The cold broke first.
Not by wind.
Not by the whisper of trees.
But by the shriek of metal cleaving through air.
The abandoned watchtower loomed like a tombstone for the past, towering above a forest of pale silence. Snow had settled deep upon its crumbling stones, veiling empty windows like blind eyes watching the world without seeing.
For a heartbeat—
only the heavy breaths of the two hundred assembled soldiers could be heard, mixed with the rhythm of snowflakes landing upon their pauldrons.
Then—
the tower screamed.
Figures in shadow-black cloaks vaulted from its weak battlements.
Fifteen men—gaunt, eyes feral from nights in hiding—descended upon the Vanhart force like birds steeped in hunger. Blades glinted briefly beneath sunlight, then vanished in blur.
Their war cry tore through stillness—
"KILL THEM!"
Snow erupted.
The First Clash
Vanhart spears crossed in instant formation.
Arrows sang from the rear ranks.
The air filled with the song of grating steel.
Kel did not move immediately.
He stood at the center of the storm, boots half-buried in snow, watching how blood struck white earth like red ink upon parchment.
Reina unsheathed her sword, carving an arc above her head, intercepting a descending blade before it could reach Kel. Sparks flared; her expression never broke.
Landon drew his bow in silence—no hesitation—and three arrows loosed in the span of one breath.
Three men fell.
Snow caught them.
Held them.
Silence did not return.
The Advance
Kel began to walk.
Through shrieks.
Through breaking bone.
Through the impact of steel upon steel.
Not fast.
Not hesitant.
Calmly.
Count Vanhart and Viscount Malloren followed flanking him by two steps, as though their roles were carved into fate's script without rehearsal.
Their expressions were stern, yet neither gazed at the enemy.
Their eyes… fixed on Kel.
The Vanhart soldiers parted automatically, shielding their progress with fanatical devotion. Those who bled did so silently. Those who fell did so without slowing the march.
Kel's coat fluttered with each breeze of steel.
His shadow lengthened across the snow, trailing toward the tower like darkness reclaiming its source.
Battle in the Snow
A soldier near the front was thrown backward, striking the ground beside them, blood staining his breath. Kel's steps slowed only enough to place two fingers on the dying man's armor.
A silent acknowledgement.
Then he rose.
Without breaking pace.
A cloaked attacker lunged toward him from the side.
Reina's blade pierced through the assailant's throat before Kel even tilted his head toward the movement. Her boots left no trace on the snow, as if even the ground obeyed her resolve to shield him.
Another rushed from behind.
Landon grabbed him by the neck and slammed him into the ice—no arrow used, only force.
Kel murmured, low, without looking back:
"…Leave unnecessary deaths."
Landon paused.
Then let the man collapse unconscious.
The battle raged around them.
But within the eye of it…
There was only a slow march.
Toward a door that led to consequence.
Sairen's voice whispered faintly in Kel's mind.
"Your calm… is reaching the edge."
Kel replied:
"Calm is simply silence between choices."
Rodrik's View (From Above)
Inside the watchtower's shattered upper level, Rodrik gripped the cold stone with whitening fingers.
He watched soldiers fall.
He watched snow bloom with blood.
But what rooted his breath—
Were the steps.
Slow.
Unwavering.
Toward him.
Kel von Rosenfeld.
A boy, Rodrik thought.
A boy walking through death like he's practiced it.
His heartbeat struck his ribs.
Hard.
Too hard.
For the first time since the day he drank the cursed potion—
He felt something beyond rage.
It pressed between his lungs.
Heavy.
Bound by truth.
Fear.
Not of death.
But of being judged.
The Final Stretch
Only three cloaked assailants remained on the ground.
One charged them in desperation.
Kel did not stop walking.
He simply extended his hand—two fingers tracing an invisible line.
A whisper of aura bled from his steps.
The man's blade shattered before touching him.
He collapsed, convulsing, breath trembling.
Reina's steps aligned with Kel's.
Landon's shadow stretched behind like a warning for all who dared follow.
Count and Viscount walked one step behind—leaders not marching to war, but escorting judgment.
The air grew colder as they approached the tower.
Soldiers formed a defensive ring.
Silence fell, save for soft groans of the wounded.
Snow continued falling.
Heavy.
Like the sky weeping for what must be done.
At the Foot of the Tower
Kel halted.
His hand lifted, dismissing further advance.
Thin frost lined his lashes.
He spoke.
Quietly.
"Reina."
She raised her blade.
"Landon."
He lowered his bow, drawing breath.
"Count. Viscount."
They stepped beside him.
This was not war.
This was verdict.
Kel raised his head.
His eyes—no longer shadowed, but cold steel beneath winter.
"Rodrik Vanhart," he said, voice carried by the wind.
"…present yourself."
Inside the Watchtower
Rodrik closed his eyes for one heartbeat.
Images flashed.
Blood on white ground.
A child crying.
A woman's letters never sent.
His own reflection—rotted by choices he once believed made for strength.
He stepped forward.
Snow gusted through broken stone.
Kel's eyes opened as Rodrik appeared at the tower entrance.
Not clad in combat gear.
Only in simple worn clothes.
His hands raised.
His voice rested on the fragile edge between arrogance and surrender.
"…Are you here to kill me?"
The wind held its breath.
Kel remained still.
Then—slowly—he walked forward.
Each step echoed across stone.
"I am here," Kel said, expression unreadable,
"to let you choose which end your name deserves."
The world fell silent.
The snow fell quietly.
And between the two…
One holding the blade of guilt.
The other carrying the weight of judgment—
The final act began.