Korvath's war hall was colder today.
Maps lay spread across the great stone table, pinned by knives, weighted by helmets. The air held that stale bitterness of burned oil and dying embers—like the aftermath of a battlefield that somehow followed them indoors.
Rick Kaiser stood rigid, jaw locked.
Kouki Nozomi looked like he hadn't slept in two days.
Opposite them, the Dargath contingent gathered in grim clusters. Armor dented. Bandages seeping through. Faces hollowed by death and regret.
The loss of General Varric hung like a ghost in the room. No one spoke his name. They didn't have to.
A Dargath officer—Captain Haaron, one arm in a sling—slammed his remaining fist against the map-table.
"We lost General Varric. We lost battalions. We faced one city and nearly died." His voice cracked, the pain far deeper than rage. "And now we learn two kings survived. Two. Not one." He spat the number like poison. "This isn't a war we can win. Not without sacrificing every soldier we have left."
Kouki's eyes narrowed. "We stand together or we fall alone."
"This alliance," Haaron said sharply, "was meant to face a threat of equal scale—not a divine plague wearing crowns."
Another captain stepped forward, unfolding a sealed document. Its edges were frayed, as though carried too long in anticipation of this exact moment.
The seal of Dargath glinted.
The room froze.
Rick murmured, voice low. "…You're invoking it."
The words tasted like iron.
The Broken Spear Protocol.
A treaty clause reserved for one circumstance:
When the survival odds of the allied host fall below threshold, and continued unity guarantees mutual annihilation.
It allowed Dargath to withdraw without it being considered betrayal.
Haaron placed the document on the table.
"We invoke it formally. Dargath withdraws at dawn."
---
Iroko Ryusei stepped forward then—not as a king, but as a man bearing the weight of a nation.
His expression held neither anger nor pleading—only exhaustion.
"The treaty—" he began.
"The treaty allows this," Haaron cut in. "Your walls are broken. Your military is gutted. Korvath is indefensible. Staying here is a death sentence for our remaining troops."
The silence afterward was enormous.
A battlefield-sized silence.
Iroko's voice softened to something brittle. "We bled together. We held the line together."
"We remember that." Haaron's voice gentled, too. "But memory doesn't win wars. Strength does. And right now, Ostoria has none left."
There was nothing left to argue.
Dargath had chosen survival.
---
They left the next morning.
The march was slow. Funereal. Boots dragging through frost and ash. The Dargath standards that once blazed red with pride now fluttered pale and hollow in the winter wind.
Soldiers carried their dead draped in flags—each coffin a weight pulling the city's future downward.
Civilians gathered along the stone streets but said nothing. No pleas. No insults. No begging.
Because the truth was obvious:
Ostoria was now alone.
The war had not ended. The war had simply shifted its teeth.
---
On the city ramparts, Lia Shinsei watched the departing column, fingers white against the balustrade. Her voice almost broke when she whispered, "We look abandoned."
Beside her, Nogare leaned against his katana, face unreadable. "Alliances are held together by power. When one side loses power, the alliance collapses. This is reality. No sentiment survives it."
Below them, Kouki was already moving—issuing orders, redirecting supply lines, drafting emergency conscription notices. His voice cut through the courtyard sharp enough to draw blood.
"Divert rations from warehouses three through seven. Move all recovery casters to the east quarter triage units. Double guard rotations at the southern walls. And someone wake Zentake!"
Somewhere in the shadows of the courtyard, Zentake stretched with a lazy grin.
"Wake me? I was just enjoying the atmosphere. So many people grieving. So poetic." He jingled a set of rings he'd swiped from some noble's ruins. "And now the alliance is broken. Delicious chaos."
Kouki rounded on him. "We don't have the patience for your games today."
"Games?" Zentake laughed, long and bright like a man who had never once feared consequences. "My dear Guildmaster, this is not a game. This is… opportunity." His smile sharpened. "Power has shifted. And when power shifts, someone always rushes to fill the vacuum."
He leaned close, whispering like a conspiracy between devils:
"So tell me. Shall we steal ourselves a throne?"
Kouki didn't answer.
Not because he dismissed the idea.
But because for the first time since the war began—
It didn't sound impossible.
---
Later, in the quiet aftermath, Iroko stood alone in Korvath's great hall. The banners of Ostoria hung limply above him. The torchlight flickered weakly.
He looked older.
He was older.
He closed his hand around the hilt of his sword—not in readiness for war, but in acknowledgment of the burden still ahead.
There were no allies left.
No reinforcements.
No safety net.
Just a kingdom bleeding, and the enemy still rising.
And somewhere in that silence, something hardened in his gaze.
If the world did not intend to protect Ostoria—
Then Ostoria would learn to survive the world.
By strategy.
By sacrifice.
By teeth if necessary.
The war was not over.
It was merely entering its most dangerous shape.