No one saw it coming. Last night was wine and silk, high and low in harmony; today, the table cracked, the cup shattered, and ties burned to ash. The whiplash left Sais choked with grievance, grief pressing like a boulder on her chest, breath thinning like a guttering wick.

Only when two clean tracks of tears slipped free, only when she threw herself into Medith’s arms and sobbed like storm rain, did the pressure ease a little.

Most faces were thunderclouds, a dim light smothered under ash; only Milia, Iling, and Medith wore the weight with clear eyes, reading the storm without blinking.

These past days, Pers had lounged in the drill yard, trading talk with squad leaders and engineers, words flowing like a river. No one minded he was a scholar from the Southern Kingdom; they welcomed him with warm cups and open hands. Who knew that today their weather would flip like winter squalls—curses hurled, “Southern scum” spat like pebbles, and he was thrown out like a swept leaf.

As he stood baffled, Medith and the others suffered the same cold shove. The gates of Dawnlight, open at dawn and dusk like kind iron lips, slammed shut. Stone said “no guests,” and the whole city bristled like a hedgehog.

“Let’s clear this plain first,” Medith said, voice low as a night tide. “Sais, don’t cry. Gerald has his reasons.

“Send the pigeons. Tell Gill and Nora. Pull half our elites, and let Gill and Nora lead them in person. The rest hold the city, and prepare for every claw that dares our walls.

“Especially the Eastern Nation.” Her words drifted like mist. Milia caught it at once. A whistle cut the air, and a burly old eagle stooped from the sky like a falling star.

The Lina Sisters started, as if the picture snapped into focus. Nameless’ knitted brow loosened; a thin strand of understanding lit like dawn.

...

Night fell like ink. In a hush-dark forest, a ribbon of blue smoke climbed, and a timid flame stitched light into the tent’s dim.

Crackle-pop, crackle-pop. Medith kept feeding the fire, each stick a dry reed singing. Lina cupped her palms, nudged the blaze with a flicker of magic, and warmth unfolded, a cloak wrapping every shoulder.

Whooo... The wind slid through like a ghost. Leaves hissed and shuffled; treetops creaked like oars; brush swayed and bowed. Stars salted the sky. A round moon hung bright as polished jade, its gentleness a balm. Now and then a meteor scored the heavens, a single bright brushstroke on a master’s scroll.

A few squirrels bounced down the branches, pine cones hugged to tiny chests. Their glassy eyes stared, soft and unblinking; needle-claws clutched tight; sharp teeth nibbled with nimble clicks. They stood for five heartbeats, then shot up the trunk like thrown knives and vanished.

As if they’d only come to nod hello to stranger Sprite sisters.

“This air’s turning cold...” Medith felt the night bite her skin, the season shifting like a door on its hinge. “Tell me—how do you count the seasons?”

Nameless and Fangge traded a startled look. Pers went thoughtful, eyes tracing Medith’s shape: a woman’s, and not a woman’s; the line of a truth he could almost net.

“How do you forget so much?” Sais smoothed the ripples, voice a steady hand. “I’ve told you again and again. One season per year. Last year was summer. So this year, naturally, is autumn. By the clock, we’re nearly there.”

Other than the elder Sprites, it was better the “outsiders”—Nameless, Fangge, Pers, Yunita—didn’t learn what Medith truly was. Trouble breeds from a single careless word.

“Oh... then what about a new year?” Medith asked again. Doubt flickered over faces. A continent-ranked fighter, Elf Clan blood, roaming the world so long—and she didn’t know this?

“Call it January first,” Sais said, closing the door with a sigh. “I’m done reminding you. Let’s talk about Gerald. Today’s mess is quite enough.”

Medith didn’t press. She straightened, spine like a drawn bow, and began to lay out her view, slow and steady as a mountain stream.

...

“My lord, you called it. The Hexclaw Legion’s on the move...” A vanguard knight burst in on Gerald, door banging like a drumbeat.

“Where?” Gerald asked, ready as a taut string.

“Not sure. Big commotion. They’re likely confirming Medith’s gone. Even if we’re optimistic, they’ll be on us in three days...”

“Mm. I hear you. Dismissed,” Gerald said. “Don’t push deeper. Accelerate the defenses. Put the city on high alert. Stack arrows high. Put a razor on every greatsword.

“Dawnlight won’t break easy. If they try to bleed us out by logistics...

“Our three months of grain will grind their hope to dust.”

“Understood.” The knight took the order and strode off.

Candlelight danced like small spirits. Gerald lifted his gaze to the star-flooded sky. His face was stern, yet in his eyes flickered a boundless longing, and a quiet, clean relief.