The wind tasted of metal and snow.
Yoshiya pulled his boar-fur cloak tighter as he stood in the press of bodies, Omina's hand firm in his. They were just two more faces in the river of refugees—dirty, exhausted, their wedding clothes long since torn and mended into traveling gear. Behind them, the last of Ostoria's smoke still stained the northern sky. Before them, Eldoria rose from the mist like a mirage: warm stone walls, glowing pillars, a dome of light that seemed to push back the cold.
No one spoke. For hours they'd marched south through a landscape of frozen fields and shattered villages, watching children's cries fade into silence and adults' eyes grow hollow with loss. Now they stood at the gates of the only safe haven left in the known world, and still, hope felt like a lie they'd been taught to tell themselves.
Omina shifted beside him, her shoulders tensing as if she could feel the weight of every eye watching from the walls. Yoshiya knew what she was thinking—soldiers learn to read threats the way farmers read weather. Her hand drifted to the hilt of the short sword at her hip, then to the leather cord around her neck where a twisted piece of amber hung warm against her skin. The Berserk Necklace, a gift from an old healer in Orleaf. She'd never needed to use it. Not yet.
"The gates are opening," someone whispered in the crowd.
Yoshiya squinted against the glare of the pillars' light, his healer's eyes picking apart every detail. The massive doors swung inward with no sound, revealing six figures standing in the archway. Even from this distance, he could see their posture: relaxed, almost bored, as if the thousand refugees before them were no more significant than a flock of birds. One leaned against the gateframe with his hands in his pockets. Another flicked a coin into the air, catching it with a sharp snap of his fingers. A third stood so still he might have been carved from stone, his skull-mask tilted at an angle that sent a shiver down Yoshiya's spine.
Not soldiers, Yoshiya noted silently. Hunters.
Omina's grip on his hand tightened. Predators, her instincts screamed. Not hostile—not yet—but never mistake them for safe.
Then Yoshiya saw him.
Standing at the edge of the group, slightly apart from the others, was a man with black hair streaked silver, gold eyes that held too much weight, and a greatsword strapped to his back like a promise of violence. Yoshiya felt the air leave his lungs; beside him, Omina drew in a sharp breath. They'd trained with him in Bustleburg, back when the world still made sense. They'd shared meals, swapped stories, laughed as he'd taught them tricks for surviving in the wilds.
Kaito Mugenrei. Their old friend. Now standing with the monsters who'd watched Ostoria burn.
A shared shock passed between Yoshiya and Omina—no words needed. He left us. He joined them.
Before anyone could move, before the murmur of confusion could rise into panic, a horn sounded in the distance. Deep, resonant, three blasts that echoed across the frozen plains.
Omina spun toward the sound, her hand now wrapped firmly around her sword hilt. Yoshiya pushed himself in front of her, his small frame meant more for healing than shielding, but instinct drove him just the same. Over the ridge to the west, a tide of steel and fur crested the hill: Valerian cavalry in their crimson banners, Dargath mages with staffs glowing like frozen stars, ogres with clubs as tall as houses. Hundreds strong, bearing down on a handful of refugees and six figures at a gate.
Panic rippled through the crowd like fire through dry grass. Children cried out. Adults shoved and stumbled, trying to press closer to the gates, to the strange figures who might be their only hope. Yoshiya braced himself as bodies surged around them, keeping one arm wrapped around Omina's waist, his other hand already reaching for the healing herbs tucked into his belt.
The Berserk Necklace grew warm against her skin, hot enough to feel even through her tunic. Omina's eyes darkened, her jaw setting as she faced the oncoming army. The peaceful woman who tended herb gardens was gone—here, now, she was just a survivor with a sword, ready to fight for the only thing she had left.
The man leaning against the gateframe sighed—a long, dramatic sound that carried even over the growing roar of the crowd. "They never know when to quit," he said, and raised a single hand toward the army.
Reality twisted.