The bleak winter of the North had loosened its grip. The biting cold, once all-consuming, was now softened by the gentle warmth of the morning sun, its rays stretching long shadows over the frozen landscape. Yet, the beauty was marred.
The snow was no longer white.
It was tainted red—stained by the carcasses of monsters that littered the battlefield. Blood soaked into the frost, forming dark trails that steamed faintly under the sun. The scene was silent, save for the labored breaths of a small group standing amidst the carnage.
Their breath formed plumes of mist, dancing upward and dispersing into the cold air.
"You've gotten stronger," Barret said, his eyes fixed on the young man beside him.
Chris stood tall, his sword embedded deep into the snowy ground. His chest rose and fell with quiet steadiness, not a single flicker of exhaustion in his gaze. He had grown—not just taller, but harder, leaner, with the posture of a seasoned knight.
