The bells of victory rang out across the walls of Aruria's capital.
A white flag fluttered atop the central tower, above the smoke and smoldering wreckage strewn across the ancient cobbled streets. Thousands of Mozarian soldiers roared in triumph, as if casting off the shackles of a war that had bound them for five long years.
Knights, their armor stained with blood and soot, clapped one another on the shoulders, laughter and cheers echoing from every corner. Some cracked open barrels of wine looted from the royal cellars, celebrating with reckless abandon, indifferent to gods or heavens.
And yet, amid the revelry, one man stood silent in the shadow of the shattered city gates.
Isen Alban — a twenty-two-year-old general and architect of the victory — stood with cropped silver-white hair and eyes the cold blue of permafrost, unmoved even by the blaze of war.
He was known by the title "The Snow Knight."
Not because of the color of his armor, but because of his chilling stillness—he never showed emotion, not even in the act of killing.
He let the cheers pass over him, offering no response. One hand remained clenched around the sword's hilt at his hip, as though the violence had yet to release its grip on him.
"General!"
A voice, deep and brimming with energy, called out beside him.
Toss, his loyal knight, beamed like morning light and slapped Isen's armored back, the impact clanging against the metal.
"We did it, sir! The gods finally smiled on us!" Toss laughed, raising a bottle of wine high overhead.
"Come now, General — just one drink to ease the weight!"
Isen glanced at the bottle, his voice low but steady.
"No."
A flat, emotionless refusal — not cruel, merely final. Toss only chuckled, used to it by now, and clapped him once more before turning to join the others in celebration.
Songs erupted. Folk instruments emerged. The sky began to shift in color as the first winds of the new season brushed across the city.
Isen mounted his steed — a silver-gray stallion named Cold — with practiced, quiet grace. He guided the horse through the crowd toward the outer wall, halting at a low rise that overlooked what remained of the capital, now little more than ash and ruin.
A faint burnt smell rode the wind, mingling with the iron tang of blood.
He stared down at the broken city, blue eyes reflecting surrender—not his, but the city's. Inside, something stirred.
Was it sorrow?
Regret?
Or simply exhaustion?
Even he couldn't be sure.
As the thought passed through him, the first snowflakes of winter drifted down from the sky, blanketing the shattered capital in a solemn, mournful hush — as if the heavens themselves were mourning the fall of Aruria.
Cheers erupted in the courtyard before the castle, shaking the ground.
Amidst the noise, Toss's voice rose above the rest.
"For our General! For Isen Alban!"
He raised his sword to the sky.
Thousands of soldiers echoed his cry.
"Isen! Isen! Isen!"
His name rang from the ruined walls to the crumbled towers.
Still, Isen remained seated atop Cold, silent and still, letting the chant wash over him without reaction. He did not smile or move—he only observed the crowd with those glacial eyes.
Then, with a tug of the reins, he turned his horse slightly and spoke — his voice deep, firm, and sharp enough to slice through the noise.
"Enough."
Just one word, and the crowd fell silent, as if gripped by an unseen force.
He surveyed them — one group at a time — as though memorizing every face. Then, he spoke again, this time with a strange, quiet weight.
"Celebrate while you can… In one hour, we go home. We return to our capital — your home."
Those last words echoed oddly in the minds of those listening.
No one noticed his careful choice of phrasing.
Your home.
Because for Isen… Mozaria had never been home.
His true home was far to the north —
Norvaria, the small kingdom he had left behind a decade ago.
As his words ended, a new roar of joy erupted — louder than before, shaking the scorched earth.
Isen turned Cold away from the crowd.
He did not seek glory. He did not crave praise.
He simply rode off, leaving the laughter and music behind.
He moved slowly through the narrow alleys, once vibrant with life.
Now, only wreckage remained.
Homes reduced to charred skeletons, some still flickering with flame beneath the ash.
The scent of smoke filled his lungs, the wind throwing debris — tile, splintered wood — past his face as the snow thickened.
And then he saw her.
Beneath a crumbled wall, a small girl sat curled beside two lifeless bodies.
Her faint sobs, nearly lost in the wind, pierced deeper than any blade.
Isen reined Cold to a stop and dismounted without a word.
He approached slowly, cautiously, as if afraid of deepening the wound already etched into her heart.
His face showed nothing — a blank mask.
But his eyes… his eyes dimmed.
A memory surfaced.
A girl from long ago.
A childhood friend in Norvaria, who once laughed beside him under sunlit fields.
A girl who had lost her parents on a moonless night.
A girl exactly like this one.
What has become of her now…?
He knelt in front of the child, gently.
No flowery words. No hollow comforts.
He was never good with them.
Instead, he removed the rations at his belt, along with a pouch of silver, and held them out in silence.
"Go north," he murmured — a whisper, softer than the wind.
"Follow the main road… You'll reach Norvaria. A city called Vollen. It's safer there."
The girl stared at him, wary and broken, and shook her head, tears flowing anew.
That simple refusal hit Isen like a silent blow.
He said nothing more.
Just placed the food and silver gently beside her.
Then, he removed the sword from his waist — the one that had ended countless lives.
The girl flinched slightly.
But he didn't draw it.
He simply laid it in front of her, quietly.
And then he stood.
Turned.
Walked away without looking back.
Snow settled on his shoulders, in his hair.
He walked into the silence,
Leaving the blade
Leaving the war
Leaving death
Behind.
And he walked toward winter. Cold. Quiet. And free.
The Kingdom of Norvaria
The northernmost realm of the continent, where snow falls year-round and the land is eternally frozen in winter. Norvaria has no king. It is not a unified kingdom in the traditional sense, but rather a loose confederation of small towns. Each governs itself through a town council where every voice counts equally—a system made possible by the sheer scarcity of people. Some towns have just over a hundred residents. Others, less than that. In such places, one voice can truly change a town.
Vollen, with a population of only 500, is the largest settlement in Norvaria.
Even though it was nearly noon, the sky above Vollen remained veiled in a curtain of white snow. The flurries fell endlessly, as though winter had no intention of ever stopping. The town's main road, paved with thick stone slabs, was blanketed in a dense crust of ice. Only the well-trodden footprints showed signs of life—faint tracks carved into the frozen layer, proof that the people of Vollen kept moving forward, undeterred by the season that refused to end.
On the edge of a narrow street stood a small pinewood cottage, dark-stained and sturdy, braving the cold winds. Wisps of pale grey smoke rose from the chimney, a quiet signal of warmth still flickering inside.
