewalks like wings of cold light, reflecting the traders' trembling breaths and the mercenaries' laughter as they huddled around their small fires in the alleys. The aroma of warm bread escaped the stone ovens, mingling with the smell of burning wood, filling the place with warmth despite the bitter frost.

At the heart of the town, where the great snow-covered tree stood like a silent guardian of history, a white-and-blue carriage moved—the carriage of House Nightover. Its silver engravings glimmered in the dim light, and the small banner fluttering above it seemed like a royal mantle defying the wind. It was more than a carriage—it was a silent proclamation of the presence of a house feared by all, and carried by destiny itself.

And when the carriage finally stopped before the grand gates of Wintersoul Palace, silence fell upon the crowd, as though the entire town instinctively understood the weight of this moment.

Ser Falko Nightover, clad in thick furs, his beard crusted with ice, stepped forward to open the carriage door. But before his hand touched it, the door burst open from within, and Aqua Nightover leapt out—a youth of seventeen, like a gust of wind charged with life.

His face glowed with a broad smile, his blue eyes sparkling with a fire no winter could extinguish. He stood still for a moment, gazing at the towering palace before him, like a child beholding a long-awaited dream. Then he dashed forward, his voice breaking through the frozen air with unbound excitement.

Aqua: "Master!"

His call rang through the corridors like a clear bell rousing the walls from slumber.

As he shouted, footsteps echoed from the top of the white stairway. Light, measured steps, accompanied by a voice—sharp, sharp as a blade.

Newt: "I told you to call me Uncle, Aqua."

There stood Marquis Newt Nightover, a man in his late thirties, his black shirt clinging to his slender frame as though he had never known cold. His features calm, yet their firmness concealed something never spoken.

Aqua's smile widened further. He rushed forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword Icy, as though dragging with him every promise he had made.

Aqua: "I've mastered the Flame-Frost Technique! You haven't forgotten your promise, right?!"

Newt halted before him, a faint smile brushing his lips before he bowed gently, placing a hand upon his chest. Yet his words were not addressed to Aqua.

Newt: "Welcome, my lady."

Behind Aqua, Duchess Loriana Nightover walked with the poise of a woman long accustomed to having paths cleared before her. In her forties, yet her presence seemed to outgrow the very concept of age. Her blue gown flowed behind her like silk, carried by winter's breath, while snow clung to its hem, adding to her majesty, as though she were a princess emerging from a glass painting sealed in frost. She raised her head with elegance, her silver hair styled in a regal knot, glimmering against her pale skin until it seemed to melt into it, and her icy eyes carried a silence of dignity no one could mistake.

Loriana: "Marquis Newt… we are grateful for your hospitality. And I apologize if this boy caused some trouble upon our arrival."

Newt smiled calmly and bowed once more.

Newt: "No need for that, brother's wife. I am glad to have you here anytime. And…"

But his voice cut off abruptly. From the threshold of the door came a voice as clear as a morning song.

Ariana: "Uncle!!"

The twelve-year-old girl darted across the hall with childlike lightness, her white dress fluttering around her like the wings of a dove in a still sky, her silver hair shimmering whenever it caught the strands of light. Her skin, pure as untouched snow, gave her the appearance of a being born of another world—half innocence, half enchantment.

Newt's arms opened instinctively, and a rare smile softened his otherwise rigid features.

Newt: "Ah… my beautiful snow blossom!"

Ariana leapt into his embrace, and he held her as one might guard a fragile treasure.

Outside, snow fell endlessly, yet inside the palace warmth bloomed with smiles, hearts filled with serenity. No one could have imagined that this peace, these bright moments, were nothing but a fragile shell hiding beneath it a looming darkness… and the shadows of a great war preparing at the gates.

Newt turned his sharp eyes toward Duchess Loriana, the question already glimmering in them before he spoke: "What brought you here, Loriana?"

She did not answer. She remained silent, tilting her head slightly as her gaze flickered across the hall's walls, as though sensing the weight of unseen eyes around them. Newt understood the gesture—she wanted to speak in private.

He quietly turned to Aqua, who stood alert like a sharpened blade, and said: "Come with me. I'll see what you've learned."

At those words, Aqua's face lit with excitement, his eagerness bursting forth as if he had long awaited this moment. Newt turned back to Loriana once more, his voice warm despite its firmness: "Consider this your home… rest until we return."

He moved to follow Aqua, but stopped when he felt a tug at his sleeve. Turning, he saw Ariana, her small fingers clutching his shirt, her hesitant eyes gleaming with worry. She hesitated, then spoke in a halting, trembling voice: "U… Uncle… I… I want to learn the sword!"

The silence that followed struck like lightning. Loriana's eyes widened, and her voice cut sharp and final: "Impossible!"

But Newt did not withdraw. He bent down to Ariana's level, his voice low, carrying both tenderness and inquiry: "And why? … Did something happen?"

Ariana faltered, her gaze shifting between her mother—whose face was pale with worry—and her older brother, who was watching her with a tense, stern look, as though bracing to hear her accuse someone. She swallowed hard, then whispered as though confessing a heavy secret: "I… I want to protect my family too."

Loriana's eyes widened in shock before her lids lowered and a weary sigh escaped her lips. Aqua, meanwhile, smiled faintly and turned his face aside, as if concealing a trace of satisfaction.

Newt kept staring at the little girl, and then—rare as snowfall in summer—a gentle smile graced his face. He reached out, patted her head softly, and said: "Very well… you shall have it."

Loriana took a step forward, about to object, but Ariana's eager voice rushed in first, shaking with childlike excitement: "Truly!? Do you promise!?"

Newt rose, smiling with calm assurance. "Yes… I promise."

From behind, Aqua's mocking voice cut in as he folded his arms: "Before you drown her in promises… don't forget the promise you made me."

Ariana narrowed her eyes and raised a finger beneath her own, mimicking him in playful mockery. At that, Loriana couldn't help but smile despite her worry, letting out a resigned sigh.

Newt laughed, gesturing to them both: "Yes, yes… you'll have what we agreed upon—if you can prove yourself in the yard."

With that, he stepped out of the hall, Aqua following close behind. The duchess remained with her daughter, their eyes meeting in a silent, weighted exchange before they withdrew further inside, leaving behind the lingering echo of that promise suspended in the hall.

Aqua Nightover emerged from the grand gates of the palace, his face alight with excitement tinged by a faint anxiety. The cold air struck his skin, snowflakes settling upon his shoulders and arms, but he paid them no mind. The streets of Wintersoul stretched before him, crowded with men he knew—most, if not all—belonged to his uncle, Marquis Newt Nightover.

The path was a mingling of markets and snow-dusted clearings, cluttered with crates and makeshift stalls. Men in thick hides and rough scarves lingered along the roadside, some drinking from leather flasks reeking of cheap liquor, others selling rusted weapons and war gear scavenged from past battles. Swords, daggers, broken shields… everything could be bought and sold here.

At the heart of this noisy pulse lay the town square, alive like the warm heart of Wintersoul. And at its center stood Jarom, towering like a gentle giant. He was not merely a tavern-keeper, but the unofficial steward of the town's social life. His laugh—like the rumble of a satisfied bear—was no mockery, but a seal of joy recognized by every soul in Wintersoul.

This morning, Jarom lifted a massive barrel as though it were feather-light, the muscles of his back straining against his worn wool shirt. "Elias! Don't show us that sour face until you've had a mug of my spirit!" he bellowed at a lean man patching the roof of his shack.

Elias turned with a grin. "I fear I'll grow too lively and tumble off this roof, you roaring elephant!"

It was their daily banter. Jarom filled a wooden mug for Elias, then raised another for all. "To those who fear not life!" he roared, met with laughter that rippled through the square. Jarom knew all the town's secrets, its joys and sorrows—its unspoken priest.

And there was Serena, poetess of flowers and gazes, on the edge of the square where sun met shadow, arranging her bouquets like an artist curating a canvas. She sold not just flowers, but beauty itself in a harsh world.

"Why marigolds today?" asked an old woman.

Serena tilted her head, her green eyes shimmering with wit. "Because your daughter will visit you today, and this flower says, 'You are my beautiful mother,'" she answered softly, like a secret whispered.

The old woman's cheeks flushed as she bought the bouquet, wearing a smile she hadn't worn in months.

