They parted ways, one walking away, the other standing still. Her eyes were covered, yet Elira still felt the gaze on her back. She continued walking, her boots sinking into the snow. The chill seeped into her flesh.

  Elira took out a cigar, and with a flick of her hand, she lit it. The heat warmed her for a moment.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Smoke and fog spilled from Elira’s mouth, mixing together like a smudge. Like someone trying to erase a pencil stroke on a canvas, but their eraser is the cheapest quality.

  A step, then another. Elira walked through the cloud and it dispersed, as if it never existed. Only the stench lingered. She looked back. Mira was still there, unmoving. Elira turned away and kept walking. She took a puff, then another. Mira’s figure blurred under Elira’s dark eyes. She turned the corner, heading to her room.

  The corridor echoed with the heavy thud of her boots. Soldiers were clustered in small groups, sharing warmth, laughing at bad jokes or sharpening their blades. As Elira passed, the sounds died. Laughter was choked off. Eyes averted, staring intently at the floor or the wall. They pretended she was invisible, but their stiff postures gave them away. She wasn’t their comrade.

  Elira breathed out, smoke covering her eyes. She did not even use her power, yet she created a circle of silence wherever she walked.

  Elira did not feel good after sobering up. Call it PDD: Post-Drunk Depression.

  She opened the door to her iron casket. The knob was freezing; it stuck to her hand like a mother hugging a dead child. Inside, it was not quiet. Nyx was snoring on her bed. She snored like a middle-aged worker with a wife and two children to feed.

  Elira closed the door, leaving the wind outside. It remained cold in here. She took off her coat, thick and heavy, and dropped it on the bed. The sound echoed in the small room, but Nyx didn't stir. Elira took off her trousers; they were stained. The snow, melted by her body heat, had mixed with the dirt from where she had sat all night, gazing at the starless sky. She dropped them on the floor. Piece by piece, Elira stripped until she had only her undergarments on. The cold bit at her skin, every part of it, freezing her.

  Elira pulled a bucket from under her bed. It was made of wood and iron. Wood to hold the heat, iron to make it sturdy.

  Why was I made of flesh?

  Elira raised her hand. Water fell from it, slowly filling the bucket.

  Do you know there are two different ways to create water? One is very easy, the other shows your mastery over magic. First is the well-known [Create Water] spell, a utility every mage must learn. But the water created from this spell is not drinkable; it is actually just mana in disguise. To create actual water, you have to use a much more complex spell called [Elements Infusion], though I don’t know why it got that name. The information about this spell is weirdly restricted.

  Elira stared at her reflection in the water. For a moment, it really looked like him. The cold seemed to disappear. She sat there until a drop of water fell from her face, blurring the image. Then another drop followed. It felt like it was raining in this little room.

  Elira picked up a clean cloth, dipped it in the bucket, and started cleaning herself.

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  "Why are we doing this?"

  Elira laid on the ground, soaked with sweat and melted snow. Her chest heaved up and down.

  "To pay back the cigars you took. And those you will take, obviously."

  Major Viktor stood next to her, his arms crossed. His bald head gleamed from this angle.

  "That’s a pretty cheap price for the fancy cigars you gave me," Elira deadpanned, her breathing slowing down after a moment of rest.

  "You are much more useful if you can move faster."

  "I don’t wanna." Elira grabbed Viktor’s foot, a surprise attack, but his leg refused to budge. After a minute, she just gave up. Her muscles were too sore.

  "...It’s not like I could control them."

  "You are, and you will, if you agree to train your magic. But you refuse, because you’re afraid. Afraid of the fact that you absolutely could control your monsters. So the only thing we could do for now is physical training."

  "..."

  "..."

  A soldier rushed in, disrupting the silence.

  "Sir! The Holy Kingdom army is incoming. Much larger this time!"

  For once, Elira was glad that war had come.

  Hochkreuz rose from his bed. He stared at the wall for several minutes until his mind cleared. He stepped onto the floor, grunting at the sting in his back, a common thing for a man of his age. He stumbled to the bathroom, washed his face with freezing water, then went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

  A bowl of oatmeal and a cup of milk.

  He sat in the living room, staring at the bowl of burned oatmeal. He couldn’t pick up the cooking skill no matter how much he tried after Lissandra died. Though Liesel never complained. He had no appetite, also a common thing lately, so he just sat there. His back slouched. He looked at the painting on the wall. A woman and a little girl, smiling happily. A beautiful painting.

  Yet only the painter was still in this world.

  God, how can You be so cruel?

  Hochkreuz took a spoon of the oatmeal. It stuck like glue.

  After finishing breakfast, he dressed and stepped out. He walked to the church for the morning prayer. The path was the same as yesterday. The gray stones. The frozen mud. But the rhythm was broken.

  Crunch. Crunch.

  Yesterday, there was a double beat. A lighter set of footsteps matching his own. Today, the silence between his steps was deafening. He walked on the right side of the path, leaving the left side empty out of habit.

  "Morning, Marshal." A baker paused, a tray of bread in his hands. The man’s eyes flicked to the empty space beside Hochkreuz, then quickly back to his face. Pity. It was a terrible look on a grown man.

  "Morning," Hochkreuz replied. His voice was steady, but his throat felt like it was filled with glass.

  He walked on. Do not stop. Do not look down. If he looked down, he might see her footprints from yesterday, preserved in the ice.

  Inside the church, he sat in the crowd. He sent his message to God, but his mouth felt dry, as if he were swallowing ash.

  "Marshal, the setup is ready. All units are in the designated positions."

  Hochkreuz straightened his back. The father was gone; the Marshal remained.

  "And the main church backup?"

  "They arrived this morning, sir. They also brought this letter for you."

  Hochkreuz took the letter and nodded. "You can go now."

  The officer left the room. The office fell into silence. Hochkreuz stared at the name on the letter. After a long moment, he breathed out a slow, tired sigh.

  Dear old friend,

  I’m sorry for your loss.

  This is a risky and dangerous decision, but I know you will not back down from it.

  But I must warn you: if any of those saplings are harmed, you will have to repent with your life.

  God bless you.

  Mother.