Inside, Iris Nerval, a 22-year-old woman, sat at a small desk near a frosted window. The glass was lined with a thin film of ice, but it still let in just enough light. Iris leaned forward, focused, writing a letter by hand. Her pale fingers held a quill with practiced ease, dipping it into jet-black ink before shaping each letter in elegant strokes across a coarse but clean paper.
Her long, straight, pale green hair fluttered slightly in the draft sneaking in through the window frame. A soft smile touched her lips—wistful, gentle. But her pale blue eyes betrayed a quiet sorrow, as if they guarded a memory too deep to forget.
A soft knock sounded—two gentle taps against the wooden door. Aside from the occasional crackling from the fireplace, the house was quiet.
Iris paused, glancing up. "Yes?" she called out, rising from her chair.
"Iris!" came a warm, familiar voice—an older woman's. "Come with me. Let's hunt some snow rabbits!"
A faint chuckle escaped Iris's throat as she slipped the finished letter into an envelope, sealing it neatly with warm wax. She tucked it into her coat pocket, then reached for her simple bow and quiver hanging by the door.
She opened the thick wooden door, revealing Mrs. Holmen, a plump woman with a kind face, her coat flapping in the wind. Despite the snow swirling around her, she smiled with the easy warmth of home.
Iris gave a small nod, her voice soft and bright.
"I was just waiting for you, Mrs. Holmen."
The woman standing at the door wasn't just a neighbor—she was the one who had taken Iris in as her own daughter ten years ago, on the day everything in Iris's life was shattered. That tragedy had carved itself into the town's collective memory. It took half of Vollen's population in a single night.
But Vollen, like the snow that never stopped falling, endured. No matter how heavy the burden, the town remained draped in its quiet beauty.
The snow began to ease, delicate flakes drifting down like feathers.
After exchanging warm smiles, the two women stepped into the cold, heading east, toward the forest. Towering pines, tangled underbrush, and knee-deep snow made the terrain treacherous. Every step had to be measured. But Iris moved with the grace of someone born into this winter world, reading the wind and the land with quiet skill. Her blue eyes sparkled with alertness as she scanned the woods, bow slung over one shoulder. Mrs. Holmen, despite her age, kept up well.
In Norvaria, hunting in the snow wasn't unusual, it was survival. The snow never left, so neither did life.
The two moved through the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots, breath turning into white mist. Their faded white cloaks billowed with each step. The cold nipped at their cheeks, but they didn't flinch. To the people of Norvaria, the cold was just another part of the day.
They passed an old, abandoned cottage, half-buried under snow like a sleeping beast. Snow piled on the roof and windows like a thick, frozen blanket. It once belonged to Isen Alban, Iris's childhood friend—the boy who left for Mozaria ten years ago and never returned.
No one had touched the house since.
No one except Iris.
Every month, she comes to clean it. To keep it waiting. To keep it ready.
Iris stopped, her eyes landing on the rusted mailbox by the door, tilted slightly from age, overflowing with letters. Most were crammed in, some spilling out of the slot. Every letter in that box was hers.
For ten years, Iris had written to Isen—one letter a month. She wrote of her thoughts, her worries, and her memories of Vollen. Every word was carved with care, every letter folded and slipped into this box, though she never received a reply. She didn't know if he read them. She didn't even know if he was alive.
And yet, today was no different.
Iris pulled the latest letter from her coat pocket, the one she had just written. Though the box was nearly full, she gently pushed the envelope inside. A faint smile curved her lips. There was sadness in it, but no hesitation.
"You're still waiting for him," came Mrs. Holmen's quiet voice beside her.
Iris turned, her smile lingering. She nodded.
"I won't stop writing until he comes back."
Mrs. Holmen chuckled, shaking her head with fond amusement.
"You young folks are so romantic."
At that, Iris flushed, flustered.
"It's not like that…"
Mrs. Holmen's laugh echoed gently into the cold, trailing into the wind. The two continued their path toward the forest—toward the snow-covered trees, the white rabbits, and the quiet hope that someday, someone would return.
As they walked, Iris couldn't help but remember…
Ten years ago —
That day, winter was more merciless than it had ever been. The sky hung heavy with grey clouds, veiling the half-moon, while harsh winds whipped the falling snow into a frenzied spiral. Vollen, a once-peaceful village, descended into chaos when dozens of armed bandits stormed in, looting everything in sight and slaughtering indiscriminately.
Iris's parents — simple villagers with nothing but a shovel and a garden axe — stood in the bandits' path, their bodies the only barrier between the attackers and their daughter. They bought her time or tried to. But twelve-year-old Iris didn't get the chance to run.
She witnessed everything.
She watched her parents die.
Then one of them noticed her — a towering man with a brutal face and a black half-skull tattoo crawling up the side of his neck.
He grinned.
He walked toward her, each step slow and predatory.
Iris couldn't move. Fear locked every limb in place.
She stood frozen in the snow, tiny hands trembling, fists clenched so tightly her nails pierced her skin.
The cold in her chest was far crueler than the winter wind.
Her wide eyes fixed on the looming shadow approaching her.
"Still just a little one, aren't you?"
His voice was hoarse, low — like something dragged from hell.
The words sank into her like venom, each syllable corroding the last fragile remnants of hope.
"Dad… Mom… no… no, this isn't real…"
Her voice barely made it past her throat, strangled by despair.
Tears blurred her vision, but she saw him.
The leering eyes.
The thick hand reaching toward her.
And the words that followed —
"Looks like I've got myself a new toy for the night."
That was when she knew — to him, she wasn't human. Not even alive. Just a thing to be used. A plaything to be broken, defiled, and discarded.
And he was already imagining how to play with her.
"No!!!!!!"
Her scream tore through the air — raw, primal, feral.
A child's voice, stripped of dignity, stripped of everything, leaving only terror — pure and human.
Then —
Whshk!
A clean sound. Something slicing through the wind.
Blood sprayed onto the snow like spilled ink on parchment.
In the blink of an eye, the bandit's head separated from his shoulders.
His body crumpled lifelessly to the ground, revealing the one who had struck from behind.
Isen Alban.
He was twelve, just like her.
One hand gripped a bloodied longsword. His dark grey eyes were deathly calm, cold enough to stop the breath in one's chest.
Despite his age, there was something sharp in his gaze, unwavering in his stance.