Serena was not a teller of news, but a reader of hearts. She knew which young men glanced at her, and which tried to hide it. She smiled at them all, as if to say, I know—and it's alright.

At her side was her daughter, Lilith, the little princess of imagined blossoms. Six years old, Lilith played with a cloth doll, pretending it was a princess and the flowers were its loyal subjects.

"We must protect the kingdom from the dragon!" she declared to her doll, then turned to Serena. "Do you think the dragon will really come?"

Serena did not laugh at her. "As long as you are here, brave guardian, no dragon would dare approach."

Lilith wove entire worlds from nothing. She chalked drawings on stones, hid behind Jarom's barrels, and believed every stray dog was a magical horse waiting for its rider.

There was a grumbling guard with a golden heart at the town gate—Droxie. He stood complaining as usual. "Why do I have to stand here while the others drink and make merry?" he muttered to anyone who would listen.

But when a broken cart carrying a migrant family approached, he was the first to step forward to help. "You can't enter like this!" he barked in his rough voice, then spent the next two hours repairing the wheel with his skilled hands.

Droxie believed complaining was an art of manhood. Yet his eyes were always scanning the horizon, and his hands knew more than his words admitted. At night, he would walk past the houses to make sure the doors were locked, leaving extra bread at the home of the old widow—the one who had abandoned her noble house after her husband's death, when his sons began their battle for inheritance.

The butcher's dreaming son, Kaylen, worked in the neighboring shop. Fourteen years old, he cut meat with skill beyond his age. He dreamed of becoming a warrior, but for now he toiled in his father's shop.

"Why do you cut meat as if you're lost in a dream?" his father asked. Kaylen didn't answer. Secretly, he trained with a wooden sword he had crafted himself. In the evenings, he would go to the fields to practice, imagining himself defending the town from phantom invaders.

He knew butchery was an honorable trade, but his heart belonged to swords, not knives. Under the meat table he hid poems he wrote about knights and glory.

In a fragile moment of peace at dusk, they all gathered around a great fire lit by Jarom. Serena handed out the last of her flowers. Lilith fell asleep on Droxie's lap, who—for once—stopped complaining. Kaylen read aloud a poem he had written in secret.

This was Wintersoul… a delicate, beautiful human tapestry. Each thread a story, each story a world. They did not know they were painting a picture that would one day turn into legend, that their laughter would echo as a ghost in the silence to come.

Meanwhile, as Aqua made his way toward the arena, sharp voices rang out from the crowd. A hoarse voice, like it rose from a rusted well, broke through. Its owner was a bald man with a thick tangled beard spilling across his chest, his small eyes glinting with deliberate mockery. He lifted his wooden cup high, leaning forward with his hulking body as he shouted:

"Look well! Here's the heir of House Nightover… stumbling among us like a white dove lost in a flock of crows! Hahahahaha!"

His laugh wasn't mere laughter—it was a mixture of cough, cheap wine, and contempt, bursting out to spark roars from the men around him. Some slapped their companions' shoulders, repeating "The dove!" as though it had become the joke of the hour.

But Aqua let the words pass in one ear and out the other. He did not halt his stride, his eyes shining with a steady coldness, as if such mockery could never touch him.

Another, scarred and one-eyed, waved his cup and jeered: "Hey, Aqua! Did you come to buy yourself new courage? I heard the old one stopped working!"

Between the laughter, a more serious tone rose—a tall man with a metal arm said in a rough, gruff voice: "Leave the boy… he carries your master's blood." Yet even his tone could not hide the smirk curling on his lips.

Aqua stopped for a heartbeat, gave them all a look laced with a smile of defiance no one could quite read, then continued forward. He was used to being tested at every step, at every word.

His steps carried him to a circular arena, formed by massive wooden crates stacked as a low wall, with mercenaries lined all around, laughing and shouting, trading bets and filthy remarks.

At the circle's center… stood Marquis Newt Nightover himself. His back was turned at first, then he pivoted slowly, drawing his long sword from its sheath. The blade drank in the light of the torches as if it were a dark shard of ice.

Newt raised his head, his features combining grace and chill. Then he spoke loudly, mocking, directing his words to the men around him:

"This boy challenged me. Says he wants to prove something. Let's see if he can handle the weight of his words."

The arena exploded with laughter and shouts.

"Go get him, commander!"

"Cut his head off quick before his pretty hair gets ruined!"

"Five coins say he cries before he lands a single blow!"

Others roared with heavy sarcasm: "Aqua! Show us the strength of the Nightovers—if it exists!"

Aqua stood outside the circle for a moment, his face grim yet carrying a small, defiant smile. He stepped forward with steady strides, drawing his sword Icy. The blade gleamed with a frost-like sheen befitting the falling snow, and the sound of its steel leaving the scabbard stole a breath from some of the onlookers.

But suddenly, a long whistle pierced the air, followed by a mocking voice:

"Ooooh… I'm terrified!"

The mercenaries burst into uproarious laughter, some slapping their thighs, others shaking their heads in uncontrollable mirth.

He now stood face-to-face with his uncle. The mercenaries surrounded them—a circle of flesh, laughter, and wine—like witnesses to an ancient rite. Newt twirled his sword lightly, as though it were a toy without weight, then said with an arrogant smile:

"Let's see what you've got… boy."

Aqua circled slowly within the ring, his body taut like a drawn bow, his grin spreading wider.

Then he answered, his voice brimming with fervor as his grip tightened on his sword:

"Oh… I'll show you."

For a heartbeat, silence cloaked them, broken only by the whistling wind and the rasp of men's breath. Everything seemed to be leading toward an inevitable eruption.

Silence held the crowd, snowflakes drifting lightly over the open arena, the air cutting at lungs with its bitter chill. Every gaze fixed upon the two swords, that metallic cry ringing out as Newt drew his blade—a death knell heralding the duel.

Newt advanced with steady steps, his blue eyes gleaming like ice beneath the sun. As for Aqua, he clenched his sword with all his might, chin raised high in defiance, though his breaths carried a faint tremor of unease.

"Come on, boy…" Newt murmured, his words carried on the wind.

Aqua lunged first, swift in his step, his blade flashing like silver lightning toward Newt's side. But the seasoned uncle did not budge. He raised his sword with effortless precision, as if reading his opponent's intent, and the clash of steel against steel rang out in a sharp cry that split the ears. The swords locked, forcing Aqua to slide back, retreating under the pressure.

Newt gave him no respite. With a sudden leap, he brought his blade down from above like a thunderbolt. Aqua's arm trembled as he blocked, Newt's strength coursing through his entire body, driving him backward until he nearly fell.

"Heavy as a mountain…" he muttered between clenched teeth.

Yet Aqua pressed on. He pivoted in a half circle, swinging a sudden sideways slash toward Newt's neck.

With a mocking smile, Newt raised his sword just in time, sparks flying between them.

"A fine attempt," he said coolly, shoving Aqua back three full steps.

The exchange repeated itself. Aqua lunged with zeal, his movements fast, daring, as if desperate to find a crack in his uncle's defenses. But Newt… he was like a wall. Every strike met with a perfect parry, every attempt to break through shattered against the fortress of his skill and speed. With each moment, Aqua's breath grew heavier.

Then, in a flash, Aqua launched a heavy strike at Newt's shoulder, followed immediately by another at his leg. A double move! But Newt parried both with stunning mastery—raising his sword to block the first, then twisting his body to kick Aqua's blade with his heavy boot. The sword rattled violently, nearly slipping from his hand.

"You've learned a few tricks… but you still waste two moves where one would suffice… and you reveal your weakness before you ever glimpse mine." Newt's voice was cold as he pressed forward.

Aqua swallowed hard, his eyes burning with resolve. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, his breath ragged in the freezing air. He surged forward once more—but this time… something had changed.

With the first strike, it seemed as though he dragged Newt's blade with his own. Sparks suddenly burst between the swords, a strange metallic screech echoing like blades grinding against each other. Even the onlookers flinched, voices rising in surprise.

"Oi, what's he doing…?"

The sparks continued, like fiery frost that seared the eyes and blinded the sight. Aqua pressed on, drawing closer, his blade sliding along Newt's, guided by some strange force. Bit by bit… Newt's weapon seemed to slip, compelled to follow an invisible path.

Newt's eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprise, even admiration. He's mastered it… the Frostfire Technique.

"Not bad…" he murmured to himself.

