Chapter #55: The Judgment of Ice
General Markus Falken's fury thundered through the corridors of Fort Briggs like a cannon blast.
"Where the hell is Colonel Armstrong?" he roared, slamming his fist onto the command table.
The officers present avoided his gaze. Outside, the snowstorm howled against the walls, as if the North itself sensed that something was about to break. Briggs was a living fortress—one body, one purpose. And when something threatened that body, the response was always brutal.
"Find her!" Falken barked. "Search every corridor, every hall, every damned corner!"
It didn't take long.
They found her in the armory.
Or rather, the scene found her.
The floor was stained with blood. At the entrance, three soldiers lay motionless, clean bullet holes drilled into their chests. There had been no struggle. No defense. These were swift, precise executions.
Inside the room, the walls were covered in symbols carved and written in the language of Drachma—sharp, aggressive runes, unmistakable. At the center lay Colonel Olivier Mira Armstrong, unconscious, her pistol empty at her side.
Falken arrived seconds later.
His eyes swept over the scene with military coldness. There was no surprise. No hesitation.
Only a convenient conclusion.
"Son of a bitch…" he muttered.
He turned to the soldiers.
"Arrest her. Now. Put her in solitary confinement. This doesn't leave Briggs. She'll be judged here."
"And the symbols, sir?" a lieutenant asked.
"A distraction," Falken replied without pause. "A cheap trick to pin this on Drachma. Classic."
The order was clear.
The snow kept falling.
Olivier woke with a dull ache in her head and a cold unlike that of Briggs—a metallic cold.
She opened her eyes.
Bars.
A cell.
She tried to sit up, but her body felt heavy, as if the mountain still pressed down on her. She took a slow breath, assessing her injuries. Bruises. Sore ribs. Nothing broken.
"Where…?" she murmured.
A guard appeared before the cell.
"I demand to speak with General Falken," she ordered, her voice hoarse but firm.
The soldier looked at her with contempt.
"You don't get to demand anything, Colonel," he said. "This is the North. Briggs doesn't work like Central. Ranks mean nothing when you betray the base."
Olivier clenched her teeth.
"I was attacked. I was framed."
"Three soldiers are dead," the guard continued. "An attack on one is an attack on all. Briggs is one body—and you drove a knife into it."
"You're lying!" Olivier roared, slamming her fist against the bars. "Bring me Falken!"
The guard watched her for a few seconds longer, then turned away.
"You'll be judged here. And executed here. No one is coming to save you."
The door closed.
Silence returned.
For the first time since setting foot in Briggs, Olivier felt something close to pure rage. Not the fury of battle. Not calculated wrath. Something deeper. More personal.
Betrayal.
"Bastards…" she whispered.
Hours later, firm footsteps stopped in front of the cell.
Falken appeared, hands clasped behind his back, expression severe.
"Olivier Mira Armstrong," he said. "So your mission here was to hand our secrets over to Drachma. No wonder you were so eager to rise through the ranks."
She stared at him in disbelief.
"What…?"
"Three soldiers dead," he went on. "Executed while trying to stop you. They will be avenged."
"It wasn't me!" she shouted. "It was two men from Drachma. They used botanical alchemy. They attacked me from behind."
Falken slowly shook his head.
"Don't lie. I've seen enough traitors to recognize one."
He turned slightly.
"Issue the execution order."
The world seemed to freeze.
Olivier stepped forward, gripping the bars.
"Falken!"
He stopped.
"I challenge you."
One eyebrow rose.
"And what do you challenge me to, snowflake?"
The mocking smile lit something dangerous inside her.
"Let me prove my innocence," she said. "If I run, you can brand me a deserter. I'll be a disgrace to my family. But if I succeed… I'm cleared."
Silence stretched down the corridor. Soldiers watched from afar.
Falken slowly turned back.
"And how do you plan to prove it?"
"By bringing you the real culprits."
Falken studied her. He saw determination. Pride. And something else—a conviction that didn't fit a traitor.
At last, he smiled.
"Very well, snowflake," he said. "I accept."
The soldiers murmured.
"Release her," he ordered. "But she moves under my word."
Olivier stepped out of the cell, standing tall despite the pain wracking her body.
"I need an assistant."
"The assigned lieutenant won't do?"
"No."
Falken frowned.
"Who do you want?"
Olivier didn't hesitate.
"Buccaneer."
The general let out a dry laugh.
"Seriously? A soldier barely back on his feet, half his body made of metal?"
"I want him."
A growl echoed behind them.
"I refuse."
Buccaneer stepped forward, his automail arm still wrapped in bandages, his gaze hard.
"I'm not getting dragged into a trial for her."
Olivier locked eyes with him.
"You owe me. I saved your life."
Buccaneer clenched his jaw. He remembered the snow. The bear. The sword piercing its skull.
"Tch…" he spat. "Fine."
He turned away.
"I'm in."
Falken watched them leave.
"So it's decided," he murmured.
As he observed them walking off, a shadow crossed his eyes.
In Briggs, the ice never forgave.
And the hunt had only just begun.
(End of Chapter)