Ruins stretched in every direction—bones of buildings laid bare beneath a winter sky that refused to look away. Snow covered the ground with indifferent mercy, smoothing over the violence as though the world wished to forget what men had done to it. The air smelled faintly of smoke and frost, mingling in a bitter perfume that made the city seem both dead and awake.
We walked for a long moment without speaking. The silence between us was not awkward—it was the weight of everything unspoken, of everything broken, pressing against our lungs.
"I heard rumors of an airship when I was in the capital," I said at last, my voice sounding too small for the emptiness around us. "Who was it? Did they finally send aid?"
My brother did not answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the soldiers clearing rubble, their movements methodical, almost ritualistic. Shovels scraped against stone, sledges rattled, and the occasional clatter of a metal hinge punctuated the quiet like muted drumbeats. Then a smile touched his lips—not warm, not cruel. Knowing.
"You went to ask them yourself, didn't you?"
My body stiffened. The truth lodged in my chest like a swallowed shard. I had gone further than I was told. Further than I should have. And I had come back empty-handed.
A soft chuckle escaped him. He reached out and rested a hand on my head, fingers moving in the same way they had when we were children—comforting, familiar, disarming. Snowflakes drifted lazily against the edge of my vision, tiny, indifferent witnesses to my embarrassment.
"No," he said gently. "The capital didn't send this aid."
He adjusted the sleeve of his coat, the gesture casual enough to feel intentional.
"It was the Church."
The word fell between us like frost.
"The Church?" I echoed, almost whispering. "Why would they—"
"I don't know," he replied, eyes forward. "Do you see those people in white aprons?"
He gestured as we passed them—women moving with quiet precision, their hands steady, their faces composed to the point of erasure. Each carried supplies with care, their movements meticulous, almost reverent, as if the ground itself were sacred.
Understanding crept in, slow and unwelcome.
"So… the capital did nothing," I murmured, the snow crunching faintly beneath my boots.
As if reading my thoughts from my expression alone, he added, "The regent of the previous Emperor arrived as well. Almost at the same moment the Church did—as though both had been waiting for the same moment to arrive."
Snow stretched unbroken around us, pale enough to sting the eyes. Beside me, Victoria nudged loose stones with her boot, her hand tightly clasped in Miss Dōngzhi's. None of them spoke. The wind whispered through shattered eaves and broken walls, carrying the faint scent of melted ice and burned timber.
"With their arrival, we managed to halt the fighting," my brother continued. "Many of the invading soldiers were captured. Some escaped—scattered."
I saw Miss Lakshmi shift at that. Just slightly. Enough to notice.
So that was it.
The tension. The watchful quiet. The way the city breathed like something wounded but alert. Every shadow seemed to hold memory, every roof and wall a record of what had happened here. Peace had returned—but not cleanly.
The Church's presence lingered at the margins of everything, pristine and unsettling, like a blade polished too carefully. Their nurses moved between the injured and exhausted with precision that made the city feel almost theatrical, a performance of mercy that was somehow both comforting and alien.
An itch stirred beneath my skin, impossible to soothe. Questions pressed against my thoughts: why intervene now? Who had authorized this? What had they gained?
Aid had come.
But not without cost.
And somewhere, somewhere I could not see, someone had paid for it with more than snow, more than rubble, more than survival.
The sun lingered weak and wan above the ruins, pale and unconquered, as if winter itself had claimed dominion over light. I realized then that the war had ended—but that the world, the city, and perhaps even ourselves, would not be easily stitched back together.