Korvath's war chamber had never been this dim.
The great crystal lamps that normally flooded the stone room with golden light were reduced to scattered flickers, as if even they were exhausted by the past three days. Shadows clung to the high arches. The great round table—once polished to a military shine—now bore scorch marks, cracked ink bottles, and a stack of casualty reports tall enough to hide a man behind.
Lia Shinsei stood at the table's edge, knuckles pale against the wood as she watched the room fill. Officers limped in. Healers with bandaged arms supported generals twice their size. Mages with frostbitten fingertips clutched their robes like shivering monks. Everyone smelled of smoke, healing herbs, and fear.
Kouki's seat at the left side remained empty.
Iroko's throne-like chair remained untouched.
Reflynne's representative chair sat shattered, half-melted from the partial freeze.
Lia swallowed the burning in her throat. The meeting hadn't even begun, and already it felt like a funeral.
"Begin," she finally said.
The herald at the door struck the brass gong.
The echo was hollow, like hitting the shell of a dying beast.
A scribe rose, unrolled the newest parchment—still damp with ink—and started reading.
"Reflynne… reports total structural damage across the central and eastern districts. Estimated casualties: four thousand confirmed, possibly double. Central Security breached. Criminals—Masaboru Hoshikage and the so-called Suicidal Division—escaped custody and headed south. Property destruction—"
A commander slammed both fists on the table. "Enough property! Where are our defenders? What of the civilians?!"
"They are… still being counted," the scribe whispered.
Murmurs spread like a slow-moving plague. Someone swore. Someone else cried quietly into their hands.
Lia straightened, voice steady. "We will organize relief efforts. Korvath's healers will be deployed by morning. Do not—"
The western officer burst in, breathless.
"Reflynne sends additional notice. Survivor accounts confirm… unknown illusions, mind distortion, corrosive mist, necromancy. They claim the escaped division members are responsible."
The room instantly erupted.
"They were supposed to be locked down!"
"Kouki oversaw this—where is he now?"
"Are we fighting Valerian, Dargath, or our own criminals?!"
"This is madness! The guild is fractured—"
"Sit down!"
"No—you sit down!"
Arguments shot across the chamber like arrows. No rhythm, no order. Just crackling panic disguised as authority.
Lia felt the headache blooming behind her eyes. She slammed her palm against the table—hard enough to snap the nearest report in half.
"Everyone. Sit."
Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried the kind of weight that came from refusing to break when everything else did.
Slowly, reluctantly, the officers obeyed.
Lia exhaled and gestured to the southern mage who had been waiting at the back.
"Report the findings."
The mage stepped forward, robes trailing ice crystals. His lips were cracked purple.
"We have finished analyzing the remnants of Winter's Kiss," he began. "The ice discovered in Reflynne's eastern block matches the Frostholm signature, but… it has changed."
"Changed how?" an officer asked.
"In ways that cannot be explained by traditional magic systems." The mage swallowed. "Our attempt to replicate even one shard resulted in the destruction of three laboratories and the loss of six apprentices."
The room froze.
Lia's heartbeat kicked. "Meaning?"
"It has no counter."
Silence.
Clean, brutal, absolute silence.
For a moment the war chamber felt like the pause before a blade falls.
"No magical counter?" Lia asked, voice tight.
The mage shook his head.
"No historical counter? No artifact solution?"
"No records describe anything comparable."
"No alchemical reaction?"
"There is nothing known to Ostoria that can neutralize Winter's Kiss. Not potions, not rituals, not divine blessings."
Someone's chair scraped as they stood. "Then how do we defend the cities?!"
"We don't," another muttered.
The room fell apart again.
Shouting. Accusations. Officers pointing fingers at each other, at the absent Kouki, at the "idiot scientists," at the "incompetent guards," at anything that could hold blame long enough to make them feel less helpless.
One general leaned back, covering his face. "If Winter's Kiss evolves again, we'll be wiped out before sunrise."
Another officer hissed, "Iroko should never have sent the scouts—we need them here!"
"We need answers, not scouts!"
"We need weapons—"
"We need gods—"
"We need—"
Lia felt something inside her snap. The world was ending, and all these so-called leaders wanted to do was argue themselves into the grave.
She struck the table again.
Enough.
The booming crack silenced them.
Her hair clung to her face with sweat. Her breathing trembled in her chest. For the first time since the siege of Korvath years ago, she didn't bother hiding how exhausted she was.
"We cannot afford chaos," she said. "Not here. Not now. Everyone in this room holds a piece of Ostoria's future. If we lose control, the cities fall faster."
Her fingers hovered above the scattered parchment like she was piecing together a broken mirror.
"We will establish relief triads for Reflynne. Medical, reconstruction, and arcane stabilization teams. Prioritize survivors with frostburn—Winter's Kiss symptoms evolve with time."
She pointed at the eastern captain. "You'll gather manpower from the remaining guild branches."
Then to the central officers. "You will coordinate with the Healer's Union. Supplies first, morale second."
Finally, she faced the mages.
"You will continue analysis on Winter's Kiss. I don't care how impossible it seems—find a way to slow its spread."
Worn as she was, her voice held steel.
"Masaboru and his division are moving south. They are not our priority. Winter's Kiss is. If we do not solve that, Ostoria burns."
No one argued now.
No one dared.
They all just stared at her like a drowning crew looking at the only person still rowing.
The war chamber dimmed further as clouds passed over Korvath's towers. The air felt colder, heavier, as if the entire continent were holding its breath.
Lia sank into Kouki's empty chair.
"Let us begin," she whispered.
Outside the chamber, the bells of Korvath rang—a warning tone, long and hollow.
For the first time in centuries, Ostoria's capital city sounded like it was mourning its own future.