The letters lay scattered across the snow like fallen feathers.
Some already drank in melted flakes, ink bleeding at the edges, Elira's words slowly dissolving into the land Rodrik had spent his life defending. His fingers no longer clutched them. His hands hung slack over his knees, shoulders bent in a posture that was not merely exhaustion.
It was surrender.
Not to another man.
To truth.
The wind crawled over the field, tugging at cloaks and hair. The echoes of battle—the screams, the clash of steel, the thuds of bodies meeting ground—had faded into a heavy, watchful silence. Only groans of the wounded broke the stillness now, dim and distant.
In that hollow quiet, Rodrik lifted his head.
Snow clung to his lashes.
His eyes—red-rimmed, raw—moved slowly past Kel.
Toward the two men standing not far behind.
His younger brother.
And the man whose bloodline he had wounded.
Count Edward Vanhart stood straight, but his grip on his sword hilt tightened just enough for the leather to creak. Frost clung to the edge of his cloak, his stern profile briefly fractured by the conflict in his gaze.
Beside him, Viscount Lorian Malloren's jaw was clenched so hard the muscles tremored faintly. His daughter had only just stood on her legs days ago. His trust, his rage, his grief—they all hovered in the taut line of his throat.
Rodrik held their forms in his vision for a heartbeat.
Then, very slowly, he shifted.
His legs shook as he tried to push himself higher from his kneeling position. He managed only to straighten his back, spine stiffening from the effort. He sat upright in the snow, chest rising unevenly, letters scattered at his knees.
He drew in breath.
And turned his head.
First—
toward his brother.
To the Brother He Envied
For a moment, neither spoke.
The space between them was filled with years.
Rodrik's lips parted.
His voice emerged hoarse, cracked in the cold.
"Edward…"
He swallowed.
Words scraped on their way out, as if they'd rusted inside his chest from lack of use.
"My brother," he said quietly, "whom I envied… my whole life."
Edward's eyes flickered.
Not in anger.
In recognition.
Rodrik let out a bitter, breathless laugh that died before it could shape.
"I envied your composure," he continued, gaze never leaving Edward's. "Your… place. Your acceptance. The way the world seemed to… fit around you, even when the estate was crumbling."
His hands curled slightly in the snow.
"I thought I wanted your title," he added. "But now… after seeing all this…"
His gaze dropped briefly to the letters, then back.
"I realise I never even understood what it was I envied. I just… stood in darkness and convinced myself you were the light that cast that shadow."
He bowed his head.
Very slowly.
Not as a noble to his lord.
As a man to the one he wronged.
"I ask," he said, voice lowering, "for your forgiveness. For all I did to you. For every moment I resented you in silence instead of reaching for your hand."
Snow landed on the back of his neck.
He did not flinch.
He simply held his posture, shoulders trembling faintly.
Edward's lips parted.
His breath smoked the air.
He did not step forward.
Not yet.
His fingers tightened around his sword hilt until his knuckles paled.
But he did not turn away.
To the Friend He Harmed
Rodrik turned next.
His head shifted toward Lorian Malloren.
The viscount's gaze was hard, but not empty. It held an ache sharpened over years—and only dulled recently by the sight of his daughter taking her first careful steps.
Rodrik looked at him for a long time.
His next words scraped even harder.
"…Lorian."
Something old trembled in the air at the use of his name. Once, they had stood side by side in campaign halls, laughing late into the night, planning border defenses over shared wine.
They had not used each other's names that way in years.
Rodrik's shoulders shook once.
"I don't know," he said softly, "how to even begin to ask for your forgiveness."
He swallowed.
His throat bobbed visibly.
"To try to give my niece an edge, to patch… my own emptiness, I crippled your daughter. The girl who called me 'Uncle' once." His eyes closed briefly, lashes damp. "There is no… apology that stretches far enough to cover that."
His voice broke on the next word.
"…Still."
He forced it through clenched teeth.
"I ask it."
His gaze rose again.
He met Lorian's eyes without flinching.
"Please," he whispered. "Forgive me."
The wind carried his plea forward.
It did not soften it.
It only made the rawness more undeniable.
Lorian's jaw tensed.
His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
Not in reflex.
In decision.
Rodrik gave a brittle smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I know," he said, quieter now, "that I am not a man either of you can truly forgive. I know… I do not deserve it. Not as a father. Not as a brother. Not as… anything."
His fingers loosened in the snow.
His shoulders sunk, but not in the old bitterness.
In release.
"So at least," he continued, "give me one mercy."
He drew in a breath that shook his whole frame.
"Kill me."
No plea for reconsideration.
No bravado.
No demand.
Simply request.
"So I can be worth, at the very end, the trouble of being killed as a villain."