He stepped toward Iris, who still trembled where she stood, and lowered his voice, soft but firm.
"Iris… get up. I'm getting you out of here."
His voice was cold, yet strangely warm in the chaos.
Iris couldn't argue. She nodded through her tears and let Isen take her hand.
They moved, weaving through the wreckage of Vollen, which no longer resembled anything like peace.
Screams echoed through the alleys. Fire crackled, consuming everything.
They ran through smoke and snow, her small body staggering, her once-golden hair now stained with soot.
She could barely stay upright, but Isen never let go.
He gripped her hand like letting go meant losing her forever.
Eventually, they reached a small wooden house on the outskirts of the village — Isen's home.
He shoved the creaking door open and pulled her inside. No lamps were lit; they couldn't risk being seen.
The air smelled of dust and old wood, but in that moment, it was the safest place in the world.
He dragged aside a rug, revealing a trapdoor.
Beneath it: a basement.
Isen opened the hatch and gestured for her to go down first, then followed.
It was cold and damp underground, the air thick with earth and silence.
Wooden shelves lined the walls, each stacked with weapons — short swords, longswords, axes, bows, knives.
Every blade is sharpened. Every tool is ready to kill.
A hidden armory.
To anyone else, it might have been terrifying.
But not to Iris.
Not then.
She didn't even see the weapons.
Her mind was still trapped in the images of her parents' final moments, the blood soaking into white snow, the screams echoing in her head.
Her world had shattered.
Her legs gave out.
She collapsed onto the cold basement floor, trembling. Her small hands clutched the hem of Isen's shirt, then wrapped around him in a desperate embrace, as if he were the last thing anchoring her to existence.
She held him so tightly it was hard to breathe.
Her face buried in his chest, tears soaking through his clothes.
She wept silently, shaking, not from cold, but from grief.
From fear.
From the need to escape the unbearable truth.
She didn't want to believe it.
That everything she had ever known… was gone.
"Don't be afraid, Iris," Isen whispered.
One hand gently stroked her long, pale-green hair.
"You're safe now."
His words couldn't undo the loss.
But she held onto him as if letting go meant losing the last of her world.
And as chaos raged beyond the walls,
The basement became a frozen moment —
a quiet sliver of a broken world
where only two hearts kept beating
In the dark.
A memory neither of them would ever forget.
——————————
The main road stretched beneath a brooding sky, heavy with the scent of snow mingled with the sweat of marching soldiers. At the head of the Mozarian army rode Isen—its commanding general—firm and unshaken in the saddle. His black cloak clung to his broad back, rippling faintly with each rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth.
Yet amidst the steady cadence of warhorses, one man noticed something amiss. Toss, the loyal knight who had ridden beside Isen through countless battles, narrowed his eyes.
Isen's sword—his personal weapon, usually strapped to his waist or tied to his saddle—was gone.
Frowning deeply, Toss felt unease twist in his gut. He couldn't keep silent.
"General Isen," he said in a hushed tone, urging his horse closer. "Your sword... where is it?"
Isen's breath was calm, but cold. His gaze remained fixed on the path ahead, as though Toss's words were little more than a breeze in passing.
"I don't need it anymore," he replied, voice low and razor-sharp, like a blade freshly let go.
His horse didn't falter. It carried him forward with unwavering rhythm, leaving Toss beside him to feel the sting of that answer like a chill striking through the ribs. Around them, the other knights exchanged brief glances. They understood the words, but in that understanding was something hollow, something quietly unnerving.
A general without a sword—no matter how skilled—was like a musician with no instrument. The sight of Isen, steel-eyed and resolute yet unarmed, unsettled them more than any enemy could.
Toss swallowed hard, struggling to reassure himself. He wanted to believe in the man he followed. But the emptiness radiating from Isen's back weighed heavier than it should have. The road ahead seemed longer now. And whatever waited in the shadows before them... it was drawing near.
Still, whatever it was, Toss knew one thing: he would ride with this man to the end. No matter what Isen had left behind.
The sound of hooves clattering against frosted earth echoed faintly as they passed beneath the thick canopy of the forest. Snow drifted silently, swallowed by the gloom. Sunlight was long gone, blotted out by towering branches. Shadows crept alongside the Mozarian army, as though the forest whispered of unseen threats.
Toss remained at Isen's side, eyes scanning sharply, alert to every movement.
Then—
Vfft!
A piercing sound cut through the silence.
A black arrow tore through the underbrush like a bolt of lightning, aimed at a single target—Isen, the unarmed general with hair as pale and cold as winter ice.
Before anyone could react, Isen moved. Just barely.
He raised a single hand and, with two fingers, caught the arrow mid-air. Effortlessly. As if plucking a falling leaf.
The entire army froze. Eyes widened in stunned silence.
But the stillness shattered a heartbeat later. From both sides of the path, shadows burst forth—black-clad figures, swift and silent like phantoms from a nightmare.
Forest bandits. Assassins. Every movement was precise. No battle cries, no warning. Their intent was clear: kill Isen.
The hiss of blades unsheathing rang out like a war drum. Toss and the other knights drew their swords in unison, forming a tight circle around their general.
"Protect the General!" Toss roared, raising his blade as the enemy surged toward them.
Steel clashed against steel. The forest roared with the chaos of battle. Leaves scattered as the shockwaves of each blow rippled through the trees. The Mozarian knights fought desperately, shielding their commander with everything they had.
Isen didn't move.
He remained motionless in his saddle, the arrow still gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes ice-sharp and calm as they studied each attacker. Watching. Measuring.
Minutes passed. The sounds of battle waned.
The ground, once quiet beneath fresh snow, now ran red with blood, soaking into the cold, damp earth. The forest floor was littered with fallen enemies. No one survived.
Toss rode up to Isen, sword dripping red, his face a mix of fury and concern. He glanced at the corpses and muttered darkly.
"Probably remnants of Aruria's forces... the ones who refuse to surrender. Cowards trying to strike from the shadows."
The other knights nodded grimly. They knew the kind who laid down their arms only to pick them up again when their backs were turned.
But Isen said nothing. His eyes were fixed on one of the corpses—a young man's face, bloodied but still recognizable. A black half-skull tattoo marked the side of his neck.
Isen's eyes narrowed.
Something wasn't right.
He rolled the arrow between his fingers with an unreadable expression. There was more to this attack than met the eye.
"No..." he murmured at last, barely above a whisper. "These weren't Aruria's men."
