Life is like a random day. Sometimes it can be bright, full of vitality and joy, with children running and laughing while their innocence fills the air. But other times it turns stormy, drenched in rain and mud, forcing people to remain indoors or simply gaze out the window, patiently waiting for it all to pass.
Stories are no different. They change depending on who tells them, on the inspiration of the moment, and the heart of the one who reads them. This story, for many, will be heartbreaking and sad. For others, a refreshing relief that speaks of the fragility of glory.
Claude von Soler, Archduke of the Human Empire, was one of the four most powerful generals among his kind. A true master of aura. A prodigy who, at barely fifteen years old, had surpassed his own father—the former general of the northern army—breaking records once thought unreachable, as if it were merely a trivial stroll.
Most people trained their entire lives hoping to feel, just for an instant, the flicker of aura in their hands. Claude, on the other hand, by the age of twenty already commanded his sword shrouded in an aura so frigid he could shape ice at will, like a sorcerer born of legend.
With a single motion, he was capable of annihilating entire armies, transforming everything he touched into fragile statues of frost. By twenty-five, he had become a hero to his people... and a cold, ruthless monster in the eyes of many others.
The Human Empire was an elitist place, where countless rules upheld the hierarchy with an iron fist. One of those decrees stated that any master of aura who reached a certain rank had to marry before the age of twenty-six and sire an heir to carry on the lineage. According to tradition, this ensured the inheritance of power would never be diluted.
And it worked. No one could deny it. It was no coincidence that this mandate had remained in effect since the founding of the kingdom, and it was always the same families who gave birth to the prodigies destined to rise above the rest.
Claude's father had fulfilled this duty, as had his grandfather and each of his ancestors. Generation after generation, his lineage ruled the north with a steady hand, long before the other three generals ever raised their banners. They were the first. And their power earned them respect—but also the deep hatred of many, including the emperor.
In the previous generation, that hatred had seemed to wane. Claude's father had been His Majesty's closest friend, and people believed the old enmity was buried. But the illusion ended the day his father died. The new emperor, raised in resentment by his grandfather, ascended the throne with an unrelenting disdain for Claude—a scorn that burned like an open wound.
Claude, a man of imposing bearing, with golden hair and blue eyes that seemed to observe the world with absolute indifference, attracted everyone's gaze. His body, sculpted with the precision of an artist—neither overly muscular nor too slender—was the very image of perfection. Some said it was the work of his prodigious aura. Others claimed it was simply the product of an unparalleled bloodline. Perhaps the only thing he lacked was the faintest trace of emotion on his face. His countenance, perpetually cold, remained unchanged even in the face of His Majesty's most brazen provocations. He fulfilled every assignment with the precision of a clock, only to return home without a word.
When he reached twenty-five years of age, the inevitable moment of marriage arrived. Even the emperor, feigning an affable smile, chose to assist in the search for the perfect bride for the genius of the Human Empire.
The chosen woman was a young lady of gentle demeanor, from a family that had risen with astonishing speed among the nobility. Her father, a renowned blacksmith, had created a revolutionary forging technique: it allowed aura masters to double the energy they unleashed when wielding their weapons, increasing their power so dramatically that the swords seemed almost alive. Even knights who could barely summon a flicker of aura could, thanks to this method, fuse it into their blades and become deadly adversaries.
It was for that achievement that the emperor had granted her family a sudden and spectacular elevation in rank, even though many protested to see simple commoners transformed overnight into part of imperial glory.
The bride-to-be was Sarina Le Ciel, the eldest daughter. Unlike her younger sisters, who had grown up surrounded by luxury and protocol, Sarina had known the misery of her former village. To many, she was nothing but a peasant girl who had happened to be born at the right moment.
Most were convinced that Claude would reject her without mercy, just as he had done for years with all the women who approached him. Not even the emperor's proposals had bent his will. But to almost no one's surprise, Claude accepted as he accepted all things: with an inscrutable serenity.
The wedding was splendid. The entire empire dressed in celebration, though the rumors never ceased. Some whispered that the Le Ciel family did not deserve to share such an illustrious legacy, that the emperor was provoking unnecessary conflict with the duke. But nothing happened. Everything unfolded in an unsettling calm.
Claude attended every noble gathering with his wife, always wearing the same unchanging expression. Sarina, for her part, endured the scornful stares with unexpected grace. Over time, her intelligence and charm began to silence every tongue. Even the emperor started to feel ashamed, realizing that his scheme had achieved exactly the opposite of what he intended.
It was then, in a surge of vanity—or perhaps madness—that the emperor chose to rekindle a fire long dormant. For hundreds of years, the Demon Empire had been humanity's sworn enemy, but peace was finally within reach. And in a gesture as petty as it was absurd, His Majesty offended the princess of the Demon Empire, awakening a war that had been slowly dying.