He chuckled, weakly, turning his gaze up to the grey sky.
"Even if the only thing I ever truly chased… was a peaceful life."
The words lingered.
Then faded into the falling snow.
Judgment
Silence fell heavier than before.
Kel watched from where he stood—head slightly turned, expression unreadable, eyes like sharpened glass reflecting a life that was not his, but whose shape he recognized all too well.
Edward and Lorian exchanged a brief, wordless glance.
In that shared look, years unfolded.
Childhood sparring fields.
Shared borders.
Shared failure.
Shared loss.
And now, a shared responsibility.
Lorian's throat worked.
He inhaled deeply, eyes burning—not with fury, but with something harder to name.
Edward stepped forward first.
Snow compressed under his boots, leaving a trail of quiet indentations toward his brother. His cloak dragged lightly over the frost, whispering in the still air.
When he stopped in front of Rodrik, they were close enough that the older man could see the faint lines by Edward's eyes, carved by sleepless nights and restrained grief.
Rodrik looked up.
Edward looked down.
Slowly, deliberately, Edward unsheathed his sword.
The steel emerged with a whispering ring, breath steaming along its length.
Behind him, Lorian moved too.
His blade came free of its scabbard in a sound that seemed almost reluctant—like the metal knew this was not a simple execution, but an act of closing a wound that had bled too long.
Both men stood now.
One on each side of Rodrik.
Rodrik closed his eyes.
"…Thank you," he murmured. "For coming yourselves."
Edward's jaw clenched.
His voice—when it finally came—was low, steady, but heavy with swallowed thunder.
"Cowardice," he said quietly, "would be letting another man bear this stain in my place."
Lorian's grip tightened.
"I wanted," he admitted, voice raw, "to tear you apart once. When I saw my child in bed… unable to stand… I dreamed of your death every night."
Rodrik nodded faintly.
"I know."
"But now…"
Lorian looked at him—really looked. At the tears. At the letters. At the hollowed, shattered soul of the man he'd once called friend.
"…Now I see you were not born a monster," he said. "You carved yourself into one to fill an emptiness you never dared name."
Snow caught on his lashes.
"I don't know," he continued, "if that makes you more or less deserving of forgiveness."
He drew in a breath.
"But I will not let you die alone."
That was his answer.
Not absolution.
Not condemnation.
Companionship—
in the final step.
The Embrace of Farewell
Rodrik exhaled shakily.
"…I'll accept that," he whispered.
He straightened his spine as much as his exhausted body would allow. The snow around his knees compressed further as he shifted, positioning himself not like a prisoner—
but like a man kneeling before an altar he had delayed approaching all his life.
Edward stepped forward.
So did Lorian.
They moved in unison as though old training resurfaced instinctively. One to Rodrik's left. The other to his right.
Rodrik lowered his head.
His hands rested open at his sides.
"I had hoped," he murmured, almost to himself, "that one day, I would die… in a quiet bed, with someone waiting by the window…"
He smiled faintly.
"But this… is enough."
Edward's eyes glistened.
Lorian's fingers trembled on the hilt.
They shared a final look.
Then each turned their gaze down to Rodrik.
"In another life," Edward said softly, "I pray you learn to ask for help before your envy poisons you."
"In another life," Lorian added quietly, "I hope you reach for peace without trampling others to get there."
Rodrik's lips curved.
His eyes remained closed.
"…Then, in another life," he whispered, "I hope we can meet again… without swords."
Edward inhaled.
Lorian nodded once.
Then—
together—
they moved.
Two blades slid forward.
Not wild.
Not brutal.
Precise.
One entered just below Rodrik's ribs on the left. The other on the right. Angled toward the heart. Their bodies leaned in with the motion, cloaks swaying, breath shuddering from the impact that traveled up their arms.
Rodrik's body jerked once.
A sharp, wet sound broke the air.
Scarlet bloomed slowly through his tunic, a stark, vivid stain against winter white.
His breath came out in a soft gasp.
Then—
something gentle.
Both Edward and Lorian stepped in closer, their swords still buried in his body, and wrapped their free arms around him.
They held him upright.
Held him like a brother.
Like a friend.
Face close enough that their foreheads almost touched his temple.
Rodrik's head tilted slightly, resting against Edward's shoulder.
His eyes opened halfway.
The grey sky above blurred into pale light.
Their voices came to him as if from under water.
Soft.
Breaking.
"We wish," Edward whispered, trembling, "that you find your peace in the afterlife, Rodrik."
Lorian's voice joined, rough and quiet.
"We pray," he said, "that when you next look for warmth, you won't mistake its absence as proof that you were never meant to have it."
Rodrik's lips moved.