Toss furrowed his brow but held his tongue. He knew better than to press Isen for answers before the general was ready to give them.
A heavy silence settled over the forest.
The snow fell softly. The wind carried the faint, metallic scent of blood.
The road to the capital was still long.
But the shadow stalking them... was much closer than they realized.
——————————
The thunder of drums and gongs echoed across the capital of Mozaria, crashing like waves against the hearts of the countless citizens packed along both sides of the avenue. Victory's anthem rang loud and clear, flutes danced through lively scales, cymbals clashed in urgent rhythm, and the entire city seemed to spin in a whirlwind of euphoria.
Snow fell gently from the pale sky, mingling with rain of colorful petals tossed from balconies above, as though the heavens themselves had joined the celebration. Isen's procession advanced with solemn grandeur into the heart of the city. Tall and broad-shouldered beneath a black cloak, his steel armor shimmered with the cold reflection of the snow. He walked at the front of what remained of his army, his steps measured, unwavering, like ice untouched by the warmth of triumph.
On either side of the street, the crowd erupted with joy, their cheers nearly drowning out the howling wind. Children waved tiny flags with all their might. Some women wept openly. An old man looked skyward, as if seeking forgiveness from the gods. A mother clutched the returning body of her son, fresh from the battlefield, holding him as though afraid he might vanish again at any moment. Yet not far from her, another family stood frozen in grief, clutching a soldier's cloak with trembling hands—its owner never to return. Joy and sorrow clung to the air like twin threads of the same tapestry, impossible to untangle.
And yet, amid the emotional chaos, Isen marched on. His chiseled face was expressionless, sculpted in stone—no frown, no smile, not even a glimmer of pride. He was the hero of the day, the general who had secured victory. But nothing in his bearing showed any sense of celebration.
The thunderous applause seemed distant to him, as though muffled by a wall of ice. It felt like he walked alone in a world sealed in silence—a place with no laughter, no tears, only the echo of his footsteps reverberating inside a numb and hollow heart.
The long parade finally reached the majestic gates of Mozaria's royal palace. There, it halted before a backdrop of pale gray clouds. The towering spires glowed faintly in the dim light; their white stone gleaming against the encroaching dusk.
Slowly, the palace doors opened, revealing King Roza, now fifty, clad in deep violet robes embroidered with golden threads. His face bore the smile of a proud monarch, but his eyes flickered with emotions too complex to name.
He stepped forward with dignity, arms outstretched in welcome. Isen bowed low in reverence, as protocol demanded, while cheers continued to roar behind him. Yet even the king could sense that something beneath the stoic surface of this returning war hero was... wrong. A tremor. A crack in the ice.
This was a victory that only Isen could understand the true cost of. And to him, it felt like anything but a triumph.
King Roza descended the marble stairs slowly. His footsteps echoed faintly in the heavy stillness. He fixed his dark eyes on Isen's face, as if trying to pierce into the very soul beneath it, and then spoke in a voice that was both firm and strangely gentle.
"Isen of Mozaria," the king said, his voice distinct from the crowd's roar—clear, deep, and chilling. "A gifted boy who came to me ten years ago, asking only to guard the gates. And now, through strength, through courage, through blood spilled for this land, he has earned far more."
The king's voice rang across the courtyard. "Before all of Mozaria, I declare: from this day forth, you shall serve as my right hand.
A wave of astonished cheers surged through the plaza. The people roared Isen's name until it shook the palace walls. The music swelled—flutes screamed, cymbals clashed, the celebration exploded in sound.
But Isen did not flinch. Did not smile. His face remained unchanged, frozen like the snow beneath his boots. The adoration of the masses passed over him like wind over stone.
The king gave a faint smile and continued. "Your formal appointment will take place here... at dawn tomorrow."
His voice softened, yet somehow carried even further, like a decree from the gods.
"And from now until midnight—let all of Mozaria celebrate this victory with all their hearts!"
The proclamation hit like lightning in the heart of the capital.
At once, the drums roared to life again. Soldiers, knights, civilians—all let loose, unleashing every ounce of fear and pain they had buried during the war. They threw themselves into the festivities like madmen. Ale flowed freely from great barrels. Deep red wine was poured into iron cups until it spilled over like rivers of fleeting joy.
Some set up impromptu tables in the palace square. Others lit bonfires and began to dance wildly. Music roared once more—flutes and lutes dueling for dominance. People embraced, sang, and shouted with hoarse voices as if trying to drown out the memories of death.
Laughter. Weeping. Music. The clashing of cups. It was as if the whole world had been swallowed by a snowstorm of celebration.
But in the eye of the storm, Isen stood still, detached from the chaos. He tilted his face toward the falling snow, the flames and flakes reflected in his deep blue eyes. Those eyes were terrifying in their emptiness.
To him, this wasn't a victory. It was just another pile of corpses added to the weight on his shoulders.
He remembered every face he had killed. He had never forgotten.
The cheers and music faded behind him as Isen left the courtyard.
Snow still fell, endlessly. He walked through wet, dark streets toward the old cemetery at the city's edge—alone.
Around him, only silence and the whisper of snow against stone. Rows upon rows of gravestones stretched into the mist, disappearing into the white. Under the pale moonlight, he stepped past crumbling wooden markers, each carved with a name—a name that would never hear the songs of triumph tonight.
He did not stop at any grave. He just walked. His face is unreadable. His battlefield gaze was now hollow and haunted.
But inside... a storm raged.
Why do they get to rest... while I must keep walking?
The thought came quietly, yet it echoed with pain.
He envied the dead. Envied their release from this merciless world.
Thousands upon thousands he had slain—because of the king's orders, because of senseless war. Young lives thrown away like pawns, even the old pressed into battle.
This world was cruel.
Unjust.
So merciless it sickened him.
The snow on his cloak meant nothing. It could not chill him more than the cold already lodged in his heart.
Some part of him whispered—Let it end here.
Just stop walking. Fall. Let the snow bury you.
Would anyone mourn him? Or would the world keep spinning, never noticing he was gone?
Yet in that darkness... something tugged at him.
Something he couldn't name.
Is someone... still waiting for me?
The thought rose unbidden, defiant. Isen clenched his jaw. His breath came out in soft white clouds.
Grief crept into his expression. His lips twitched. His eyes blurred with emotion he hadn't let rise for years.
Then—footsteps. A frantic rhythm crunching through the snow.