And everyone was forced to pay the price. Claude, as the general tasked with defending the north—the direct border with the demon realm—was once more sent to the front lines.
…
A man who seemed eternally young, so calm and serene that his presence felt almost unreal, walked in silence through a castle that, long ago, had been the very image of a fairy tale: white and blue walls that shone beneath the sun, columns carved with the delicate grace of glory itself. Now, everything was stained with blood. The once-polished floor was covered with bodies sprawled in undignified heaps.
He advanced with heavy steps, his cold gaze sweeping across the landscape of death. Each footprint he left behind seemed to freeze the blood that flowed in dark rivers around him. From his hand hung a sword of a deep blue hue, its blade dripping with the blood of countless enemies who had dared to stand in his way.
He did not hasten his pace. He walked with the slowness of one carrying an impossible weight. As if every movement of his legs dragged tons behind them. As if only the force of his will kept him on his feet. And still, not a single flicker of emotion broke the mask on his face.
When he reached the castle's main hall, he found the doors covered in bloody handprints. He raised a hand with an almost mechanical motion and pushed the door open. The gate swung with a guttural creak that was swallowed by the echoes of absolute silence.
Upon entering, his gaze met that of a young woman whose hair was as red as flame itself, so radiant that not even the blood soaking her sky-blue dress could dim its light. Her green eyes, once so bright, were now a sea of pain and exhaustion. She was sitting against the wall, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of beings with black horns sprouting from their foreheads: the mark of demons.
The young woman was breathing with difficulty. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as blood trickled from the wounds that covered her body. She could barely keep her eyelids open.
Claude rushed to her side, breaking the calm of his steps for the first time. He knelt beside her, and with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly, began to freeze her wounds in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. But she shook her head, a slow gesture laden with resignation.
"It's... it's too late, Claude. I was only waiting for you. There is no blood left in my body... I'm only alive because my aura sustains me," she murmured in a broken voice.
Claude could feel that energy coursing through her, replacing the life that was slipping away. But he could also feel how it consumed her from within, like a cold fire that was destroying her. Aura was not meant to keep a broken body alive. It only prolonged the suffering, only held her in this world a moment longer... so she could say goodbye.
"Serina," he whispered, kneeling in front of her, not knowing how to stop the inevitable. For the first time, his unshakable expression cracked. Grief emerged, cruel and unstoppable, breaking the wall that had kept him apart from the world for so many years. At last, his emotions rose to the surface.
"I don't know if I should feel happy... to finally see an emotion on your face, after searching for it so long... or if I should hate that it's sorrow," she said with a weak smile, lifting her trembling hand. Claude took it carefully, pressing her fingers against his cheek.
"Haha... you were always such a fool, Claude. Cold... arrogant... a hopeless fool. You made me struggle so much to win you over... you even fled the bed when I tried to seduce you..." Her gaze filled with tears, but still, her lips shaped a smile steeped in tenderness.
"And still... I love you. I loved you and I will always love you... every part of you. Your distant look, your harsh words... when you simply didn't know how to treat a woman... your hair... the way you looked at me when you wanted to show love but couldn't find the way... your touch... when I awoke as a spiritual master and my body couldn't bear the change. You spent days watching over me... and when I opened my eyes, you ran away. You are... a fool. My great and beloved fool."
Little by little, her aura began to fade. The spark of her life was consumed with every breath.
"Please... tell me. One last time. Say those words... our vows," she pleaded in a whisper that barely rose above the silence.
Claude closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the courage he had never known he would need.
"The day you appeared before me, with that furious gaze... it was like seeing the sun after an endless winter. The warmth that thawed my heart, when there was nothing left but ice... the warm, chaotic breeze that shattered my orderly world... and still... I couldn't take my eyes off your smile. The smile that made me fall in love... slowly... and completely, until it taught me emotions I never knew existed."
Suddenly, he felt Serina's heartbeat stop. She closed her eyes, her expression softening into a peace that no longer knew pain. And still, Claude held her hand against his cheek and continued:
"You are the light that came into my world to banish the darkness... the owner of my soul and my heart. You are the love of my life."
A single tear fell, silent, tracing a bright path down his skin. The first tear his face had ever known.
When he leaned in to embrace her, he understood that Serina was no longer there. She would never be there again. Not ever.
It was then that all his power, contained for so many years, finally spilled over. Snow began to fall from the sky, covering every corner of the city. In a single instant, the entire territory of the duke was wrapped in an eternal shroud of ice. The houses that had burned, consumed by the flames, froze in the middle of their agony. Even the fire remained intact, like sculptures frozen in disaster.