The sparks thickened, fireflies of burning ice licking Newt's skin. Aqua advanced with measured steps, unleashing strike after strike—swift, sharp, as though the wind itself pushed him forward.

Then… a sudden flash. Sparks flared, and Newt saw the silver edge racing toward his side with impossible speed.

He ducked at the last instant. The strike sliced a lock of his hair, strands floating in the air before falling upon the snow. He staggered back two steps, catching his breath, while Aqua roared defiantly, charging forward.

But Newt… raised his sword with thunderous force and brought it down in a single strike like lightning. The clash shook the air, and Aqua was hurled to the ground, his blade burying itself in the snow.

He clenched his teeth, but then—a fierce kick tore through the air, smashing into his face. His body flew, tumbling across the white ground.

Newt stood tall, chest heaving, before glancing at the men around them. Laughter and shouts erupted, mockery mingling with applause. He raised his hand, commanding silence. "Quiet." He drove his sword into the snow, then said with a faint smile, "The wager was whether he had mastered the Frostfire skill… and he has. The boy has won."

Protests and scoffs rang out, but before the dispute grew louder, Aqua's broken voice cut through, trembling yet sharp:

"No… I lost…"

He collapsed, screaming in pain and frustration. The snow of the arena swallowed his weary body, his sword rolling out of reach. Silence fell. Only his labored breaths remained.

Aqua spoke again, his voice cracked yet heavy, silencing them all: "Why? Why can't I defeat you?"

Newt regarded him, his seasoned eyes seeing more than a beaten fighter. He read a restless soul. He did not gloat, nor sneer. Instead, he sighed deeply, a sound heavier than any word.

Then he spoke—his voice quiet as dead leaves, sharp as a hidden blade:

"You asked the wrong question, Aqua. It is not 'Why can't you defeat me?'… but 'Why do you want to?'"

Aqua lowered his gaze, but Newt pressed on.

"You don't fight to defeat an enemy… you fight to appease something inside yourself. You fight like a child crying for attention. You seek recognition. From whom? A missing father? Companions whose approval you crave? A ghost from your past?"

Slowly, he raised his sword—not to strike, but to point—directly at Aqua's wide eyes.

"In true battle, the world doesn't care what you want to prove. The world only wants to survive at your expense. This moment—your fall—is the only truth. Everything else is a tale we tell ourselves to make death bearable."

He bent down slightly, bringing his face level with Aqua's, his tone pressing the truth like a blade into his mind. "You want to learn? Then cast off this burden. Next time you raise your sword, raise it for one thing only: the deSere to return home alive. Not glory, not respect. Just to breathe tomorrow's air." "Let every strike be as though the lives of those you love depend on it. Don't strike to wound—strike to erase. To remove from your path. It is cruel, but it is the only way you'll survive."

Newt straightened again, turning his back on Aqua, as though the lesson was done. "The difference is not between victory and defeat. The difference is between those who fight for an image, and those who fight for life. Once you understand that, you'll never ask 'why' again. The only question will be 'how.'"

He left him there with his thoughts. Aqua remained, drowning in the mud of his defeat. But in his silence, a seed was planted. Not yet a new strength, but the only seed that mattered: clarity.

After the duel…

The snow, stained and scarred from the clash, slowly began to melt, leaving footprints etched into the ground like remnants of a struggle unwilling to fade. Half an hour later, Aqua sat alone, leaning against a wooden crate near the arena. His body ached, his breaths were slow, his hands still trembling from the battle. His eyes lingered on his sword, buried in the snow beside him, as though asking the steel itself: Why am I still so weak?

Steady footsteps broke his silence. He looked up slowly—to see Newt approaching, holding two cups of steaming coffee, the vapor rising against the freezing air.

"You're drowning in thoughts…?" Newt said, his tone low, faintly mocking.

Aqua did not answer right away. He met his eyes, then took the cup slowly, setting it aside without a sip. Newt sat beside him in silence, lifting his own cup and drinking deeply, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky.

Aqua could not help but stare at the man beside him—the weathered body where every scar told a page of a bloody history, the simple black shirt he wore carelessly, as if winter's bitter cold meant nothing to him.

Softly, almost with curiosity, Aqua asked: "Don't you feel the cold, wearing only that shirt?"

Newt turned, a faint smile crossing his face. His voice was low, almost confessional, yet it was a truth everyone already knew: "My blood is made of ice and fire, boy… I don't freeze, nor do I burn."

Aqua stared at him for a long moment, then looked away, sinking into his thoughts. The silence between them was not empty—it was heavy, flowing between a man who had lived life, and a boy still trying to understand it.

After a pause, Newt spoke, his tone calm but his curiosity clear: "I heard that the Royal Arena, held every year, ended five days ago… So, who won?"

Aqua's eyes narrowed for a moment, as if the question had opened a wound that had yet to heal. He exhaled deeply and replied in a low voice, heavy with disappointment: "… Not me."

Newt took another sip of his coffee, then turned to him with a sidelong smile, tinged with mockery: "I asked you who won… I didn't ask if you lost."

Aqua remained silent for a moment, his features stiff, then slowly lifted his gaze. Newt continued, turning his eyes away from the boy's face: "I've been away here for a long while… I know nothing of what happened in the capital."

Aqua stayed quiet, trapped in an inner struggle between wanting to speak and wanting to remain silent. Then, after a slow sigh, he spoke softly, as though trying to summon the memories from deep within his soul: "In the semifinals, Houston Windsword lost to Timothy Blackmirth, and I… I lost to Arthur Malacard. As for the final… it was between Timothy Blackmirth… and Arthur Malacard."

And suddenly, as if the doors of his memory had been violently thrown open, images poured into his mind, dragging him five days into the past.

Dreamcrown – The Royal Arena

The roar of the crowd filled the place, thousands of voices rising from the towering stands, as though the entire city had gathered to witness this day. Dust danced across the ground beneath the sunlight, and the air was thick with the scent of iron, sweat, and tension.

On the arena steps, Timothy Blackmirth ascended. A nineteen-year-old youth, his short black hair clung to his forehead with sweat, and his silver eyes gleamed with a fierce lightning. His face was a book of scars: a small split on the left side of his lips, a long wound slashing across his right eye, and three bruises marking his cheeks. He looked like a wolf fresh from battle, but still standing defiant.

Waiting for him at the top of the stairway was Sylvia Blackmirth, his sister by a year. In her hands, she held his black helmet, her eyes betraying a deep worry, her heart trembling before her hands did. She spoke in a sharp, anxious voice: "Do you really have to fight this duel? You've already made it to the finals, no one would blame you if you stopped here… You've proven yourself enough!"

Timothy smiled faintly, standing firm as if nothing in the world could sway him. He stepped closer, placed his hands over her trembling ones, and looked straight into her eyes. His voice was calm, yet solid as iron:

"As you said… I made it to the finals. If I stop now, it would be an insult to everyone who fought before me, to everyone who bought a ticket to witness this day. And more importantly… it would belittle my last opponent."

Her lips trembled, but she understood. She nodded slowly, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Then, he took the helmet from her hands, placed it upon his head, and walked with steady steps into the heart of the arena.

He stood there as the announcer's voice boomed across the grounds: "Here he is! Ladies and gentlemen! Heir to the ancient House of Blackmirth! The young man they call the Werewolf! … Timothy Blackmirth!"

The cheers burst from the stands like a storm, the voices of the crowd shaking the walls of the place. But the announcer quickly faltered as he glanced around: "And his opponent…? Uh… Where is he?"

The audience began to search, until the announcer turned and saw him.

Arthur Malacard. A twenty-three-year-old youth, his dark golden hair falling across his forehead, his hazy golden eyes burning with a strange coldness. A deep scar ran from his left eye down to his lips. He stood tall upon the high platform, beside his father, Duke Rosibov Malacard, seated on a golden chair. On the other side sat Duke Sathiron Blackmirth, with Sylvia standing stiffly beside him, her eyes never leaving her brother.

The announcer cried out, flustered: "Ser Arthur?! The time for the duel has come… If you don't descend now, you will be disqualified!"

But Arthur remained still, his sharp features radiating indifference. Then he spoke, his voice cold, calm, dropping like a dagger into the heart of the arena: "I do not fight those younger than me… How many times must I repeat this? End this farce, before this child ends up like the others before him."