"Lord Isen! You are here!"
Toss's voice broke from exhaustion. The smaller man stumbled through the drifts toward him, relief flooding his features.
Isen turned. His sorrow vanished in a breath. His mask returned, cold and unshakable.
Toss gave a sheepish, breathless chuckle. "I knew it. I knew you'd come to the cemetery…"
Then, more seriously, "King Roza requests your presence. In the garden. Alone."
Isen said nothing. Only a cold, unreadable gaze met the boy's eyes.
He nodded once, then turned and walked on. Silent. No footsteps. Just a shadow slipping away into the snow.
Toss watched him vanish, heart heavier than he could explain.
The soft crunch of Isen's footsteps on snow echoed through the silence that cloaked Mozaria Palace under the night sky.
He followed a gravel path, now blanketed in white, winding past a series of arched colonnades toward the royal garden behind the palace, just as King Roza had summoned him to do.
Though winter now reigned supreme, the garden retained its breathtaking beauty.
Flowers of all kinds bloomed defiantly against the biting cold, as though refusing to yield to the cruelty of the season.
Some stems bent delicately under the weight of silver snow; others dared to unfurl their vibrant petals, as if they had blossomed just moments ago.
Rare blooms from distant lands mingled with nearly extinct species that had long vanished from the kingdom of Mozaria.
A faint, enchanting fragrance lingered in the air, like a spell, momentarily washing away the scent of steel and blood that had clung to Isen for most of his life.
At the center of the garden stood King Roza, clad in a flowing white robe embroidered with golden thread. Surrounded by flowers in full bloom, his face beamed with childlike delight, as if he had just received the perfect gift.
Upon seeing Isen approach, he smiled broadly, eyes alight, and spoke in a voice as soft as the night breeze.
"Isen… just look at you," Roza said dreamily. "Do you see how beautiful these flowers are? Even as the snow falls, even in the cruelty of winter… they still bloom. Isn't it wondrous?"
Isen halted across from the king, his gaze drifting blankly over the field of blossoms before him.
His lips moved slightly as he offered a curt, obligatory reply.
"They are… exquisite, Your Majesty."
The words were cold, sharp as a blade left to chill in the frost.
But Roza took no offense. He merely chuckled softly, good-humored, and began walking slowly along the garden beds. His tone grew gentle, yet carried a weight that hinted at something deeper.
"Do you know why only the most beautiful flowers grow in this garden?"
Isen said nothing. The king continued, eyes gleaming.
"Because flowers that lack beauty… wither quickly."
Roza reached out and lightly touched a pale white rose in full bloom beside him. Its delicate petals shimmered like freshly fallen snow.
"They are devoured by the world too soon—forgotten, unlamented."
A quiet sigh escaped his lips, as though mourning those nameless, unremembered flowers.
"You should be like the Elizabeth Rose… do you know it, Isen?" he asked, casting a gentle smile.
Isen gave a slight nod.
The Elizabeth Rose—revered as one of the most beautiful flowers in existence.
Its silvery-white petals shimmered softly under moonlight, rarer than gold and said to bloom in only a handful of places across the world.
"That's what you must become," Roza whispered. "Beautiful. Gentle. Yet timeless in your grace… before the day you, too, wither away and vanish."
A cold wind stirred the air, light but piercing.
Isen lowered his head slightly, his jaw clenching without realizing it. The king's words struck something deep inside him.
Wither.
Be forgotten.
He, who had survived countless wars, who had taken more lives than he could count…
Was he, in the end, just another flower waiting to fall in the wind?
"Well then," Roza said at last, clapping his hands gently.
A servant standing nearby approached.
Dressed in black robes, the young man bowed respectfully before speaking softly to Isen.
"I will escort you to the chamber His Majesty has prepared, my lord—so that you may rest before tomorrow's ceremony of your appointment as the King's Right Hand."
Isen raised his head. His eyes, once again devoid of emotion, hardened into a steel-like focus.
He gave a brief nod and turned his back to the dreamlike garden.
Behind him, the Elizabeth Rose swayed gently in the wind, its fragile petals kissed by fresh snow.
Under a sky the color of tarnished silver, King Roza stood still, smiling—his eyes glowing with a fascination so intense, it bordered on madness.
The path Isen walked now led him toward something irreversible.
His footsteps grew fainter, leaving behind a trail in the snow, quickly buried beneath the falling white.
King Roza remained in the center of the garden, surrounded by flowers that still bloomed defiantly against the icy cold.
His gaze lingered in the direction Isen had gone.
The light of obsession in his eyes faded. In its place was a glacial calm, utterly devoid of warmth.
He was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a quiet voice, one that allowed no refusal:
"Cut it."
Another attendant stepped forward. He approached the Elizabeth Rose—the very one Roza had just likened to Isen—with the caution of someone nearing something sacred.
Gloved hands reached out to grasp its slender stem.
He drew a curved blade from his waist and, with a clean motion, sliced it through.
Snap.
A soft sound as the stem broke.
The silvery-white petals, once trembling in the cold wind, slipped from his hands and drifted down to the snow, lifeless—like a body giving up its final breath.
Roza stepped closer.
He stood over the fallen bloom like a judge over the condemned.
The delicate petals still glowed faintly, as if clinging to life one last time—but it was meaningless in the face of an unfeeling winter.
The king glanced down for the briefest second, then raised his boot and brought it down without hesitation.
Crunch.
The sound was soft. But to those who heard it, it was as though something within their chest had been torn.
Silver petals and the crimson core of the flower splattered against the pure white snow, like drops of blood staining innocence.
Roza pressed down harder, slowly, until the flower was reduced to pulp—a shapeless smear of crushed beauty.
"In the end…" he said quietly, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the ruin, "you'll wither too… just like this."
There was no sorrow in his voice. Not even a flicker of regret.
Only the cold truth of inevitability, unmerciful and absolute.
As the wind stirred again, his white robe fluttered.
Fragments of the shattered blossom were lifted briefly, then fell once more to the snow, drained of all grace.
Behind him, the garden still dazzled with impossible beauty.
But after witnessing the fate of one of its own… that beauty seemed to carry something razor-sharp hidden within its petals.
Roza turned his back on the remains and walked beneath the trellised archway without another glance.
He left the flower's ruin to be buried beneath falling snow… erasing the last trace of what had once been beautiful.
The heavy door creaked softly as it swung open, revealing a luxurious chamber prepared specifically by King Roza.
