In the Imperial Palace
When the banquet finally dispersed, the nobles drifted to their chambers, yet the echo of their words lingered in the corridors far louder than the sound of their departing steps.
It was not the food or wine that would be remembered, but the silent duel of glances—Seraphiel Mortani's with Lady Lorenval, Lord Dargon's fist upon the table, and the quiet, enigmatic smile that never left Elmaris' lips.
Outside, the rain had ceased, but the air of the capital remained heavy, as if burdened by an unspoken secret. One servant whispered to another:
— "I heard them speak of a northern alliance… If it's true, the coming winter will not be like the last."
The other answered in a hushed tone:
— "Hold your tongue. In these halls, tongues are severed faster than heads."
But such whispers never stay confined within walls for long.
At the Camp Beyond the Capital's Walls
By the next day, the rumors had trickled into the soldiers' quarters, reshaped and twisted with each retelling:
— "They say the alliance between the two empires means we'll be the first thrown into battle."
— "No, it will bring a truce. We'll never be called up at all."
— "A truce? In what world? An alliance always means war."
Kaizlan sat with Milo, Eiron, and Serin by the fire after training, scraping mud from their armor. His silence weighed heavier than usual, as if he were trying to read the truth hidden behind the words.
Eiron pressed a hand against the cracked edge of his armor and muttered:
— "Whatever it is, the nobles will decide… and we'll pay the price."
Serin replied with her familiar coldness:
— "The price is paid either way. But knowing the reason… makes death less meaningless."
Milo, with his usual clumsy humor, tried to lighten the air:
— "I'd rather live meaningless and alive than be remembered with purpose in a grave."
Kaizlan smiled faintly—not in comfort, but with the fragile grin of a youth clinging to something ordinary amidst the growing haze.
Night in the Camp
When the others had gone to their tents, Milo passed by Serin's tent, holding a small strip of cloth with clumsy stitches.
— "Serin…" he said hesitantly. "I know I'm no good with needles, but… I made this for you. Might help you bind your arm during sparring."
She raised a brow as she took it:
— "The stitches are ugly… but firm. Firmness matters more than beauty."
She said it with the faintest curl of her lips—the first hint of a smile she had allowed to reach her eyes.
Milo walked away with a lightness that made it seem his feet no longer touched the ground.
Serin held the cloth in her hands for a moment, then set it beside her sword. It was not a great gift, but it was proof that amidst steel and blood, someone thought of her.
Somewhere in the Capital
That night, the rumor of the northern alliance lingered not only in the barracks and noble halls, but also in darker places.
While some dreamed of victory and others feared ruin, an elegant man sat in a dim chamber of the capital, rolling between his fingers a single black rose that had yet to wither.
He cared nothing for alliances or banquets.
All that mattered to him… was the moment when chaos would finally bloom.