The stands erupted in protest, the crowd's voices rising in anger. But suddenly, a single voice cut through the chaos, echoing from the heart of the arena: "Come on, Malacard… Or do you fear that the wolf will tear apart your little wings, you crows?!"

A solemn silence fell over the place, eyes darting between the two of them, as if the earth itself awaited the explosion.

Only then did Duke Rosibov lift his gaze toward his son and speak in a sharp tone that brooked no argument: "Let the boy have his fun… Go down and take part."

Arthur pressed his lips together, exhaled slowly, as though the weight of the world pressed upon his chest. Then, with a calm gaze, he averted his eyes slightly and replied in a steady voice: "I'll give you a chance to walk away… boy."

But the answer came screaming, metallic, from the heart of the arena: the sound of a blade being unsheathed.

Timothy smiled—the smile of a hungry wolf.

At that moment, Arthur sighed slowly, then stepped forward, placed a foot upon the railing, and leapt from the platform above. He landed firmly on the dusty ground, his eyes fixed with a killer's calm.

He spoke in a deep voice, almost a whisper, yet one that pierced Timothy's heart: "Do not regret this."

At that moment, Aqua returned to the present.

Newt swirled his cup between his fingers, his piercing eyes never leaving Aqua as he recounted the tale. A silent, analytical gaze—like a spy listening to the secrets of an enemy. When Aqua finished describing Arthur's leap, Newt raised his cup of coffee, sipped slowly, and then spoke in his calm voice that cut through the night.

Newt: "A theatrical leap… heh." He exhaled, smoke rising thick into the freezing night. "Real men don't leap from platforms… they climb from pits." He gestured with his hand for Aqua to continue.

Aqua gathered his memories, speaking of Arthur's calm gaze and his words—Don't regret this. But Newt suddenly interrupted, his voice like stone shattering upon ice.

Newt: "Stop. Right there. That look… that tone. It wasn't a warning. It was a eulogy." He looked deeply into Aqua's eyes, then continued in a steady voice: "He knew the outcome of the duel before it began. He was telling him the game was over before the first chess piece even moved."

Newt looked at Aqua challengingly, then turned his gaze away. "Tell me. What happened after Timothy drew his sword? How long did the fight last? Two minutes? Five?"

Aqua fell silent, his eyes torn between frustration and admiration. Newt saw it, and a cold smile touched his lips.

Newt: "No need to answer. I see it on your face. The raven… did not just descend. It circled the hungry wolf until he was exhausted, then pecked out his eyes, didn't it?"

Aqua stared into the void, his eyes reflecting the distant candlelight like fragments of that duel. His voice grew hoarse, filled with a bitter admiration he could not deny.

Aqua: "No… Do not underestimate Timothy. If I had been in his place… my body would already be food for the ravens."

He clutched the abandoned cup of coffee, as if searching for some warmth in its cold bottom: "He was like lightning… insane speed, the sharpness of a wolf. Every strike was aimed to sever tendons, to carve through bone. He fought with rage… a beautiful rage that tore Arthur's armor, drawing blood from his cheek, his knees, his nose."

He fell silent for a moment, as though seeing the scene once more: "But Arthur… Arthur was like a mountain. Unshaken. Unyielding. He dodged not out of fear, but calculation. Every movement economical… cold. No wasted energy. No anger. He kept his distance, circling Timothy like a slow whirlpool, draining him drop by drop."

His grip on the cup tightened, as though trying to crush the memory of weakness he had witnessed: "And I saw it… I saw the turning point. The moment Timothy realized that his strikes—despite all their mastery, despite all their courage—did not reach. They shattered like arrows against a rock. And exhaustion began eating him alive. His arm grew heavy, his breathing turned to panting."

His voice dropped to a muffled whisper filled with dread: "Then came the blow… It wasn't the strongest, but it was at the exact moment. When Timothy's hand trembled from fatigue and his blade rose a few centimeters lower than it should have… Arthur struck. He didn't strike Timothy… he struck the sword itself."

He lifted his eyes to Newt, still stunned by a shock that hadn't faded: "And everyone was stunned… that sound… the sound of steel breaking, not from rust, not from flaw… but from sheer force… like a thunderclap. The 'Moonsteel' sword—the blade that House Blackmirth had passed down since its founding ancestor—snapped in two."

Aqua closed his eyes briefly, as though the image was too painful and required a barrier against it. When he opened them again, his gaze was clouded, his voice lower, rougher, laden with the weight of that moment: "He wasn't standing anymore… he was suspended. As if the world itself had stopped spinning. All that rage, all that will… shattered with the blade. He held the broken hilt… and he trembled. Not from exhaustion… but from emptiness. As though his very soul had been torn from him with that metallic crack."

He paused, searching for words worthy of describing the void he had seen: "And he looked at the wreckage in his hand… but he wasn't looking at broken steel. He was staring at a future that had ended. At his family's pride, at the symbol of his strength, at everything he had trained for… lying in the dirt. And Arthur's gaze upon him… was cold. No contempt, no pity, no triumph. Only… completion. As though watching a calculation resolve to its correct answer."

Aqua's voice had dwindled to almost a whisper, filled with awe, respect, and horror entwined: "Then Arthur turned. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence was the final blow. And he walked away. Leaving Timothy alone in the center of the arena… a wolf who had lost not just a battle, but the reason for his existence. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just stood there, holding the corpse of his dream in his hands, while the crowd's cheers faded into meaningless noise. He had been defeated before them all, but the real defeat was happening inside… in that unbearable silence."

When Aqua finished, silence lingered heavy for several breaths. Newt did not move, his piercing eyes fixed on the boy drained by the telling of the memory. The air around them was cold, but the weight of Newt's silence was colder still.

Instead of stretching his back or making a sound, Newt raised his hand very slowly. He let his fingers trace the rim of the cold coffee cup, then lifted his gaze to meet Aqua's. His eyes reflected not only the candlelight but depths of countless experiences.

When he spoke, his voice was not loud, but it cut through the cold night like a diamond blade—clear, sharp, piercing to the soul.

Newt: "This… is the difference you still don't understand. You and Timothy… you fight for the past. For the image of a wolf, or to chase the shadow of a raven. But Arthur… no." He turned his eyes to the horizon, where the first stars glimmered. "He doesn't fight to prove anything. He fights because he is stripped bare. For him, fighting is like breathing. He doesn't think about it. He doesn't doubt it. He simply does it. With every ounce of efficiency and cruelty possible. No hatred, no anger, no pride. Only… result."

He took the last sip of coffee, set the cup on the ground: "Timothy lost because he wanted to tame the beast inside him. Arthur won because he surrendered to it. There is no glory in that. No honor. It is… dull. And terrifying. And absolute in its effectiveness."

Suddenly, he stood, his shadow engulfing Aqua as he sat: "The cold you asked about… this is the true cold. Not snow against the skin, but the void in the heart. The chill of one who doesn't fight for fire inside him, but because there is nothing else to do. Now, go to sleep. And when you wake, ask yourself… do you want to be the brave wolf who dies in the arena of glory… or the raven, cold, who knows nothing of death because he knows nothing of life? The choice, boy, is the hell you choose to live in."

Newt gave a final nod of farewell, believing the session ended. But before his second foot touched the ground, Aqua's voice broke through behind him, muffled yet sharp as glass shattering in the night.

Aqua: "Nine…"

Newt's foot froze mid-step. It wasn't the number that stunned him, but the tone behind it. Slowly, he turned, as if the world itself had slowed. His narrowed eyes caught Aqua in the shadows: head lowered slightly, shoulders drawn back, fingers gripping the abandoned cup of coffee until it seemed ready to crack.

In a silence that pierced the ears, Aqua lifted his head. His gaze was direct, sharp, filled with a storm of humiliation, curiosity, and suppressed fury. His voice rose a pitch, laced with bitter defiance: "I… lost to him… in only nine moves."

The words were not confession, but accusation—hurled at the universe itself. He wasn't saying he beat me; he was saying nine moves, as though trying to comprehend how his entire being had been dismantled within so small a space of time.

Newt stood silent. All the advice and wisdom he had offered through the night seemed suddenly pale against this raw, blinding truth. The game had changed. The master was no longer instructing the student—the student had laid down a tangible riddle and demanded an answer.

Newt studied him, then spoke quietly, rationally: "He's four years older than you…"

It wasn't dismissal, but an attempt to frame the loss logically, to calm Aqua's fury. But he miscalculated. This wasn't a passing tantrum—this was awakening.