Isen stepped inside in silence, his cold gaze sweeping across the room without a hint of emotion.
The space was several times larger than his quarters outside the palace. The high ceiling was framed with gold filigree—vines and unfamiliar flowers curling in intricate designs. The walls were paneled with polished mirrors and ornately carved wood, adorned with oil paintings of spring landscapes that starkly contrasted the snow clinging to the windowpanes.
Silver curtains threaded with gold draped gently around a four-poster bed, their fabric rippling faintly in the soft breeze slipping through the tall windows.
The floor was covered in a thick, muted crimson carpet, patterned with wild roses. Everything in the room was beautiful—refined, elegant, and far too grand for a general's lodging, even for a single night.
And yet, not a flicker of awe crossed Isen's face.
On the contrary, his chest felt as though something unseen was tightening around it.
The luxury surrounding him only deepened the sense of alienation, like a pauper thrown into a palace without reason or warning.
This wasn't his place. It never had been.
He moved quietly into the center of the room, careful not to touch a thing. Then a voice spoke behind him.
"General Isen." A servant bowed low, his voice respectful. "Someone will be in shortly to assist you with your bath."
Isen halted and turned his impassive face toward the servant. His deep blue eyes reflected nothing but the man before him.
He responded instantly, his voice short and sharp, slicing through the servant's courtesy like a blade.
"I'll do it myself."
His words were firm and cold, and for a moment, the room seemed to fall completely still.
The servant's expression faltered briefly, though he maintained his decorum as he replied with caution.
"My apologies, sir. It's His Majesty's command. It cannot be changed..."
Isen's gaze dropped, just for a moment.
A faint crease formed on his brow—subtle, but betraying his displeasure despite his best efforts to hide it.
He sighed quietly, the sound laced with fatigue and reluctant surrender. Then, without a word, he gave a single indifferent nod.
Turning away from the servant without so much as a second glance, he let the matter drop.
The servant bowed again, then quietly exited the room, closing the heavy door behind him with a muted finality.
Click!
The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed softly—the last noise before silence wrapped around the chamber like a cold fog.
Isen walked slowly toward the bed. The gauzy curtains drifted in the breeze, as if reaching for something.
He sat down at the edge of the mattress, his tall frame upright, his posture composed but far from relaxed.
Gloved hands rested on his thighs, feeling the chill that clung to his trousers, snow-soaked from his walk back from the cemetery.
His eyes stared ahead into the emptiness, lifeless.
There was no excitement. No anticipation for tomorrow's knighting ceremony. Not even anger or sorrow.
Only a crushing emptiness—dense, suffocating.
He was just a knight. A tool thrown at death's doorstep on command, no different from a blade dulled by endless use.
And now, even the honor bestowed by the king felt like nothing more than a new chain, wrapped tight around his throat.
Isen slowly closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, leaning back against one of the golden bedposts, cold against his skin.
How long had it been… since he'd truly felt like himself?
Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in a frozen white silence.
And Isen… remained where he was—still as stone, waiting for someone he wasn't even sure existed.
Waiting for something to remind him that hope still lived in this world—that he still had a reason to stay.
A gentle knock broke the silence, rapping against the carved wooden door.
"May I come in?" A soft voice called from the other side, its politeness tinged with cautious hesitation.
Isen opened his eyes slowly. He exhaled, as if surrendering to the fate that was closing in around him.
His reply came quietly and flat, devoid of emotion.
"Enter."
The latch clicked softly, and the door eased open with deliberate care.
Four young women stepped inside, draped in flowing pale dresses and white veils trimmed with gold. They moved like whispers.
Each of them was beautiful, as if painted into being—their delicate features subtly adorned, just enough to accentuate their fragile allure.
They bowed deeply before Isen, as if to a god and a prisoner both.
Together, they wheeled a large brass tub into the center of the room, steam curling from the warm water. Alongside it came fragrant oils, soft towels, and bowls of scented foam.
Though the warmth of the bath filled the room, Isen felt as though he were sinking deeper into a cold that no heat could touch.
One of the women stepped forward, her voice gentle and respectful.
"Allow me to help you with your armor, General."
Isen's icy gaze lifted to meet hers. He answered with the same cold, clipped tone.
"I'll do it myself."
He reached for the straps across his chest and waist, shedding his heavy cloak with practiced ease. The outer layers slid from his broad shoulders, falling soundlessly to the carpet.
His armor came off quickly, followed by the inner garments, revealing a body lean and strong, scarred and pale like a war map drawn on flesh.
He undressed himself down to a thin pair of trousers clinging to his hips.
Another woman raised a hand gently, her voice touched with the hint of a smile.
"Your trousers too, General."
Isen exhaled again slowly, weightily. His sharp eyes were still empty.
His lips moved with cold finality.
"No."
The word rang out with quiet authority, so still and unwavering it seemed to freeze the air.
The women exchanged glances and small, knowing smiles—not offended, as though they had expected his refusal from the start.
One of them dipped her head slightly and spoke with softness like a lullaby.
"In that case… please step into the tub, General."
Her tone was sweet enough to soothe a child to sleep, but in Isen's ears, it echoed strangely, like distant water dripping in a cavern.
He said nothing more, stepping toward the tub with slow deliberation.
As his fingertips touched the surface, he lowered himself in until the water reached his chest. The warmth soaked into his skin in silence, but nothing could thaw the chill locked deep inside.
Women stepped forward again, ready to wash him with reverence.
But the moment a delicate hand neared his skin, Isen spoke once more—calm, quiet, lifeless.
"I'll do it myself."
He took the sponge from one of their hands and pressed it to his arm, scrubbing with brisk, mechanical motions.
The four women stepped back respectfully, offering towels and oils in silence.
Each time they moved to help, he repeated the same phrase, in the same cold tone:
"I'll do it myself."
He cleansed himself with unyielding precision, like a machine rinsing away blood and grime from its gears.
No tenderness. No care.
Just an urgent, silent purge—and a room so heavy with quiet it felt suffocating.
The soft scent of perfume drifted in the air, mingling with the steam and the gentle lapping of water.
A room meant to echo with light laughter and sweet conversation instead held only silence and chill.
The women watched in stillness as the tall figure moved with emotionless purpose, their eyes trembling with an unspoken ache.
This man—he had left no space for them to reach. Not out of contempt, but because the walls he had built were far too high to climb.
