Ren stood over the map table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tracing the thin red line of the enemy's flank with his finger.

"If we want Durnholde's sacrifice to mean something," Ren said quietly, "we have to break through the Southern bastion. But we can't—not without help."

Noah looked up from the scattered reports. His gloves were still stained faintly with oil and ash. He hadn't slept in thirty-one hours.

"Help from who?" he asked.

Ren hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "The Iron Company. Mercenaries under Captain Arlen Creed. They're Central-born, but they've been fighting for coin, not crown. They can slip through Central lines. If we pay them enough, they'll open the gates for us."

May, standing nearby, slammed a fist on the table. "You want to trust Centrals with our lives?"

Ren didn't meet her eyes. "I want to win."

Noah's silence stretched thin as steel wire. The fire in the brazier hissed.

He thought of Wolf, laughing through the radio before the explosion.

He thought of the letters.

He thought of how many more would be written before this war ended.

"Arrange the meeting," he said finally. "But I'll sign it myself."

---

The mercenaries arrived two nights later under the veil of fog—ragged armor, banners stitched with rust and old blood.

Their leader, Arlen Creed, was tall and hard-eyed, his grin too polished to be human.

The tent was quiet except for the crackle of the lanterns. Creed leaned across the table, his gauntleted hand sliding forward as Noah watched, unblinking.

"The Iron Company offers loyalty," Creed said. "For a price."

Noah didn't look at Ren, who stood behind him, tense.

"Name it."

"A shipment of northern aether shells. Twenty crates." Creed smiled. "And your word that the Northern Empire will recognize the Iron Company as an independent force after the war."

Noah's pen moved soundlessly over parchment. His voice was calm, almost detached.

"Done."

Creed grinned wider.

"You're wiser than the stories say, Commander..."

***

That night, it rained.

Northern soldiers were asleep in their trenches, exhausted beyond dreams. May's unit had finally fallen silent. Even Ren, who rarely slept, dozed by the map table.

Then came the whispers.

Metal shifting.

A blade unsheathing.

A soft, choking sound in the dark.

Private Kell, barely nineteen, woke to the sound of gurgling in the next tent. When he peeked outside, he saw one of the Iron Company men drive a dagger into Sergeant Helmer's throat.

The rain carried the blood into the mud.

"...we've been betrayed!" someone screamed.

By the time Noah burst out of his tent, the camp was already on fire.

Central knights poured through the fog, guided by the mercenaries' flares. Their white armor gleamed red under the burning rain.

Ren stumbled into view, sword in hand, his cheek gashed. "They opened the east barricade! The Centrals—!"

"I see it."

Noah's voice was flat, but his pulse hammered like a drum.

He watched as one of the Iron Company soldiers dragged a northern medic through the mud and slit his throat. The man's laughter mixed with the thunder.

That sound stayed with him.

Then he walked toward the center of camp, through the burning canvas.

He simply whispered through the communicator,

"All units... withdraw to the inner camp. Prepare for counterstrike."

---

The air changed.

From the far trench line, a figure stepped out through the rain.

Iris Star who had just arrivee from a different unit with the Chrome Hearts came to find the camp in chaos.

Immediately she caught on what was happening.

Iris moved fast.

The Central knights saw her and raised their shields.

"She's one of them...get that bitch!-" one of them began.

But his words never finished.

Iris vanished.

A single sonic crack split the air then a knight was flung across the mud, armor crumpled inward like paper.

Another raised his sword; she pivoted, her knee driving into his chest.

Her movements were fluid.

The ground shimmered.

Red butterflies spiraled up around her in slow, ethereal arcs.

Each flutter left trails of crimson mist that burned wherever it touched exposed skin.

A knight swung and she caught his arm mid-swing, twisted, and the bone snapped with a dry crack.

Another lunged with a spear and she ducked low, punching upward.

The red butterflies swarmed, drifting lazily across the chaos, touching men as they screamed from the poison.

"You think mercy still exists in war?"

"Not when my beloved is endangered every second of the day..."

Iris murmured, her voice calm as she tore through another line.

May's artillery unit opened fire behind her. The shells landed like roaring comets, tearing trenches apart and setting ablaze the oil-soaked ground. The night turned to molten orange.

Still, Iris moved weaving through flame and death, her butterflies tracing paths of shimmering red light through the smoke.

Ren called out through the comms, "Inner camp secured...Northwestern flank holding!"

Noah stood by the burning remnants of the command tent, staring through the fire. In his left hand, he held the Iron Pact. The parchment was soaked, the ink running down his fingers like blood.

A voice whispered behind him.

"Commander."

It was Captain Creed the mercenary leader.

He knelt before Noah now, his armor half-burnt, his men scattered.

"You...you don't understand," Creed stammered.

Noah shot him through the heart.

The pistol's thunder was swallowed by the rain.

Creed's body hit the mud. His eyes stayed open, staring at the firelight.

Noah holstered the weapon and said nothing. His breath came shallow.

He looked at his hand. It was trembling.

He walked back through the camp, past the corpses of both friend and foe.

The Iron Company lay scattered throats cut, armor torn, faces unrecognizable. Iris stood amidst them, surrounded by the slow fall of her fading butterflies.

They disintegrated one by one, like dying embers in the rain.

Noah stopped beside her, looking out over the carnage. The mud was black with ash and blood.

Finally, Iris asked, "What will you do with him?"

She gestured to Creed's corpse.

Noah's voice was almost a whisper.

"Burn him. Same as the rest."

Iris nodded, watching him carefully. There was something strange in his tone...something hollow that frightened her more than his anger ever could.

"You did what you had to," she said, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Noah didn't answer.

Ren ran up to him, face streaked with soot.

"We've lost two battalions. May's artillery took heavy hits.

If not for Iris, we'd—"

"Don't thank her," Noah said quietly. "Just count who's left."

Ren froze.

"Noah…"

But Noah had already walked past, disappearing into the shadows beyond the wreckage.

---

Hours later, the rain had stopped.

Noah sat alone beside the smoldering pyres. The night was heavy with the smell of burnt oil and iron.

He opened his journal and began writing the names.

Every soldier who'd died in the betrayal. Every man and woman whose lives were spent buying time. His handwriting was steady, detached, like he was listing inventory rather than people.

When he reached the end of the page, he stopped. The ink trembled faintly from his grip.

He stared at the names.

And for a brief, haunting moment, he couldn't remember any of their faces.

He closed the book.