Tears in the Corridor
The long corridor of the Queen's palace was drenched in dim light, as if the walls themselves had conspired with the sorrow lingering in the air.
Quick footsteps shattered the silence—
It was Sarah, leaving Levi's office. Her eyes were red. She was not crying, yet you could feel her tears suspended in the air behind her, refusing to fall out of sheer pride.
At the other end of the corridor stood Hange. She froze for a moment, then slowly exhaled, whispering to herself:
"Levi… how long will you keep burying everything beneath the rubble?"
It was never her habit to interfere in personal matters.
But something in the way Sarah walked—
in that gaze that asked for no pity—
stirred something deep inside her.
Minutes later, Hange found herself standing before the Queen's door.
She knocked. Entered.
"Hange? At this hour?" Historia asked gently.
But Historia's smile faded the moment she saw something unfamiliar on Hange's face—
a blend of grief and restrained anger.
"It concerns the Corps," Hange said, stepping forward and sitting in silence for a moment before adding,
"Levi… and Sarah."
Historia raised an eyebrow, not mockingly—she was already reading between the lines.
"Sarah just left his office," Hange continued.
"Broken. And I don't need to be a psychologist to know he's the reason."
She paused, then added quietly:
"I know Levi. He doesn't speak much, but he feels far more than he admits.
The problem is that this world taught him that emotion is weakness…
and that whoever loves, loses."
Historia lowered her gaze, thinking, then murmured:
"He's like a stone shielding its fire from the rain…
but burning anyone who dares to come close."
Hange smiled faintly for the first time and replied in a low voice:
"That's why we need to rearrange things.
Not through jealousy, as you might think—
but through truth.
Levi doesn't need emotional shock.
He needs to see that feeling is not betrayal of the past.
That he can still love without punishing himself for it."
Historia turned toward the window, speaking thoughtfully:
"And you—what will you do?"
Hange rose, her tone soft yet resolute:
"I'll make him see what he keeps ignoring.
Not because we want to hurt him—
but because we want to save him from himself."
She moved toward the door, but Historia stopped her quietly:
"Wait… there's something else."
Hange turned back as Historia reached for a folded paper on a small table beside her bed.
The letter was two days old, sealed with Hizuru's crest.
"From Zeke?" Hange asked quickly.
Historia nodded, handing her the paper.
"It seems his negotiations with smaller nations are beginning to stir stagnant waters.
There are officers in Marley who no longer believe in Koslow's rule.
Hizuru is trying to sell the idea of an alliance with us…
but to the world, we're still a dormant island—
hiding death beneath the ashes of fear."
Hange read only the first line before folding the letter slowly.
"So we need to prove them wrong," she said. "But how?"
Historia replied calmly, as if she had already thought this through:
"Diplomacy doesn't begin at the table.
It begins in eyes that know how to look at the other without humiliation,
and tongues that understand difference before demanding agreement.
We need someone who knows aristocratic language,
their protocols, their way of speaking—
their weaknesses."
She looked directly at Hange.
"We need Sarah."
Hange raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised:
"You mean… to train the Corps?"
"Not militarily," Historia replied.
"Diplomatically.
She knows how to dismantle an aristocratic sentence without insulting its speaker.
She knows when silence is more effective than reply."
Then she added, almost reflectively:
"And perhaps—if she can rebuild how the Corps sees the world…
she might also rebuild how some of them see themselves."
Hange understood instantly and said softly:
"Levi."
Historia nodded.
"He respects her, despite his wounds.
And perhaps when he sees her in her true element—
among books, analysis, and vision—
when he sees how others look at her, not as just another soldier…
he may realize she is not a woman who threatens him,
but one who opens a new door to salvation."
Hange was silent for a moment, then whispered, as if speaking to herself:
"If Sarah accepts this role, it won't be for him alone…
but for the entire island.
And she is capable."
Historia smiled gently.
"And perhaps, finally…
we'll pull them both out of that battle no one wins—
the battle of running from oneself."
❖ Morning, Tasting of Silence
The next day, sunlight slipped shyly through the palace windows.
Sarah woke before anyone called her name.
She had slept little, yet nothing in her felt tired—
only frozen.
She gathered her hair with the same careful precision her mother once used before evening galas in Marley,
and chose a dress the color of dark garnet—
the shade a heart takes when it boils without releasing steam.