And Isen… had never intended for anyone to scale them.
At least—not them.
The candlelight flickered gently in King Roza's chamber.
Heavy crimson velvet drapes sealed the room away from the outside world, as though trapping it in an eternal night. The air was thick with the cloying scent of various flowers, mingled with the rich aroma of spilled red wine—a fragrance both intoxicating and oddly suffocating.
King Roza lounged in a modest throne placed at the heart of the room. Even in solitude, the mountain of power surrounding him never wavered.
His deep violet eyes, dark as the midnight sky, locked onto the bowed servant standing before him. The weight of his gaze was unnerving, as if it could strip a person bare and uncover their very essence in mere seconds.
A hurried set of footsteps echoed in the chamber, the sound of a servant returning from General Isen's quarters. The man came to an abrupt halt and dropped to one knee.
"Your Majesty…" His voice trembled ever so slightly. "The bath attendants have entered General Isen's room as planned."
Roza narrowed his eyes slightly. His lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile—one that was as unsettling as it was unreadable.
His slender fingers twitched slightly as he set his wine cup down on the side table, making no sound as it met the surface.
"I trust…" His voice was icy, like the edge of a blade slicing through the air.
"…this time, there will be no mistakes."
He didn't raise his voice, nor did he appear angered. Yet the sheer weight of his words pressed down on the chamber, suffocating every breath in the room.
The servant swallowed, forcing himself to remain composed despite the instinctual fear gnawing at him. He quickly responded, voice urgent.
"Yes, Your Majesty… I understand. They… have never failed in the past ten years. Not once."
A brief pause. Then, through gritted teeth, he continued.
"The assassination attempt on General Isen at the main road… was the first failure."
The word failure lingered in the silence, chilling and absolute.
King Roza lifted a delicate hand, tracing his fingertip along the rim of his wine cup. The fragile glass shivered under his touch.
A soft chuckle escaped him. Quiet. Yet sharp, like a blade slicing through skin without warning.
"Ten years of success…" Roza mused in a slow, silky whisper. His eyes lowered, gazing down at the servant like a predator observing prey.
"…and you think I would simply forgive one failure?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it was sharp enough to send a deep, icy chill down the servant's spine.
"If you fail again…"
Roza tilted his head slightly. His violet eyes gleamed like fire smoldering in the darkness.
"…your head will roll."
He did not shout. He did not threaten. And yet, his words carried a finality more merciless than any executioner's axe.
The servant turned ghostly pale, sweat trickling down his back. He immediately lowered himself even further, forehead nearly touching the floor.
"Understood, Your Majesty! Everything has been arranged flawlessly this time! There will be no disappointment!"
His voice wavered, yet his conviction was clear, rooted in a fear that had already seeped into his very bones.
Roza merely raised a hand, dismissing him without another glance.
The servant retreated, moving with the utmost caution, as though fearing that a single misstep would mean his end.
When the heavy wooden doors finally closed behind him, silence reclaimed the chamber.
King Roza remained in his seat, gazing absentmindedly at the wine cup beside him. His expression was unreadable, yet there was a fleeting, distant emptiness in his eyes.
His lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile—cold, cruel, utterly devoid of warmth.
"…Isen."
He murmured the name, as if speaking to the shadows lurking in the room.
"This time… you will not survive."
A warm mist hung in the air of the grand bathhouse, carrying the faint fragrance of the flowers floating on the water's surface.
Droplets of water clung to Isen's toned chest as he reclined in the marble bath, his eyes half-lidded in quiet repose.
The golden pitcher continued to pour, the steady trickle of water the only sound breaking the silence.
Kneeling at the bath's edge, four women waited in silence, composed, reverent, unassuming.
Then—
A whisper of fabric. A subtle shift in the air.
Something was wrong.
Decades on the battlefield had sharpened Isen's instincts to a razor's edge.
He did not open his eyes. He merely tilted his head slightly—
And in that fraction of a second, the near-silent swish of cloth being drawn aside reached his ears.
Four gleaming daggers flashed under the candlelight.
Each woman had drawn a blade from the folds of her dress.
The knives shot forward in unison, aimed straight for his throat.
SPLASH!
Water erupted as Isen twisted away, narrowly avoiding the attack. The blades skimmed past, missing him by a hair's breadth.
He moved with practiced ease, rising from the bath in a fluid motion. Water streamed down his body, pooling at his feet.
Weaponless. Armorless. Dressed in nothing but soaked linen pants.
Yet his deep blue eyes were steady, unshaken.
He exhaled softly, almost amused. "Hmph."
The women did not hesitate. Like ravenous beasts, they lunged at him once more, their blades flashing through the air.
Their hair whipped behind them, once-luxurious dresses now nothing more than tattered banners of impending death.
Isen shifted. Just slightly.
A precise step to the side.
The first two women's strikes missed their target, only for them to slam into each other mid-air.
THUD!
A sharp gasp escaped one of them as they collapsed to the ground, momentarily stunned.
The remaining two pressed forward, relentless as starving wolves.
Isen read their movements effortlessly.
He ducked just as a blade sliced through the air above him, its lethal edge whispering past his back.
The attackers overextended.
Their momentum betrayed them.
A split-second later—
CRASH!
They collided, the force of the impact sending one woman's head slamming against the marble edge of the bath.
Both crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
The room fell silent.
Isen stood amidst the wreckage, droplets sliding down his strong jawline.
Each of his movements had been precise, fluid, and effortless. Not a single wasted motion.
The four assassins lay unconscious on the cold marble floor.
He exhaled slowly, raking a wet hand through his hair in mild exasperation.
His deep blue eyes swept over the fallen women. There was no pity in his gaze. No mercy.
Only cold indifference.
For a moment, silence settled over the bathhouse—eerily still, like a mausoleum.
He exhaled again, quietly, detached.
If this had been the battlefield, they would all be dead by now.
But the war was over.
And he no longer had any desire to take up arms again.
Not unless he had no other choice.
He reached for his black cloak and draped it over his bare shoulders, paying no mind to the water dripping from his skin.
Without so much as a backward glance, he stepped toward the door.
The quiet drip, drip of water from his feet was the only sound, echoing like a death knell in the silent chamber.
Was this his judgment?
His punishment?
Was this the hell he deserved?
If so…
Let it come.
The clang of metal boots echoed through the stone hall, booming like a raging storm.
Isen stood before the carved wooden door, droplets of water still clinging to the damp ends of his hair.