Aqua erupted, his voice like fire consuming dry wood: "Older than me, older than me!! So what—should I surrender to my death just because my enemy is a few years older!?"

Newt fell silent as he watched all his words of "clarity" and "fighting to survive" transform into fuel for Aqua's blaze. He hadn't absorbed them as a student… he had stored them as a warrior building an arsenal. Before Newt could respond, Aqua cut in, his tone sharp, rising as he stood: "Didn't you tell me! Didn't you tell me I have talent! You said my talent was the greatest you had ever seen!!"

When Newt finally spoke, his voice was no longer sharp or condescending. It carried the scar of something old, aged like wine mixed with bitterness and wisdom. He wasn't addressing a boy now, but a potential equal—one just beginning to understand the cost of stepping into the real world.

His voice was deep, like the rumble of the earth: "Talent… is the sword." He paused, letting the word echo. "But experience is the arm that lifts it, the eye that aims it, the heart that does not flinch when the enemy's blade gleams before you." He stepped closer, until only a hand's breadth separated them. "You have the sword. But Arthur… he forged himself in battle until he became the arm, the eye, the heart. Experience isn't waiting for years to pass. It's destroying yourself every day in the training ground to rebuild something stronger from the ashes. Do you do that? Or are you waiting for talent to descend from the heavens and save you?"

He placed his hand on Aqua's shoulder—not in comfort, but with the weight of challenge:

"Now… decide. Either surrender to your anger and curse 'age'… or go now, train until you bleed, until you forget the meaning of 'sleep,' until your skin splits on the sword's hilt and becomes one with it. Because Arthur didn't just have four more years… he lived them as if every day were his last battle."

Newt withdrew his hand, turned to leave, but his final words hung in the air like mist:

"The difference isn't four years… the difference is four years of what."

The cold morning cast pale golden rays across the ancient stone walls of the castle, defying the heavy winter fog drifting like phantoms over the frozen fields. Marquis Newt Nightover stood at the outer threshold of the main gate, his breath rising in frosty clouds. He wore a coat of blue leather over his black shirt, but the chill cut deeper than cloth—it was not the cold of weather, but of the looming unknown.

Newt: "You're telling me the First, Second, and Third Divisions are all marching here!?" His voice cracked like a blade across ice.

The scout before him trembled—not from the frost, but from the tone he had never heard from the marquis before. It carried suspicion and a hidden threat. "Yes… my lord… we saw them from the hills…"

Newt: "What happened in the northwest that made them abandon their posts completely all of a sudden?!"

Newt's sharp eyes pierced like twin arrows into the terrified man's heart.

The man swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I… I swear I don't know, my lord… but they were riding their horses as if the demons of hell were chasing them. They might arrive just before midday…"

Newt froze in place for a moment, like a statue of ice in the pale dawn light. The wind lashed at his silver hair, yet it could not move that frozen aura. His eyes, like shards of ice in a winter's night, narrowed slowly, and one could see his pupils contract like a cat sensing danger before it appears.

His gloved fingers curled inward, the faint rasp of leather against leather sounding like the grinding of teeth. The black gloves were not mere protection; they were part of his legend. Dark, devouring, swallowing the light around them—just as he devoured any threat to his kingdom.

He raised his arm with deliberate grandeur, not as a passing signal, but as a decisive, fatal gesture. His arm stiffened like a column of obsidian, each muscle drawn taut like the string of a colossal bow. His gloved forefinger pointed toward the guards on the walls, yet it seemed to point at their very fates.

When his voice rang out, it did not sound like his usual tone. It was sharp, yes—but also low, clear, and cutting through the roar of the wind like the whistle of a blade before it strikes.

Newt: "Prepare!"

He paused for a second, allowing the word to settle in their minds and hearts like poison. Then he continued, his tone dropping a degree, heavier, more threatening—each syllable coated in frost.

Newt: "Trust no one… not even your own shadow!"

The guards upon the walls did not merely move—they stiffened for a heartbeat, their eyes widening slightly, before they erupted into disciplined motion, like one vast machine. The clash of armor and steel that followed was not chaos—it was the sound of mortal readiness, a single note of steel and resolve spreading through the stone walls of the fortress.

Newt lowered his hand slowly, but his gaze remained fixed on the horizon, as if he could already see the oncoming tide. A cold sigh drifted past his lips, turning into a small cloud in the frozen air—the only sign that inside this icy commander, there was still a man who worried.

Two hours of oppressive silence passed, broken only by the clatter of weapons and the nervous whispers of the guards. Then, just as the scout had foretold, the earth began to tremble.

It was not distant thunder. It was a rising roar, crawling from the horizon. And then they appeared.

Exhausted horses, their breaths spilling like fiery clouds into the frozen air. Knights in dust-caked armor, some shattered, their faces hidden beneath their helms—but the eyes beneath those helms told a story no words were needed to tell.

This was no ordinary retreat. It was an orderly but desperate withdrawal, like an army racing against a flood they knew could not be stopped.

The horses slowed as they beheld the marquis standing tall as stone, surrounded by men whose faces formed a wall of iron and suspicion.

The commander of the First Division, Daleros Yorfeth, dismounted from his staggering horse, which nearly collapsed from exhaustion. His steps were heavy, stumbling, as he moved toward Newt. He swayed like a drunkard, though he was not drunk—he was intoxicated with fear.

"My lord!!!" His voice was hoarse, mingled with the ragged breath of the wounded.

Newt did not wait. He surged forward violently, seizing Daleros by the collar of his armor with iron hands, shaking him as one might shake a tree for its fruit.

Newt: "Pull yourself together, commander! Tell me what brings you here in this state!?"

Daleros lifted his eyes—bloodshot, weary, drowning in shame and terror. His mouth hung open, but words caught in his throat. At last, after several failed attempts, the words burst forth like bullets:

"They… my lord… they are not a raid… not an army… they are a flood!!"

Silence.

Then, summoning the last of his strength, he shouted what he had been holding back:

"The Kingdom of Evalin—and the Kingdom of Nightforce! They have allied! One hundred and eighty ships row like beasts toward our northwestern borders!!"

In that instant…

The sound of the world vanished.

A silence heavier, colder, harsher than any winter frost fell. No clashing steel, no whisper, not even breath. All froze in place.

Newt's eyes… widened. Not with ordinary shock—but with the knowledge that the catastrophe was far beyond any preparation. His gaze shifted from Daleros to the northwestern horizon, as though he could see the fleets across hundreds of miles. He was staring at the end of his world, at a dream shattering, at the borders of his empire collapsing beneath the relentless stroke of oars.

Around him, hardened warriors blanched. Some hands trembled upon their sword hilts. Others closed their eyes, as though preparing for a final prayer.

The only sound left was the wail of the cold wind brushing against their faces, as if mourning what was to come. Even the horses stood still, as if they too knew the world they had known was about to end.

Newt spoke no word. But the hand clutching Daleros's collar slackened and fell to his side. In his eyes, a storm of visions raged: fortresses falling, cities ablaze, the screams of women and children, the banners of the invading kingdoms fluttering over the ruins of his empire.

This was the moment when even the strongest of men realize—there are storms no fortress can withstand.

Newt stood like a statue of frost. The shouts of his guards, the neighing of distant horses, blurred into a distant hum in his ears. The whole world dissolved into a whirl of chaos—until, in the corner of his eye, he saw something that froze the blood in his veins.

There, beyond the frosted glass of the high window in the castle, shadows moved in the grand dining hall. His niece lifted a goblet of grape juice like wine as she laughed, her soft laughter piercing the glass like the stab of knives. The heir of their house, his only pupil, swung his sword in the courtyard. His brother's wife reclined peacefully in her chair, serene in her belief that the castle's walls were unbreakable.

For a heartbeat, Newt's heart stopped. He saw everything as if in a dream. A reel of memories flashed before his eyes: promises made to protect them, oaths sworn at his father's grave, years of building, of sacrifice—all about to be shattered in a storm of fire and iron.

Then, like lightning, he saw him: Ser Valco Nightover, the old man who had been the family's shield, standing behind them. Valco's weary, grim eyes widened in horror, his pale face turning ashen. He had heard everything.

Newt moved before he could think. His body surged forward like an arrow, brushing aside barriers and guards in his path. Each step felt like a dream, his breath roaring in his ears like a storm.

