Chapter #69: The Ice Queen Never Loses
The snow fell slowly, as if the sky itself hesitated before allowing it to touch the ground. Miles kept his eyes fixed forward, his rifle still warm from the warning shot he had just fired. The echo had vanished into the mountains, but the silence that followed was even more unsettling.
In the distance, amid the white haze, the silhouette was still there.
Slender.
Upright.
Defiant.
The soldier standing beside Miles was shaking uncontrollably. His teeth chattered—not only from the cold, but from the primal fear that gripped anyone assigned to night watch at Briggs.
"S-sir Miles…" he murmured. "I… I think that really is the spirit…"
Miles did not answer. His red eyes never left the figure.
Then the silhouette drew a sword.
The steel reflected the reddish glow of the torches along the wall, and with a slow but deliberate motion, it pointed directly at Miles. It was not an invitation.
It was a challenge.
Miles tightened his grip and fired again, shooting the ground just in front of the figure.
"Last warning!" he shouted. "Identify yourself!"
Before anything else could happen, the snow to the right erupted upward.
From the whiteness emerged a massive, broad-shouldered man, as if the mountain itself had decided to rise. He was hooded, wrapped in thick furs, dragging behind him a colossal axe that carved a deep groove into the ice. His red eyes gleamed in the darkness with an almost animal intensity.
The soldier screamed.
Miles took a step back, startled despite his training.
The giant did not charge the wall.
He lunged straight at the slender figure with the sword.
The clash was brutal.
Sword against axe.
Steel against automail.
Sparks lit up the night like fleeting lightning. The sound of the blows echoed against Briggs's walls—metallic, violent, precise. This was no chaotic brawl; it was a duel between seasoned fighters.
The slender figure moved with feline agility, dodging attacks that would have split a man in two. The giant struck with overwhelming force, each impact making the ground tremble.
Miles watched without blinking.
This was no spirit.
It was discipline. Technique. Will.
Suddenly, both fighters leapt back, separating at once.
The giant removed his hood first.
"Don't make me do this, General," he growled in a deep, familiar voice.
Miles's heart skipped a beat.
It was Captain Buccaneer.
Before he could fully process it, the swordswoman revealed her face as well.
Silver hair.
A razor-sharp gaze.
An overwhelming presence.
"Do what you must, Captain," she replied coldly.
General Olivier Mira Armstrong stood there—in the middle of the night, in the snow, sword in hand.
The soldier beside Miles nearly fainted.
"T-the General…?" Miles whispered in disbelief.
Buccaneer growled, and with a sharp motion, his automail shifted. The components reconfigured, forming a heavy, serrated axe designed to cleave steel and bone alike.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Buccaneer said as he charged.
The axe fell like a guillotine.
Olivier dodged it by mere centimeters and smiled with contempt.
"Is that all, Captain? I thought the cold would have made you faster."
The taunt was gasoline on a fire.
Buccaneer roared and attacked with full fury—blow after blow, relentless, unrestrained. Each strike sent snow and ice flying, forcing Olivier to step back…
Only to observe.
She wasn't retreating.
She was analyzing.
Waiting.
Miles, still frozen by the spectacle, began to notice something: Buccaneer's attacks were powerful, but repetitive. The weight of the automail, the angle of each swing, the brief moments when he left himself open.
Olivier saw it too.
In a swift motion, she stepped inside the axe's range, deflected the strike with her blade, and swept his legs out from under him with perfect precision.
Buccaneer crashed onto his back in the snow with a thunderous impact.
Before he could rise, the tip of Olivier's sword hovered mere centimeters from his throat.
"You've already lost, Captain," she said in an icy voice. "Any last words?"
Buccaneer let out a short, weary laugh.
"Yes," he replied. "You were right, General."
Olivier withdrew her sword without another word and sheathed it calmly. Then she turned and walked back toward the base as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
The sled dogs, now recovered, approached wagging their tails, and the sled—loaded with firewood—rested near the wall.
"Miles," she ordered without looking at him. "Bring in the firewood. The furnace needs it."
It took Miles a second to react.
"Y-yes, ma'am!" he answered automatically.
As he began dragging the wood into the base, Miles glanced back at Buccaneer, who was already sitting in the snow, rubbing his back.
"What… what just happened?" he asked quietly.
Buccaneer sighed.
"The General and I were having a little competition," he explained with resignation. "To see who could chop more firewood. You know… normal Briggs stuff."
Miles blinked.
"And… this?"
"We got a bit carried away," Buccaneer continued. "Made too much noise, scared off the sled wolves, and they ran. We had to walk back through the snow… and the General was in a bad mood."
He glanced toward Olivier, already walking away.
"So we settled it the usual way. With a fight."
Miles couldn't help but smile.
"And… did you ever win?"
Buccaneer shook his head.
"Never. But this time I thought I had a chance."
He shrugged.
"Turns out I didn't."
Miles watched the back of General Olivier Armstrong—upright, imposing, moving toward the fortress as if the North itself belonged to her.
As he dragged the firewood toward the great furnace, he thought with a mix of respect and admiration:
I want her to lead me.
And for the first time since arriving at Briggs, Miles felt that maybe… just maybe… he had found a place where he belonged.
(end of chapter)