No sound came at first.
Then—
"…Thank you."
The tension bled from his shoulders.
His weight sagged into their arms.
Snow continued to fall.
A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, cutting a thin path down his cheek.
His gaze drifted toward the scattered letters one last time.
Images flickered—
Elira's smile under the chandeliers.
Sera's small hand gripping a wooden sword.
Lysenne's tentative step.
Kel's still eyes.
Then—
light.
His chest rose.
Fell.
And did not rise again.
His eyes closed.
This time—
in peace.
Edward and Lorian remained holding him, blades still in place, as if refusing to let him fall fully into the snow. For several breaths, no one moved.
Not the soldiers watching.
Not Reina.
Not Landon.
Not Kel.
The world seemed to pause.
To mark the passing of a man who had lived in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons, but with a sincerity that hurt even in its ugliness.
Finally, gently, Edward and Lorian withdrew their swords.
They lowered Rodrik's body together.
Laid him on his back, the snow embracing him with indifferent tenderness. His face, once hardened by years of bitterness, looked unexpectedly young.
Kel exhaled quietly.
His breath ghosted in front of him.
In the game, he thought distantly, you died as a boss. An obstacle. A villain.
Here…
You died as a man who finally saw the board he'd been moving on.
He stepped forward just enough that the snow at Rodrik's feet bore his bootprint.
He bowed his head once.
Not deeply.
Just enough.
The snow continued to fall.
No fanfare.
No divine light.
Only three men, standing above a fourth who had finally laid down his blade.
Rodrik lay upon the frozen ground, snow pressing against his skin like a silent weight. His body no longer responded to pain, to cold, to fear. Sound faded first, then sight, then even thought itself—until only a hollow stillness remained. His soul loosened its grip, slipping gently away, as if the world itself had exhaled him.
And then—
Warmth.
Rodrik opened his eyes.
He lay upon soft green grass, blades bending beneath him, alive and breathing. The wind brushed against his face, not cruel like the snow, but gentle—almost welcoming. He inhaled, and the scent of rich, lush earth filled his chest, grounding him. Slowly, uncertainly, he pushed himself up, his limbs trembling as if relearning how to exist.
Endless fields stretched in every direction, painted in shades of green and gold. No walls. No war. No death.
No one.
Or so he thought.
His gaze lifted, drawn by something unseen, and there—by the edge of a quiet lake—sat a solitary figure. Her shape was familiar, though distance blurred her face. Rodrik's heart began to pound, each step toward her heavier than the last, as if fear itself tried to hold him back.
With every step, clarity returned.
And then he saw her.
His breath caught violently in his throat. His eyes widened, disbelief and longing crashing into him all at once. His lips parted, trembling, and from somewhere deep within his chest a broken whisper escaped.
"...Elira."
The name alone shattered him.
Tears welled instantly, blurring his vision. The figure stiffened. Slowly, as though afraid of what she might see, she turned.
Their eyes met.
Elira froze, her face draining of color, her lips parting without sound. Her eyes searched him as if he were a dream she feared would vanish if she blinked. Rodrik stood there, shaking, tears streaming freely now, his voice barely holding together.
She rose unsteadily to her feet.
Rodrik stepped closer, lifting a trembling hand toward her—then stopping midair, doubt paralyzing him. What if she wasn't real? What if touching her made her disappear?
Elira didn't hesitate.
She reached for his hand, her fingers warm and solid, and gently guided it to her face. Rodrik's breath broke as his palm met her skin. Real. She was real. His thumb brushed her cheek, as if memorizing her all over again.
Her eyes shimmered, filled with grief too deep for tears.
"I'm sorry, Rodrik," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I wasn't there when you needed me the most. I should have been there. I wish I was there."
That was all it took.
Rodrik surged forward, wrapping his arms around her, clutching her as though the world itself might tear her away if he loosened his grip. He sobbed into her shoulder, years of pain and loneliness pouring out all at once. His body shook violently, afraid—terrified—that this moment would end.
Elira held him just as tightly.
"I'm here," she murmured over and over. "I won't leave. Not now. Not ever."
They eventually sank down beneath a great tree beside the lake, its branches swaying softly above them. Elira leaned back against Rodrik's chest, his back pressed to the tree's trunk. His arms wrapped around her waist, hands resting protectively on her belly. Elira's hands covered his, anchoring him there.
The world was quiet. Peaceful.
"I wish we could live like this forever," she said softly, her voice heavy with both hope and sorrow.
Rodrik lowered his head, resting his chin against her hair, his voice steady despite the ache in his heart.
"I wish to have you by my side in every life."
The wind whispered through the leaves, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, Rodrik believed that even death had not been strong enough to separate them.