He reached him, seizing the shoulders of the old man's worn cloak with an iron grip. His fingers trembled with the force, but his voice, when it came, was sharp as a blade and steady as stone.

Newt, in a low, bone-piercing tone: "Ser Valco! Listen to me carefully! Take them… and leave!"

Valco raised his head slowly, his sunken eyes drowning in a sea of shock and denial. His lips trembled, struggling to shape the word "What?" But Newt gave him no chance.

He shook him violently, as though to wake him from a nightmare. His voice now carried rage, terror, and the unyielding force of command.

Newt, roaring low: "Go, damn you! Take them and run! Now! No questions! No hesitation! No looking back! Just make them disappear! Do you understand me!?"

Ser Valco Nightover, who had earned his name after the "Second Blood" law was adopted ten years ago…

In the gilded throne hall, King Theodron Nevarin, the seventh ruler of Arcadia, had agreed to a proposal that would change the course of history. Earl Secron Windsword was the first to establish the new system. He stood before his loyal vassal, "Arden the One-Eyed."

Arden's hand was still stained with the blood of the Battle of the Blind Honor Valley, where he had defended his lord's back with his sword and lost his right eye in order to preserve the family's honor. The blood had dried, but the wound still bled with dignity.

Earl Secron raised a ruby-studded wine cup, his voice thundering like a storm: "From this moment, you shall no longer be Arden the One-Eyed… but Arden Windsword. My family's name shall cloak yours, like an eagle covering its young with its wings."

A heavy silence fell. Even the breeze seemed to pause, unwilling to stir the luxurious carpets.

Then… the wine cup shattered on the white marble—a resounding crack like an unwritten declaration: "A branch family is born."

The second name was not merely a title, but a part of the family's soul.

It was granted only when a vassal spilled his blood in defense of the lord's honor, or when he proved his loyalty and worthiness by earning it.

The rituals differed between families: the Windswords broke a cup as a symbol of breaking the barriers between classes; the Vanheims made the adopted drink from a cup mixed with the lord's blood.

Power and restrictions. What the adopted gained: the right to bear the family crest on their armor, to be buried in the family tomb—a greater honor than kingship—and to pass the name to their descendants, but only under continuous loyalty.

What they did not gain… they would only inherit by a special decree, rare as an eclipse. If a direct heir existed, even an infant, the branch family's rights were voided.

Branch families were ghosts in the mansions of the great… respected outwardly, yet true nobles regarded them as imported blood.

It was… a false hope offered to loyal vassals, as if the lord said: "You are part of us… but do not forget your true place."

Branch families were like ornamental trees… beautiful in the halls, but their roots never reached the earth's depth.

When the name was granted, the dragon that would watch over its new throne was born… even without sitting upon it.

—Marquees Leon Saifer, during the execution of Ser Edgar Saifer, the knight who dared to dream of the family seat after the death of Marquees Henry Saifer.

In the Fox Court Hall, where sakura petals fell from high windows like suspended decrees, Marquees Leon Saifer, a boy no older than twenty, stood upon the gilded execution platform. Beneath him, Ser Edgar Saifer—the knight whose name "Saifer" had been granted by the previous Marquees after the Battle of the Bloody Hills—lifted his tortured face toward the executioner's sword.

"Behold…" Leon roared as the blade descended, "this is what happens to a dragon when it forgets it is merely a guardian of the nest… not its owner."

In Frostnov, Ser Valco Nightover stood at the frosted window of the Knights' Hall, his hand touching the brass emblem on his chest—the Nightover family crest he bore after the Battle of the Snowy Mountain.

He remembered that day. "You are not our blood… but your name shall be your shield," Loriana had whispered to him, wrapping his wound with a blue sail... and now, more than ten years later, the sail had become a banner.

Ser Valco stood rooted for a heartbeat, as if his very bones were frozen into the ground. Then, as if a hidden weight pressed upon his head, he closed his eyes. His gnarled hands clenched until the knuckles whitened. When he opened his eyes again, the shock was gone—replaced by a cold, iron resolve. He bowed his head once, burdened as though carrying the world upon his shoulders, then turned and rushed toward the castle with astonishing speed for a man his age.

Newt remained, his breath spilling into the frozen air like that of a wounded dragon. The wind lashed his face, but he no longer felt the cold. All he felt was the vast emptiness left by his decision—as if he had cut a piece of his soul away and sent it off.

One of the reconnaissance captains approached him, pale-faced, his voice trembling as he asked: "What do we do now, my lord?"

Newt looked down at the snow, where Valco's footsteps vanished into the castle. Then he slowly raised his head. His eyes no longer reflected doubt or fear, but the tempered steel of iron forged in fire, quenched in ice.

Newt, quiet, but cutting the air like a blade: "We stay… and we fight."

The words fell into the silence like stones into a deep well. Yet they did not vanish—they echoed in the hearts of all who heard them, transforming into a sacred vow that each one of them wrote with their blood, even before it was spilled.

The carriage jolted along the rough road, its wooden frame groaning under the weight of silence inside—heavier than that of its passengers. Outside, the dense pine forests loomed like white, snow-clad walls, their tangled branches stretching like the hands of phantoms trying to seize them.

Aqua sat by the window, his eyes fixed on the horizon where Wintersoul Castle vanished behind bends and hills. Each mile they put between themselves and it felt like a knife driven deeper into his back. His hands clenched tightly on his knees, his fingers pale from the pressure of his grip.

Aqua, his voice breaking like glass in the silence: "Ser Valco… if you do not tell me why we are leaving, I will get out and return there to find out for myself."

Before he could move, a hand shot out from the opposite seat. His mother, Loriana. Her cold fingers closed around his wrist with startling strength. Her head remained lowered, long strands of silver hair hiding her face, but her voice came out calm, sharp, laced with a hidden threat.

Loriana: "Aqua!… We… are going home. We will not ask… we must not ask… questions will not save us…"

Aqua tried to free his hand, but suddenly stopped. Beneath her hair, he glimpsed a tear fall onto her lap, vanishing into the fabric of her blue dress. She was not weeping, yet the tears slipped free as though they had broken past her will. In that moment, he understood. He understood that his mother knew what was happening… and that questions would not bring answers—only disaster.

On the front seat, little Ariana lifted her head in innocence, her blue eyes asking without words. Ser Valco sat at the driver's bench, his back as straight as iron, yet his shoulders bent under a weight none but he could see. His hands gripped the reins firmly, but his eyes did not see the road ahead. They gazed instead into memories of a long life about to be erased. He was not merely driving a carriage—he was guiding the last remnant of House Nightover's honor.

Then came the wind. It rose suddenly, carrying with it a strange, tainted scent… the stench of burning blood, mixed with ash and snow. Everyone inside the carriage froze. Even Ariana stopped playing, her small nose wrinkling at the acrid smell.

The carriage moved on, but something inside had broken. The silence was no longer one of uncertainty, but of submission to a fated doom. And fear was no longer of the unknown, but terror of a truth revealed through the northern wind that bore the dirge of Wintersoul.

Wintersoul – In the Heart of the Town

The moon hung in the sky like a pale shard of silver, casting its wan light upon the towers of Wintersoul, which stood like ghosts awaiting their fate. The wind howled through the valleys encircling the castle, carrying whispers of the death to come.

Then, as though the darkness itself had begun to move, armies appeared on the surrounding hills. Tens of thousands of warriors, their dark armor swallowing the moonlight, advanced like a black tide. The whistle of arrows was the first to rise, a lethal swarm filling the skies, turning the moon into nothing more than a silent witness to the massacre.

But Newt Nightover did not flee. He did not retreat, nor did he hide behind walls. He stood like a mountain before the storm, near his Frostflame Keep—a castle white as snow, its edges glowing red as embers. A castle destined to be the final bastion of resistance.

Newt prepared his army as a corpse is prepared for burial. His face bore no trace of hope, only a resolve as cold as the frost gnawing at his soldiers' bones.

He knew the land as he knew his own body—every slope a scar, every hill an old wound unhealed. He chose to fight here… where death came swifter, but fairer.

The invading armies reached the outskirts of Wintersoul, and battle erupted. A battle that would later be remembered by the name born from its master: "The Red Ice." For here there was no line between land and lord, nor between the clash and its blood.

