Morning of 9/15, the mercenaries were newly stoked. Their morale rose like a bonfire in dry grass, unshaken by armies hemming them in from every side. Medith and Gerald, and the other officers, still wore faces dark as inked water.

On 9/16, the rumor the Hexclaw Legion released ran like wildfire through winter reeds. It shook every quarter. The nations kept silent, noses lifted, as if scenting that one person’s intent from the Eastern Nation.

The mercenary companies and the guild blocs took the first hit. Up north along the border, a guild enclave rallied at their overseer’s call and tried to muster five thousand elites for relief. The High Council stamped it down with a joint rejection, cold as a snow seal.

Olivya’s father, Ogark the Wary, bent under pressure and shelved the plan. Even so, he sent over a thousand skirmishers under Medith’s name. A thin stream for a raging blaze, but on the road all the same—ETA five days.

“Medith… I don’t know what trouble you stirred again. I owe you. I’ll repay it. I hope this force helps, even if it’s a teacup against a wildfire.” Ogark wasn’t a fool. A glance at the enemy’s posture told him the play.

Even so, he had to move. Medith’s grace on his family was mountain-heavy. He could say his seat still stood because Medith steadied it. Besides, his daughter’s city was under Medith’s banner. If Medith fell, that city would be first to crack.

Storm on the wind, flowers pressed against the eaves—the omen arrived. All who caught that whisper shivered. The heavy scent of powder spread like dusk mist. The figure from the Eastern Nation finally moved a hand he’d held too long.

…

Mid-north, in a snow-blind little town, winter came a season early compared to elsewhere. Over half a year ago, [Elienna Town] saw the first flurries descend like drifting feathers. The people had long grown used to it, even throwing jubilant feasts beneath frosted eaves.

They celebrated the dreamlike view. The snow fell straight for six months. It piled into white hills outside every door. Folks shoveled daily, carving paths so the drifts wouldn’t seal their homes like ice-lids.

In winter, a bar becomes a hearth-forge of warmth. Business boomed. Heroes of every stripe gathered, bold words clattering like cups, laughter rising like steam. The town swore to neutrality—no nation, no faction; a school of its own, a quiet river between armies.

The guards were mostly civilian militias, rough but steady, able to settle most petty tangles. The rest—the hard knots—went to the guilds and the mercenary corps, like river stones passed to stronger hands.

Inside a luxurious bar, the air blazed with life. Over a hundred people packed the bright hall. Wine flushed their faces apple-red. Men wore plain coats or silken robes. Warriors clinked in nameless plate and rattling chain.

Among them, a silver-haired woman shone like a blade under moonlight. She wore the same silver-white armor as the men. On her breastplate, a Nameless Knight raised a greatsword. Unlike the others, her emblem bore an extra blazing sun—symbol of a leader, a compass of hope and center.

“Commander Felica, what’s up today? You look… happy. You almost never drink the blast wine.” A mercenary captain grinned, words slurring like wet ink.

Blast wine—house specialty. A whisper of diluted Regido mixed with a secret brew. Down it in one, and it rakes your throat like a playful storm, then blooms in your belly like a sudden thunderclap. You can’t explain it if you haven’t felt it yourself.

On a frozen night, one mouthful warms you like a lover’s hands, even if no lover shares your quilt. It’s pricey, of course. The craft is rare. And Regido in a cup is winter lightning.

Felica smiled coolly. The wine painted her lips brighter, like frost kissed by sunrise. Her silver eyes caught every candleflame. Meet them, and you’d see an endless white plain—and then a river of stars. Stare one heartbeat longer, and fear rose like cold tide. Those eyes pressed you between heaven and void. The stronger you were, the deeper the tremor in your bones.

By the years, Felica should be past her prime. Time should’ve drawn its lines. Yet her skin was water-smooth and milk-pale, outshining many a girl of eighteen. No one could say why. The winter refused to touch her.

“How could I not be happy? Ah… who knew a casual mention of Gulo would turn into a meritorious stroke. Tobyers sent a ‘big gift’ after. And Medith came to Dawnlight in person.

“She publicly offered an alliance. Tell me, how could I not be delighted?” Felica’s brows arched like new moon. The liquor laid a blush over her cheeks, softening steel with a touch of spring.

They rarely saw her like this. Admiration came like snowflakes, quick and quiet. With it, a sigh about fate’s crooked roads.

Who’d have thought an obscure newcomer would stumble onto the treasured daughter of a duke with real power, then bump into Medith by luck, then land a post in Dawnlight—only to meet Medith again a breath later?

The notice bore Gerald’s signature, sure. But everyone knew—even if Gerald and Medith were close, they weren’t as close as Gulo. Without Gulo’s face in the mirror, Medith might not have offered alliance first.

Active versus passive—that gulf eats empires. A neutral force like theirs had crawled this far on thin ice. The continent’s winds shifted by the hour. Power storms were rolling in. Neutrals without a mountain to lean on would be the first to die.

