There was a moment when Lucar, the old knight, felt something sting the corners of his eyes.

A man who had seen countless deaths, a blade that had long since dulled its emotions, found himself blinking away a faint sheen of red, heat that had not come from fire, but something more tangled.

He didn’t speak right away. He couldn’t.

His voice, when it emerged, was thick and low. “Then allow me to ask one thing, Your Highness,” he said. “This northland you’ve seen… standing alone amid the snowstorm, is it a monster that ought to be slain, or a lonely wolf that deserves to be embraced?”

The question carried the weight of centuries.

All of the north’s old wounds, buried beneath thick layers of frost and silence, had begun to surface. Beneath the stoic expressions and rigid decorum, the scars glistened. Red, raw, still aching.

How long had these people suffered? How long had they been told to endure?

For a brief, unexpected moment, Aziel felt not judgment, not anger, but something that surprised even himself.

Not pity.

Melancholy.

But not for them, for himself.

Why is nothing ever simple?

Perhaps out of spite for the sentiment, he responded in the most Aziel way possible.

“Wolf? What wolf?” he scoffed, folding his arms with a scowl. “You’re all bears. Fat, shaggy bears.”

“…Bears, Your Highness?” Lucar repeated, blinking.

“Yes. Great big ones, too. Slouched over in a corner, sobbing like cubs. Absolutely pathetic. Wasting all that mass and muscle sulking in caves. Damn shame, really.”

Balzac cleared his throat. “And what, exactly, would Your Highness do, faced with such a bear?”

“Kick its arse,” Aziel said without hesitation. “Get it up and moving. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll boot it in the spine. Even if I break my foot on its thick hide, I’d do it. I hate seeing miserable creatures moping around.”

Lucar’s voice was careful. “And… after that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it finds honey. Maybe it follows me. I’m not its keeper.”

“You wouldn’t advise it, then?”

“What am I, its therapist?” Aziel snorted. “You want a roadmap to your purpose too? Please. I don’t coddle sulking beasts. I shove them forward. If they have any sense, they’ll figure the rest out.”

Lucar looked vaguely amused. “So that’s it?”

“Hmph. I’m not the sort who strokes backs and whispers encouragement. If I pick you up, it’s your job to start walking. I’m here to clear obstacles. That’s all.”

Lucar let out a long breath. “Cold.”

“See? You will complain no matter what I do,” Aziel grumbled. “I help you stand and you call it cold. What a waste of broad shoulders. Both of you are the same, giant men who can’t take a hit without pouting.”

And yet, as if timed, a slow smile began to form on Lucar’s weathered face. Balzac, too, cracked a rare grin. Even the old soldiers, who had watched in silence, let out quiet chuckles.

Yes, this was the Aziel they had come to know.

Not gentle. Not sweet. But unflinchingly honest.

He didn’t coat his intentions with honey. He said what he thought, did what he said, and expected everyone else to do the same.

And in that, they found something rare.

Trust.

“If Your Highness had stroked our backs and murmured kind words,” Lucar admitted, “I doubt we would’ve believed you.”

“Blasphemous bear,” Aziel muttered.

“We believe you now.”

“Not like you have other options,” Aziel sniffed. “Who else are you gonna follow?”

Lucar grinned wider. “You’re right, of course.”

Beside them, however, Balzac looked unsettled. He’d been quiet for a while, but the thought clearly weighed heavy.

“We trust Your Highness,” he said softly. “And you’ve helped us rise again. But…” He hesitated. “Will the center believe as we do?”

Aziel groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Lucar,” he said, “your son’s got the worst timing. Every time I try to close a conversation nicely, he just has to dig it all up again. Same thing last time,asking questions with obvious answers.”

Lucar chuckled. “He does have his clumsy moments. Please, guide him with patience.”

“Father!” Balzac snapped, scandalized. “I’m still a Count!”

“I’m a prince,” Aziel replied.

“I’m your father,” Lucar added.

“Then shut up and clear the path.”

“…Yes, Father,” Balzac sighed.

Even the soldiers were chuckling now. Andre gave the grumbling Balzac a hearty pat on the back. Sol tried to smother a laugh.