The cold did not seep into the soldiers' bones as a passing guest—but as a final verdict. Hundreds fell, not by the blade, but by the slow death of blood frozen in their hearts. And still they fought on, driven not by the promise of glory, but by the knowledge that death was kinder than flight. Every step devoured their souls more than their flesh. And when the clash was joined… Newt was no knight—he was a curse walking on two feet.

Clad in blackened armor streaked with crimson lines, he seemed a nightmare of steel, unbearable to gaze upon. His blue cloak, stained with snow and blood, flared against the wind like an impossible wish.

He fought not as one born to live, but as one forged to avenge. Every strike of his blade was a buried scream, every drop of his blood another line written into his black annals.

His enemies came like waves of the sea—endless, unafraid of blood, tireless among corpses. He cut down ten, and twenty more surged forward. He shattered faces, and faceless others rose in their place—creatures made, it seemed, only to be slain.

The battle was not a fight. It was an organized slaughter. Newt's men fought with the ferocity of the desperate, but the numbers were overwhelming. Blood defiled the snow, turning it into a dark red mire beneath the feet of dead and living alike.

And with every passing minute, Newt paid in flesh: a dislocated knee, a shoulder gone limp, a deep wound in his side, an eye dimming into darkness.

And yet… he stood. Not because his body held him, but because his hatred did.

Every knight who faced him saw his torment before they saw his sword. In his eyes there was no flame—only a killing frost, as though winter itself had taken root within him. They fell, not from weakness, but because they glimpsed what should not be seen: a man who had died long ago, yet whose body refused to learn it.

Newt swung his heavy sword as though wielding an inescapable fate. Each strike carried the weight of a fallen city, each step made the earth groan.

Firesong—his blade, bound to his hand as hatred is bound to the heart—did not merely carve flesh; it severed memories and ambitions.

It was no dead piece of steel, but a shard of night haunted by the ghosts of the past. Its black blade devoured light as a forest swallows the voice of a stranger, its rough engravings like the fangs of a mythical beast—each groove the story of a killing blow. Its hilt was like a frozen heart, pulsing with a crimson jewel—"the last drop of blood"—suspended in the chest of a demon.

And when Newt drove Firesong through the skull of the seasoned knight, Ser Cassian Lafaros, it tore through the silence of history.

The sound of blood was no harsher than the breaking of a dream in that instant. Cassian—celebrated in the military academies as the symbol of Evalin's future command, destined to lead its First Division—fell as though he had never been born.

He fell with his face to the sky, his eyes not on Newt, but on the dream vanishing before him. And in the next breath, Newt turned to his next foe, his steps no longer human.

He walked not upon soil, but upon the ruins of his world. He cut one man's leg at the knee, felling his soul before his body. He rammed his sword through another's mouth, the blade bursting from the back of his skull, tangled with sweat-drenched hair and blood, flying in the air like raven's feathers.

Every corpse he left behind was a broken poem, an unfinished verse in epics that would never be sung. But Newt was not their poet—he was their end.

He was all that remained of justice in a battle that had forgotten its meaning.

He swung his blackened sword as though tearing the night itself. He circled his foe, then descended upon him like an eagle, driving the blade through his throat and upward, letting his last breath dissolve into the wind.

When three surrounded him, he spun in a half-circle leap, the crimson jewel of his blade flashing, cutting the windpipe of the first—his blood exploding across the second's face—before piercing the chest of the third, silencing his terror before it reached his lips.

But his enemies were not men—they were waves. For every line that fell, another rose… and another.

And suddenly—time betrayed the moment—Newt stopped. The fear of every knight came true.

Before his eyes, his comrades were falling. One by one, in silence more painful than screams. The smoke of their last breaths rose into the winter air. The white snow was stained—not red, but a color darker than death.

Newt, the Red Snow—refused to fall. He refused to let go of his sword, his hand clinging to it like stone, his fingers gripping it as a drowning man grips wreckage. He stood like the last sentinel of a crumbling fortress, his body collapsing stone by stone, mirroring the downfall of the world itself.

Then…

Time froze, as it does on the threshold of death. Newt was not merely fighting—he was dying on his feet, slowly, not in pity but in terror.

His trembling arms barely held the sword, every nerve screaming, the steel he had raised for decades now weighing upon him like a mountain over a grave. His sword shook in his grip—not from fear, but from the bleeding away of strength, the suicide of will at the edge of resolve. His veins bulged as if ready to burst, blood itself growing impatient within them.

Half his face was drowned in blood—dark, hot, pouring from a deep wound across his brow, left by Cassian's blade minutes before. The other half was buried in frost, the cold biting into his skin like knives.

His face was a war unto itself—the struggle of fire and ice, of blood and silence. And any who looked upon him wondered: "Is this a man dying…?"

He remained standing. But his body no longer moved. His commands no longer reached his limbs. Everything had ceased to obey—save his heart. That heart still beat, not for life, but for defiance.

His eyes… saw nothing. All became mist, rising from within him rather than from the sky.

Then…

A sword pierced his side. He did not feel its entry—he only saw his body shudder, as though something had torn within his soul, not his flesh.

Another sword drove into his back—slowly, not to kill, but to torment.

Then three more… three blades ripping through his insides at once, merciless, commanding him to fall.

His mouth filled with blood—hot, bitter as a scream—but his eyes shed no tears. Even grief had abandoned him.

His body swayed like one without bones, barely held by the storm itself. His blood poured upon the snow like a river, staining its whiteness red, sowing death into its frozen soil.

And still…

He stood.

No one understood why.

Not even he.

He did not kneel. He did not fall.

He simply… remained.

As though his body refused to grant his enemies the triumph of his collapse. As though his death itself was defiance, his stance the last sword he raised.

Then, before him… appeared Duke Yorgoth Rakalion.

A warrior of Evalin—one of its fiercest and deadliest. He stood before Newt, proud of his victory, savoring his last step toward glory. Yet something in Newt's eyes robbed him of a smile… "Why does this man still stand?"

Yorgoth could not endure the defiance of a man barely breathing. He kicked him—brutally—against the trunk of a tree that had once been the heart of the town. But when he looked at Newt… there was still that faint smile upon his lips.

The duke had no choice but to drive his sword… into Newt's heart.

And so… the Red Snow ended.

As for Frostnov… it bore witness to a tragedy greater than the loss of villages or lands—

It bore the ruin of the province's very jewel.

Frostnov – Everwinter Palace

A day had passed since their departure from Wintersoul. When the carriage reached Everwinter Palace, Duchess Loriana Nightover descended with heavy steps, breathing slowly as if searching for some calm amid the storm. She stood before Ser Valco, then spoke with a voice that tried to hide the trembling of her heart:

"I shall go to the Snowflower Castle… perhaps the tightness in my chest will ease if I rest for a while in my mother's garden."

Valco lowered his head, then answered seriously:

"That will be safer, my lady… for the palace would be their destination if they tried to reach this place."

She nodded faintly, drawing a fragment of reassurance from his words… but it lasted no more than a moment.

For when she turned to call for Aqua, her eyes widened in sudden horror—

He was not there.

The boy had vanished.

And the scene grew only harsher when they realized that one of the horses had been unfastened from the carriage and had bolted madly down the road.

A full day and several hours had passed since Aqua had set off, and the cold had not left his body since that moment. His fingers were stiff on the reins, his eyes red from sleeplessness, his body exhausted as though every step the horse took from the earth carved away a year of his life. He did not know how to describe what was within him… except that he felt like a child cast into a dark sea, not knowing whether he would float or drown.

The journey to the town was no ordinary journey. Every stone on the road, every broken branch of a tree, foretold that the world had been turned upside down. But Aqua, with the heart of a youth who had not yet known the true ugliness of the world, kept driving his horse forward, each step bringing him closer to a truth that would shatter his innocence forever.

Silence was the first thing that struck him. Not the silence of peace or tranquility, but a heavy, suffocating silence, as though the universe had held its breath in fear of disturbing the dead. Even the rustle of dead leaves sounded like a scream in that terrifying quiet.

Then came the smell. It was not the smell of death he knew from the corpses of animals in the forest. It was a smell more complex, more wicked.

The stench of burnt human flesh mixed with the odor of rusty iron and horse dung. A stench that pierced his nose and coiled around his throat as though choking him with an invisible hand.