And Medith happened to be the mountain of “neutral forces.” The alliance was a must. Only the price tags on either side were left to write.

Medith offered unconditional alliance. Felica’s regard for her rose like a tide under a full moon.

“People are funny. Some grind all their life and never touch what they want. Some don’t even reach, and heaven keeps handing them gifts. Tell me that’s not maddening. Hahaha!”

The belly-truth landed, and laughter burst like a log in the fire. In this place, they chased no fame, no ledgers—only the next drink, and sometimes a flirt when the snow was kind.

Bang—the bar’s wooden doors exploded under the shoulders of iron-boned men. They strode in tight and heavy, each step a drumbeat of fear.

“Frido! What’re you doing? Her Highness is here and you pull this stunt?!”

“Yeah! Even if you pulled an all-night patrol, you don’t vent on the door! That’s a pile of splinters!”

Grumbling flared like sparks. A few drunkards nearly slung bottles like stones from a sling.

“What is it?” Felica stayed clear as ice-water. She liked this subordinate—loyal, simple, a doer not a talker. On this quiet, off-the-record outing, she’d brought him to scout.

It was the first time she’d seen his face gone that black.

“Lady Felica, Paris made his move. First target—of all the luckless choices—is Dawnlight. They brought twenty thousand elite troops. Full encirclement. Even with Medith there, I fear they won’t hold ten days.”

“What? That’s impossible…”

Gasp after gasp rippled through the bar. Cups slipped and thumped. This was a Radiant Knights bar, all their own. No fear of rats in the walls.

“Twenty thousand?!” Even Felica, bold and meticulous, reeled. In the Royal Capital, what does twenty thousand elites mean? Dawnlight is one of her banner sites, a proud placard, and it has just over four thousand soldiers—regulars, not ace troops. Worlds apart.

“No… the number can’t be right. Any word from Gerald and the others? What about our eyes nearby?” Felica pressed, breath tight as a drawn bow.

“All gone dark. With the joint plea from Hilona and others, the odds are nine in ten the news is true.” Frido’s voice dulled, heavy as wet snow.

“How could this be?”

“They’ve lost it?! Isn’t that a direct war declaration against us?”

“So what if it is? They’re a grand kingdom. Do they need a reason to crush you?”

“What about the others? Under these clear skies and pretty winds, will they shatter the Peace Pact?”

“That pact guarantees no invasions between nations. What’s that got to do with us? And paper’s just paper. How much is it worth when steel talks?”

Voices tangled, a flock in a gale. The turn was too fast. Anger and helplessness churned like stormwater in a gutter.

“Lady Felica, since we know, I’ll move for relief at once. There’s a squad stationed by Os under [Demon-Eye Gorge]. If I take a handful of elites and ride hard, we can reach them in three days.

“Numbers are small, but with that lord’s ability, the effect could be immense.” Frido had a plan, clean and sharp. He saw Felica’s set face and silence, took it for assent, nodded, turned to go.

“Frido… don’t go.” Felica let the words fall like snow—soft, but they landed in every ear. The room froze. They stared, disbelief bright as ice.

Felica’s face curdled with hate. Her teeth clicked like cold porcelain. Her fists clenched, nails digging into flesh she didn’t feel. After a beat, she let the trembling fists loosen. Her eyes carried a helpless shore-tide.

“This war… we can’t take it.”

“?”

“Commander Felica?”

“Your Highness?”

The looks turned to knives of question. Was she going to watch them drown? That was four thousand lives. Gerald and Medith were there—pillars, not pebbles.

“Pass my order. Any soldier under my Radiant Knights’ banners is forbidden to join this incident. I don’t have time to explain why. Frido, go. Now. I’m afraid they’ll let their blood outrun their heads.”

When she finished, her strength seemed to drain like warmth from a cup. Her shoulders sagged. The heroic glow guttered, leaving a woman in winter light.

“Your Highness…” Behind her chair, a middle-aged barhand with stubble let out a dim light of understanding, as if he felt the net closing on her choice.

Frido kept his doubts behind his teeth. He ground his jaw, turned, and left.

The bar sank into dead stillness. It held for half an hour, hard as lake ice.

Only when a woman’s helpless sobbing rose like a thin reed in wind did the ice finally crack.

…

On 9/18, the news sped into Hexclaw Legion ears like an arrow. Harrison, Erig, and the others laughed loud, firelight dancing in their eyes. The plan ran smoother than silk.

…

“Medith, it’s as you said. The Grand Commander… she’s abandoned us.” Gerald sounded half relieved, half unbelieving—as if laughing at a jest he wished were a lie.

Medith looked past the walls at the encircling masses. Outside, the enemy sang and danced, chanting “unwanted wretches” like crows on a wall. Her right hand rested on Flame Lady’s hilt. Her face was a still lake. From those emerald eyes—cold as a god’s gaze—Gerald could read only one thing.

“All of this is nothing more than a game that doesn’t matter.”