Her footsteps across the tiled corridor were quieter than necessary.
No one crossed her path…
yet she felt as though the walls themselves were watching.
She reached the dining hall.
The room was calm.
The Queen sat there, reading through papers.
Armin whispered something to Historia, and she laughed softly.
Nicolo was arranging the plates.
And—Levi sat in the corner, not looking at her.
Their eyes did not meet.
And perhaps that was what made the moment heavier.
Sarah sat down quietly.
She offered no greeting.
She did not apologize for being late.
She was a woman who had come to eat—
not to negotiate.
❖ A Morning Tinted with Silence
The next day, the sun slipped shyly through the palace windows.
Sarah woke before anyone came for her.
She had slept little, yet nothing in her felt exhausted…
only frozen.
She gathered her hair with the same careful precision her mother once used before evening receptions in Marley,
and dressed in a gown the color of dark garnet—
the color of a heart that burns without releasing its heat.
Her footsteps on the marble corridor were quieter than necessary.
No one crossed her path…
yet she felt as though the walls were watching her.
She reached the dining hall.
The room was calm.
The Queen sat reading papers.
Armin whispered something to Historia and laughed softly.
Nicolo arranged the dishes.
And—
Levi sat in the corner, not looking at her.
Their eyes did not meet.
And perhaps that was what made the moment heavier.
She sat down quietly.
No greeting.
No apology for being late.
She was a woman who came to eat—
not to negotiate.
Breaking the Silence
Nicolo was the first to speak, as he always was when the air grew heavier than it should.
He straightened up, a towel over his shoulder, trying to hide his concern behind a light smile:
"Sarah? Are we going to war dressed like this,
or have you decided to declare a new one?"
She didn't look at him right away.
For a few seconds, she stared into her cup,
as if weighing the cost of words before letting them go.
Then she lifted her head slowly,
and smiled a polite smile that never reached her eyes.
"No war today, Nicolo.
Just… duties."
Her voice was very calm,
but something in it said she was no longer the Sarah of yesterday.
The one who burned—
then closed the door on the fire.
Nicolo's smile faded gradually,
as if he suddenly understood that humor had no place here.
He opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it again,
nodded in quiet understanding, and fell silent.
From the Other Side of the Table
Levi watched in a heavy silence.
He did not look at her directly,
yet he never lost sight of her for a moment.
His hand tightened around his coffee cup more than necessary,
as if his fingers were trying to restrain a heart slipping from their grip.
The woman who had been a soft light yesterday
now stood as if she had placed distance between herself and the entire world.
As if she had built a wall in a single night—
and inside that wall was something she refused to let anyone see:
pain she did not drop,
but carried with her.
He said nothing.
No apology.
No explanation.
No retreat.
No approach.
But he turned his head slightly and closed his eyes for a very brief moment,
as if confessing only to himself:
She is not okay.
And I am the reason.
The Queen's Announcement
After breakfast, everyone remained standing, waiting for an explanation behind Historia's serious expression.
This morning did not feel like morning.
It felt like an extension of a night no one had slept through.
Historia raised her head and spoke in a calm voice—
one that carried urgency without haste:
"I want everyone to stay.
There is a matter concerning the future…
and all of you are involved."
Sarah blinked slowly, her voice sharp and steady:
"If this concerns military training or field operations,
then it does not concern me."
The message was clear:
no patience for pretenses,
no desire to play the grateful guest.
Historia smiled faintly—not politely, but knowingly.
"It's not combat this time, Sarah.
It's what comes after combat."
She paused, then continued with the weight of a leader shaping tomorrow:
"I received a message from Zeke two days ago.
The world is beginning to change.
There are quiet negotiations—cautious, but real.
Hizuru is moving. Other nations are watching.
And for the first time…
some are thinking of peace instead of siege."
The Scouts exchanged looks.
This was not talk of ceremony.
This was talk of fate.
Historia continued:
"It is not enough to fight bravely.
We must prove that we are a nation one can speak to—
not one waiting to be erased."
Hange added, with uncharacteristic calm:
"The world does not respect those who do not know how to speak to it.
Strength alone does not open doors—
sometimes, it closes them."
All eyes froze as the Queen went on:
"We need someone who understands the language of councils
as well as the language of blades."
Then she turned toward Sarah,
with a gaze that knew she would not accept easily:
"You come from a world fluent in politics, protocol,
and the hiding places of words.
