The snow had turned red in patches, steam rising off it where blood met the cold.
Elgard rolled his shoulder, testing the numbness still crawling up from his knuckles. Beside him, Nelico's spectacles caught the light, calculations running behind his eyes.
Across the ruined hall, Lexel and Fran stood shoulder to shoulder. The old knight's blade hummed faintly, Caladbolg drinking in whatever aether hung in the air.
"Fran," Elgard said, voice flat, betrayal dressed up as disappointment. "Forty years of service. This is how it ends?"
"Forty years," Fran repeated, something bitter curling the words. "Forty years, and you couldn't tell me where my daughter was."
"Your daughter chose her own path the moment she—"
"Don't." Fran's grip tightened on the hilt. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
Lexel glanced sideways at him. "You good?"
"I'm fine." Fran didn't look back. "Focus on the mage. I'll handle the king."
