A small but grand feast was held in honor of the guests who had traveled far to the capital. Inside the great hall, laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses. Platters of exquisite food, fine wine, and elegant courtesans filled the space with decadent indulgence. It was a rare occasion—such opulence was seldom seen—and the nobles took their time to mingle, forge alliances, and whisper secrets behind their masks.
But outside the golden glow of the hall stood Duke Lucas alone, silent on the balcony that overlooked his homeland. The moon bathed the familiar landscape in silver light. A faint sorrow flickered in his eyes—the old memory. He used to stand here as a child, his father's steady hand on his shoulder, pointing to the vastness of Empire and saying, "One day, this will all be yours."
Slow, graceful footsteps broke the silence. The Snow Knight approached, her silver hair shimmering under the moonlight. In her gloved hands, she carried two glasses of wine. She passed one to the Duke without a word.
"Never thought of you as a drinker," Lucas remarked, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
They sipped in silence.
Another presence arrived—silent, ghost-like, as if woven from shadow itself. No footsteps, no warning. The Emperor stood beside them, lifting his own glass with a quiet smirk. Together, they raised a toast under the stars.
This was the Empire's last bastion—its unshakable wall. The ones who bore the heaviest burden in the war to come.
"We ought to savor moments like this," the Emperor said solemnly. "It may be the last drink we share."
Lucas looked out across the capital. "This reminds me of the old days… when we stood side by side on the battlefield. How quickly time flies."
They chuckled, a brief echo of camaraderie from a different era. But the laughter faded, giving way to a cold stillness. The mood shifted.
"The dark before the light," murmured Lucas.
"Perhaps this is it," the Emperor replied.
"May we be that light," he added before turning and walking back into the hall, his regal figure swallowed once more by the celebration.
The Duke and the Snow Knight remained in silence, watching the stars. The stillness between them said everything words could not. They both knew—this could be the last peaceful night they shared.
Eventually, the Duke excused himself.
Later, back at his estate in the capital, the Duke stood before his wife and son. He held them close, but his eyes held only steel.
"The Empire is going to war," he said quietly. "I may not return for a long time."
Sadness gripped the room.
"You could die," the Duchess whispered.
He said nothing.
"Must you die for him? For the Emperor?" she asked again, her voice trembling.
Outside, fireworks exploded in the sky—colorful,yet mocking. A celebration for a war they did not understand.
"These nobles…" the Duke muttered to himself, watching the lights fade. "They have no idea what's coming."
War was no child's game. It was cruel, unforgiving. Many of those cheering in the halls had never seen a battlefield, never held the dying in their arms. And yet they toasted to bloodshed like it was a festival.
Seeing his silence, the Duchess took their child inside. She didn't look back.
The Duke remained, motionless, tears gliding down his cheeks.
He was tired.
Tired of killing. Tired of fighting. Tired of sacrificing himself so others could sleep soundly at night. His body ached, sustained only by Alaric's healing magic. But he knew if he didn't fight… if he didn't stand against the coming tide, it would devour them all.
Demons were rising. Dragons stirring. And the ancient prophecy was beginning to unfold.
He looked to the stars one last time.
May I be the light, he thought.
And then he turned, walking into the dark.