418 AD.
Ever since Pope Novia founded the Holy Church and unified the state religion, and following the complete reform by Emperor Nero that granted them firm control over the empire, the long-standing Roman Empire—spanning from before the 3rd century—had already endured a century of escalating conflict between ecclesiastical and imperial powers. It had now been 23 years since the empire was split into Eastern and Western halves.
To this day, the two Roman Empires, despite appearing amicable on the surface, continue their cold rivalry. In the West, where religious authority holds sway, a growing ideology has taken root: that pagans are less than human. Meanwhile, the Eastern Roman Empire, still led by the Patriarch of Constantinople, adheres more to the ideals of peace and tolerance among believers.
Because of this ideological split, tensions have slowly risen between the Holy Church headquartered in Rome and the ecclesiastical alliance centered in Constantinople.
At this moment, Novia—now fourteen years old and having arrived in this era—is staying in the royal palace of Milan, the capital of the Western Roman Empire. More precisely, he is in a cramped courtyard building designated for "hostages," seated in a small room writing a letter.
The room, besides the young boy, is completely empty and dilapidated. The walls are crumbling, with moss and weeds growing between the cracks.
Novia sits before a rickety desk, staring at the yellowed parchment. The pen in his hand hasn't moved in minutes, and silence fills the space.
Looking out the window, soft gray-white snowflakes drift gently from the sky. Before long, they gather and blanket the earth.
Perhaps the cold stirred something in his mind. After taking a sip from his now-cold cup of water and setting it down on a damp spot on the floor where raindrops had once fallen with a crisp sound, he finally picks up his pen:
Dear King Rua,
I have followed our elders to the great city of Milan for three months now. Though our movement is restricted, she has received a proper education here at the Roman court. Please rest assured—I am slightly older and have taken it upon myself to care for her daily needs and manage our interactions with the Roman royal family.
She did attempt to escape a few times, but after I brought her back, she calmed down considerably.
These days, she no longer complains about the sound of her name as she once did. Back then, she always wanted something "cuter" to be called.
Perhaps it's because the elders can no longer hear her protests, and there's no one left to smile and say, "Here we go again."
And because of this, she's begun to grow into someone who can stand on her own.
All is well here. We have not been treated differently for not being part of the faith. Everything is fair and humane, so please don't worry.
The "King Rua" mentioned in the letter was the current leader of the Hunnic tribes. Earlier that year, he had signed a peace treaty with the Western Roman Empire. Under the terms of the treaty, both sides were required to send a noble family member to the other's territory as a hostage.
After sealing the letter, Novia stood up, preparing to send it out.
But even just standing up caused the wind-driven snow to batter against the window with such intensity that it sounded as though the entire building might collapse at any moment.
Though technically a habitable house, living here long-term might be worse than some half-decent prison.
With a hard-to-express feeling in his chest, Novia slowly made his way to the door.
Just as he opened it—
"I don't want to stay here anymore! Everyone here is a total villain—they're nothing like what you said. I don't want to be here even one more second! I want to go back. Let's run away together, Avia!"
Standing at the door was a twelve-year-old white-haired girl with brown skin, her blood-red eyes locking fiercely onto his.
"Avia" was the name Novia had taken after being found and raised by the Huns in this era.
"Attila—"
Novia noticed a thin layer of snow had formed atop her head. She must have been waiting outside all this time, unwilling to disturb him while he was inside.
He reached out, intending to brush the snow off her head—but Attila grabbed his hand, her face blank.
"Don't you think snow is beautiful? It buries all the other colors... even the whole world gets swallowed up.
If this snowfall could just go on and on—forever and ever—
Maybe you and I wouldn't have to waste so much energy killing them anymore."
Attila stared straight into his sea-blue eyes. Then, she paused and added:
"I don't like the name 'Attila.' I want a cuter-sounding name.
You know so much, Avia. Most of what I've learned is from you.
So... give me a name, okay?"
Seeing her expressionless face but hearing such a serious, earnest voice, Avia couldn't help but smile.
He reached out with his free hand again, and this time, the white-haired girl didn't resist. She quietly let him brush the snow off her head, her blood-red pupils still locked onto him.
Under the warmth of his hand, the snow melted silently.
"Here we go again."
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