The horse began to fidget, its breathing growing ragged, its eyes showing the whites of fear. But Aqua, with a passion of madness and terror mingled together, kept pushing the frightened animal forward.

Then he saw the wall. It was not the wall he knew. It was a painting of diabolic art. Brownish-red stains dripping with frozen streaks, as though the wall itself bled. Children's chalk drawings—flowers, a sun—defiled beneath a layer of dried blood.

His gaze slid downward. There, between the stones, it lay. Not merely a corpse, but the very idea of death embodied. Her glassy eyes wide open to the sky in silent astonishment, as though in her final moment she could not believe what had happened. Her small hand, which should have held a doll or a flower, was stretched out in a final gesture of pleading, the fingers stiff in an eternal grasp.

The road resembled entry into a slow nightmare. Each step of the horse thudded dully against soil saturated with a strange dampness, as though the ground itself bled beneath its hooves. There were no birds singing, no insects buzzing, only the sinister whisper of the wind carrying with it an omen of horror.

At first, it was only a strange color on the trunk of a tree at the town's entrance. A brownish-red shade, dry and cracked like old crust. Then it became a smell. Not the smell of ordinary death, but a sweet, foul heaviness that clung to the back of the throat like an oily, malignant liquid.

Then the shapes appeared.

First, just a strange heap near the well. As he drew closer, the heap became a body. It was old mad Matthew, the well's keeper, sitting as he always did—except his head was tilted back at an unnatural angle, and his glassy eyes followed the clouds of the sky with dead interest. In his hand was no bucket of water, but a small kitchen knife, still gripped as though he had tried to defend the well to his last breath.

The horse whinnied softly, its breath quickening. But Aqua, with a trembling hand, urged it on.

The second was a little girl. He did not recognize her at first, for half her face was gone. But he knew the faded blue dress—it was the same one Lilith, the butcher's daughter, always wore as she played with flowers. She lay on the roadside, her small hand stretched as though touching the petals of an invisible flower.

The third was her dog. Stretched beside her, its belly torn open, yet its head rested upon her tiny shoe as it had always done when it slept.

Aqua stopped counting after that.

The fifth, the tenth, the fiftieth… They were no longer separate corpses, but a single fabric of death. Bodies piled in alleys, sprawled upon thresholds, hung upon the walls. Some mutilated beyond knowing whether they were man, woman, or child. The blood was no longer fluid, but a viscous layer coating everything, glimmering under the cold moonlight like diabolic ice.

His horse was now moving through narrow lanes, its hooves sinking into a white ground that had once been snowy earth, now turned into a mixture of clotted blood and filth. Aqua no longer controlled it. He sat stiff in the saddle, his eyes unblinking, witnessing a scene no human mind could comprehend. Every dead face opened a window to the past: a smile, an anger, a fleeting moment. Now all that remained was silence.

Then he reached the main square.

And there… time stopped.

It was no square. It was an altar.

Bodies heaped like human firewood—hundreds, perhaps thousands—thrown atop one another in a vast pile. Outstretched arms, broken legs, nameless faces staring skyward in dreadful silence. At the mound's heart rose a tall column of black smoke, still curling upward, as though the town's very heart had burned and still groaned.

The stench here was different. The smell of roasted flesh mixed with burning hair and glowing iron. A smell that stung the nose and brought tears to the eyes at once.

Aqua felt as though a hot blade had pierced his stomach. He bent forward suddenly and vomited. There was no food, only a bitter yellow fluid. Yet the vomiting did not stop. He retched until nothing remained, then his body kept convulsing as though trying to expel the horror itself from his insides.

Tears streamed down his face unbidden, mingling with the bile upon his chest. But his horse, maddened by the stench and terror, continued plodding slowly through the square of death, as though walking in a funeral procession for masters it had never known.

And in that moment, as he vomited and trembled atop his horse, while his eyes beheld hell itself before him, Aqua understood one thing:

Death is not the end. The end is to remain alive in a world that has become a graveyard.

The air still carried their echoes.

Not mere memories. Ghostly voices that hunted him among the corpses.

The booming laugh of Jarom, who had always filled the square with his roaring joy as he lifted a barrel of ale like a feather… now his crushed body beneath the wheels of his broken cart, his chest collapsed, yet his mouth still frozen open in that last laugh, as though death had struck him mid-merriment.

The soft whisper of Serena, which had passed from ear to ear like a magical spell as she sold the town's news along with her bouquets… now her throat slit, her flowers scattered and trampled in her own blood, as though silence itself had sought to strangle all her secrets forever.

The defiant gaze of Droxi, who had always stood at the town's gate as though he were invincible, his eyes never wavering from challenge… now those same eyes wide open in the final shock of what they had seen, a spear still lodged in his chest, his hands still clenched as though ready for battle.

His memory did not recall them… he heard them.

Jarom's laughter blending with the wind howling through his broken skull.

Serena's whisper mingling with the buzzing flies swarming her corpse.

Droxi's commanding shouts turning into the creak of an old drainpipe rattling in the wind.

Now all that remained was a speaking silence.

A silence that screamed louder than any laughter.

A silence that carried whispers more terrifying than any secret.

A silence in which gazes froze forever, turning into riddles with no solution.

The vast emptiness that filled the place… was no emptiness.

It was filled with their absence.

A weight of nonexistence, heavier than all the corpses combined.

It carved a void in the shape of everyone who should have been there, crying out in silence for every word unsaid, every laugh never to be laughed again.

The horse finally stopped, refusing to go any further. It trembled like a leaf in the wind. Aqua did not force it. He himself had turned into a statue of terror. His hands shook on the reins, and his teeth chattered—not from the cold of the weather, but from the cold of despair that pierced his bones.

In that moment, as he stood in the midst of the kingdom of the dead, Aqua was being reborn. Not as a young man, but as an angry, grieving, shattered witness. A child had died, and in his place stood a man who had never chosen to be born, his eyes staring into hell and accepting that it had become his new home.

And as the horse stepped forward through that sea… Aqua felt that every step was a betrayal. As if he were trampling upon souls that knew him, calling out to him… but he could not answer.

He raised his head slowly. The sky above was a pale gray, with neither sun nor moon… only a heavy shroud of clouds, like a burial cloth hung over the town.

He murmured in a hoarse voice, barely leaving his throat: "Uncle… please… be safe…"

Aqua dismounted his horse, his feet sinking for the first time into what seemed like snow… but it was not white. It was snow stained with crimson, snow soaked in blood that had not yet dried.

His heart stopped for a moment, and his eyes wandered as though he were walking inside a heavy dream.

Then, his gaze moved slowly, as if his eyes were being dragged by force to the right… where Frostflame Castle stood—the castle that had towered for decades, a symbol of the town and its pride.

But nothing of its majesty remained except the blaze of fire; an entire castle collapsing under hungry tongues of flame, its walls screaming in their burning, its windows weeping falling embers.

Here, Aqua's body no longer obeyed him. He fell to his knees, his legs trembling like a child who had not yet learned to walk. His eyes widened at a sight his mind refused to believe, clinging desperately inside to a hopeless dream that this was only an illusion, a nightmare from which he would soon awaken.

But… the biting cold stinging his skin, and the stench of burning flesh choking his chest, confirmed to him that this was no dream.

This was reality.

Reality… where there was no longer any place for something called "home."

Then…

When his eyes shifted to the heart of the town, to the great tree—the tree that had once been Wintersole's pride and its symbol of immortality—he felt as though a strange voice whispered within him, urging him to walk toward it.

His steps were heavy, as though the ground itself resisted him, yet his heart pounded wildly, and the closer he drew, the louder the whisper inside him became. A whisper he could not understand… but he knew it was leading him to the truth.

And when he reached the shadow of the tree… he saw him.

There… leaning against its trunk, his torn body bled until the snow around him had turned into a river of frozen blood… was Marquees Newt Nightover.

His head slumped against his shoulder, his eyes half-open as if still watching over the town even after his heartbeat had faded. The falling snow covered parts of his body, like a cold shroud drawn over the last remnants of his pride.

Time stopped.

Aqua no longer heard the wind, nor the clash of flames behind him. Everything shrank, suddenly, into that lifeless body beneath the tree.

His knees gave way beneath him, and he felt as though the earth had swallowed him whole. His eyes welled with tears, but he could not weep… the shock was greater than tears.

In that moment… the world Aqua had known collapsed.

It collapsed all at once—without return.