Snow and smoke fell together that day.
The white of Frostveil's coastline was no longer white — it was grey, bruised by ash and fire. The port that once shimmered like a frozen mirror now groaned under the weight of artillery thunder and the shriek of relic shells. The sea foamed crimson where the wounded fell, their cries swallowed by the roaring wind.
Noah stood at the heart of it — the Silver General — his mask cracked at the edge, his cloak torn, and his hands steady despite the tremor beneath the ground. The banners of the North snapped in the wind behind him. Around him, officers scrambled, voices colliding in a chorus of panic.
"Relic artillery incoming!"
"They've breached the east flank—!"
"Communication line with the Sixth Battalion's down!"
Every word was chaos trying to make sense of chaos.
Noah raised a hand and silence fell among his immediate ranks. His tone, when he spoke, was calm — frighteningly calm.
"Signal retreat."