His gaze was cast low, quickly scanning the situation ahead.
Bang!!
The door burst open with a tremendous kick, shattering into splinters.
Ten soldiers in heavy iron armor stormed in, weapons drawn and ready to strike.
Every eye gleamed with lethal intent — it was clear they had only one target.
Isen blinked once, then furrowed his brow.
This wasn't a fight he could win.
If it were before he'd laid down his weapons, he might have thought differently.
There was no time to hesitate.
He spun around and hurled himself at the massive stained glass window beside the room.
Crash!!
Glass exploded in a deafening burst, shards raining down like razor-edged rain.
His tall figure shot through into the outside world, leaving the stunned soldiers behind.
Icy wind slammed into his face.
Snow drifted down from the sky, the pale moonlight filtering through the white haze.
The world outside was eerily quiet… but only for a moment.
Slice!
Isen landed in the thick snow, rolling over and over to absorb the impact.
His body was now dusted in sharp, frozen crystals.
He looked up… and the sight before him froze his heart colder than the snow around him.
Knights in armor — men who once fought by his side — now stood in a circle, boxing him in.
Among them was Toss… the man who had once been his trusted subordinate.
Toss wore polished steel armor, a longsword marked with his family's crest at his side.
But his eyes brimmed with sorrow and regret.
Snow fell gently, as if the entire world had stopped to hold its breath.
Toss inhaled deeply, his voice trembling as he spoke,
"We've been ordered to execute the traitor..."
His jaw clenched.
"But I never thought... it would be you."
Isen stood still in the snowy clearing, his tattered cloak revealing small wounds from the shattered glass.
His chiseled face remained unreadable, not a hint of fear or panic.
He said nothing. Did not explain.
Only his cold, unwavering gaze met theirs — calm amid a silence that ached with pain.
From above, boots crunched on broken glass.
A soldier leaned out from the shattered window, his voice harsh and filled with greedy malice.
"Kill that traitor! By order of King Roza!
He harmed a woman in the royal court — unforgivable!!"
All eyes turned upward, including Isen's, following the voice as it rang out through the bitter cold.
Toss lowered his head, anguish written across his face.
Then, in the instant Isen turned away—
A whisper, barely audible:
"...I'm sorry, Commander Isen..."
Thud!!
The blade pierced flesh with a chilling finality, louder than any snowstorm.
Toss's longsword drove through Isen's abdomen, its blood-slick tip jutting from his back.
Silver steel stained with crimson.
Isen's deep blue eyes widened slightly but remained composed.
His sharp, sculpted features didn't waver, as though pain itself couldn't touch his heart.
Drop by drop, blood fell onto the pure snow, blooming into scarlet flowers in the dead of winter.
Toss gritted his teeth, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.
"I'm truly sorry…" he whispered again, voice quivering.
Isen said nothing.
He simply stood there, blood soaking through his clothes, snow clinging to his skin until he resembled a crimson ice sculpture.
His gaze drifted past Toss to the crescent moon hidden behind the falling snow—
As if thinking of something...
Something too far away to ever reach again.
Even as death loomed near, Isen felt none of the satisfaction he once imagined he would. The bitter wind, sharp and alive as it cut through him, was still warmer than the gaping hollow inside his chest. Death brought no release. It wasn't what he had been chasing all these years.
How strange. How laughable.
As blood poured from his wounds, he realized that the heart he thought had made peace with death… was crying out for something else.
His blurred vision slowly lifted upward, toward the night sky veiled in softly falling snow. A crescent moon shone high above, bright and cold against the darkness.
And then the memories came flooding in.
A crescent moon ten years ago.
A night when he reached out to save a little girl from death's grasp.
A night when she clung to him in a trembling embrace—so fragile, yet so warm.
Her first embrace… and the last he would ever know.
"Yes..." Isen thought. "It was never victory I wanted. Not glory. Not an escape from this world…"
All he had ever wanted… was her embrace.
The one that once gave him a new life and the one he let slip away like a fool.
Suddenly, the frostbitten expression that had frozen on his face for a decade began to crack, like ice under a hammer. His lips trembled, the ones always pressed tight in stoic silence. His eyes, once still as stone, widened, shimmering with tears. Then, warm drops spilled over blood-streaked cheeks.
For the first time in ten years… Isen let himself feel.
The soldiers standing around him—Toss among them, and knights who had once stood proudly by his side—were stunned into silence. None had ever seen the cold, composed general shed a tear. None had imagined that the man they revered as the Commander of Mozaria could wear such a face—
—the face of a man who, in his final moment, had discovered what mattered most.
Toss's hands were trembling. He stared at the sword still lodged in Isen's gut, his heart caught in a storm of emotion he couldn't name. Then he felt a faint pressure on his wrist.
Isen's bloodied hand was gripping his.
Tears welled in his eyes, his gaze pleading.
His voice came out ragged and low… but it echoed in Toss's heart like a thunderclap.
"Pull it… out…"
Toss clenched his teeth. The tears he never thought would fall came in a silent rush. He gave a slow nod, then wrapped his fingers around the hilt and pulled the blade free in one swift motion. A gush of crimson burst across the white snow.
Isen gasped, gritting his teeth, but he didn't waste a second.
With the last of his strength, he ran.
He surged forward, right through the thousand soldiers standing like a wall of flesh and steel.
But no one stopped him.
No swords were raised.
No feet moved to block his path.
Some soldiers behind shattered windows cried out for the "traitor" to be stopped.
But no one moved.
They only watched, silent, as the blood-soaked figure of their general raced into the brutal night.
Every step he took left a trail of red against the white.
Those soldiers, once his loyal subordinates, stood frozen. Their eyes followed him, full of grief, and in the silence, each prayed the same prayer:
Let him get away.
Toss collapsed to his knees, the weight of the world suddenly pressing down on his shoulders.
And at last...
Isen reached the gates of Mozaria.
The very gates that had once spelled his death… now opened into freedom.
He never looked back. Not once.
Because ahead of him was the only thing that mattered—
The embrace he had searched for his entire life.
Beneath the radiant crescent moon, in a snow-draped world, Isen crossed the threshold of Mozaria's capital for the last time.
Behind him, he left everything:
Fame.
Honor.
Sorrow.
And wounds that would never heal.
All that remained was a heart still aching...
And a flickering flame of hope that refused to die.
Just one more embrace…
Her embrace.
Iris…