You were raised among noble families, however cruel they were.
You know how our enemies think—
before our allies do."
Sarah did not answer.
She looked down, as something struggled within her.
This was not pride.
It was her heart stopping half a step—
somewhere else.
She finally spoke, her voice cold but unmistakably honest:
"Peace is a beautiful word, Your Majesty…
but I will not move a single step
until I know that Layla is safe."
Silence fell.
The sentence was not a threat.
It was a vow—
one that bowed only to blood.
Historia did not grow angry.
She simply nodded, with the eyes of a queen who understands what a person chooses to protect.
"And you will know.
I promise you."
Then she added, sealing something deeper than a task:
"When the news comes, Sarah,
this will not be a mission for you—
it will be your right
to shape the world your sister will return to."
Sarah raised her head.
The strength in her gaze was not refusal—
it was readiness waiting for light.
"When her news arrives…
I will teach you how to stand before an enemy
without a sword—
and without bowing."
She did not smile.
Yet in her silent summit,
the entire island felt that something had shifted.
Laughter did not come first.
Silence did.
It arrived like a cold draft before a storm, passing over faces and settling heavily in the room.
Jean—who usually turned any tension into a joke—cleared his throat and spoke, his tone lighter than the weight behind it:
"If we're going to face the world, I'd rather learn its language first… before we're judged by our swords alone."
This time, it wasn't sarcasm.
It was the voice of a man who had finally understood that war alone does not build a homeland.
Connie looked down for a moment, then raised his head.
"We know war," he said quietly.
"But we don't know peace. Maybe… it's time we learn."
The words were simple, yet they landed like a bitter confession.
Armin smiled—a shy, hopeful light in his eyes.
"This is an important step. Peace needs strength… but it also needs people who know how to speak with dignity."
Mikasa remained silent, watching Sarah.
She said nothing, yet her gaze spoke clearly:
I see your strength, even when it trembles.
Then Niccolo stepped forward, just one small step. His voice was calm, free of performance.
"In Marley… aristocracy isn't just elegance. It's a weapon.
Sarah understands that better than anyone.
And if you need support in this new kind of battle… I'm here."
It wasn't merely an offer of help.
It was loyalty—
to someone in whom he had found a peace he never found in his homeland.
At that moment, everyone's eyes turned toward Levi.
He didn't speak.
Didn't even move.
His hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders straight as always—but his eyes…
his eyes betrayed a fleeting moment: worry, restrained jealousy, and a confession that never reached his lips.
She isn't theirs…
Yet all he said, coldly, as if donning a final shield, was:
"As long as the goal is serving the island… we'll comply."
But his voice—unlike him—was not entirely firm.
It hesitated for half a second… half a wound… half a confession.
And Sarah?
She didn't look at him.
She simply said, her tone calm, unbending, untouched:
"I'll begin when news of my sister arrives. Until then… I'll observe. And I won't participate."
Her words were solid—like someone drawing boundaries to avoid breaking again.
And it was impossible to tell then…
Was she protecting her own heart?
Or punishing another heart that lacked the courage to speak its name?
When the others left the dining hall, Sarah remained seated for a moment.
She wasn't waiting for anyone.
She was staring at the shadows the crowd had left behind—as if reading the traces of a battle yet to come.
Her eyes no longer held weakness, but something harsher:
resolve forged after disappointment.
She lifted her hand slowly, adjusting the strands of hair loosened by tension—as if rearranging her face… not for them, but for herself.
If this is the beginning of something,
then it will be on my terms.
She said it inwardly, her voice no longer shaking.
At the far end of the hall, Levi had already left.
He didn't look back.
But his steps were not as decisive as everyone was used to.
As if the ground itself no longer yielded easily beneath the weight of his thoughts.
Something in him shattered—silently.
No noise. No confession.
Only that heavy silence he knew too well…
the silence of someone who has seen what he might lose, yet lacks the courage to admit that he wants it.
In his heart, a single sentence echoed like an old scar:
She's moving away… and I'm the one who pushed her.
As for Sarah—
as she walked alone through the corridor, the palace felt quieter than it should have.
But with every step, her silence wrote a new line—
a line with no room left for hesitation.
She was no longer waiting to be saved.
And Levi?
He had only just begun to realize
that he was the one who needed saving.
Do you think Sarah is protecting her heart… or punishing Levi for his silence?