It was enough comfort that Aziel let them be.

They walked for a time. Hours, perhaps. The wind bit against their cheeks, but no one complained.

When at last they reached the edge of the forest, where the trees began to thin and the faint walls of Northwall could be glimpsed in the distance, Aziel stopped again.

This time, it wasn’t to speak.

Not at first.

He simply stared at the sky, where flakes of snow danced lazily. His eyes gleamed a little too brightly.

Then, as if thinking aloud, he muttered, “…Not bad.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“…What isn’t bad?” Lucar asked cautiously.

The prince smiled. Wide. Dangerous. His red eyes flared.

“Please don’t,” Balzac muttered. “Whatever it is, just, please, not now.”

“Your Highness,” Alfred said, ever gentle, “what did you mean, precisely?”

Sol clutched Alfred’s sleeve. “Make him stop. Please. Just once. Be useful.”

“I’m just a butler,” Alfred replied, unhelpfully. “Not a leash.”

Those who had spent time with Aziel knew that look.

That smile.

It always meant the same thing.

                                      – Something big was coming.-

“…Rebellion,” Aziel said. “Now that I think about it… doesn’t sound so bad.”

Everyone went still, even the trees …wind …time.

“Excuse me?” Lucar blinked.

“Maybe we should plan it,” Aziel mused, scratching his chin. “Out in the open. With flair.”

Birds took flight from the treetops, cawing and flapping in panic.

Sol’s eyes snapped shut.

“…This is happening again,” Andre whispered.

“…It’s war,” Aziel continued. “Might as well make it interesting.”

At Northwall, things had been tense from the moment the Counts left.

There were rumors.

That a firestorm had lit up the northern woods, that the Eskimos were on the move, that the prince had gone mad.

The hearths burned hot, thanks to the bonfire engine. But unease grew thicker with each hour.

The snow was like a canvas, perfect for painting fear.

“Where is the Count?”

“No word yet. Only fragmented reports.”

“Should we dispatch more search teams?”

“We already sent our elite squads. If we move more, the wall itself will be unguarded.”

Kardis, Balzac’s eldest, stood before the fire, face stoic.

The arguments around him were loud. But beneath all the noise,he heard only one thing.

Loyalty.

And that gave him resolve.

“If Father does not return by dawn,” he said, “mobilize all forces. Begin search operations. And if…”

He couldn’t say the rest.

Because a shout came from the watchtower.

“There! The Count! I see the Count!”

“They’re back!”

“They’re with the Prince!”

Soldiers scrambled to the wall.

They came into view, three figures, walking in step. The prince at the center, flanked by both Counts.

But their expressions … 

“…Why do they look so grim?”

“…But the prince looks happy.”

“…What the hell happened out there?”

No one could say.

But a creeping unease settled across the garrison.

Minutes later, the alarms sounded.

“WEEEEEEEEEOOOOOH!”

The siren split the sky.

Men and women dropped what they were doing.

Children screamed. Mothers pulled them close.

Then, Count Balzac’s voice:

“This is Count Balzac of the northern frontier. To all citizens and lords, please listen carefully.”

It was rare to hear the Count’s voice so directly.

That alone sent chills down spines.

And then …

“Tch. You’re too slow. I’ll do it.” Another voice. Smooth. Cold. Royal.

“…Who has the nerve … ?”

“Aziel Ironia. Eleventh Prince of the Empire. Speaking.”

Shock.

Panic.

“Get down!”

“Bow … bow, now!”

Even elderly grandmothers dropped to their knees. The name of a prince was legend. Sacred.

His voice spread like a flame.

“Gather all forces. Every man, every blade. All who’ve stood atop Northwall. To the wall.”

A collective shudder.

This wasn’t a drill.

This was war.

“O children of the north,” he said. “Take up arms. Protect your land. The frost is coming.”

Then … silence.

Across the Empire, agents stirred.

Messages were dispatched.

The central government froze.

And from intelligence reports:

“Prince Aziel, possible alliance with the north. Suspected conspiracy. Rebellion likely. High alert.”

A storm of flame and ice had begun to swirl.

And somewhere, as snow began to fall again…

The prince smiled.