"My Lord, you may come!" the servant’s voice called out from the distance. He stood at the entrance of the inn, the door slightly ajar.

"A lord?" one of the men standing in line in front of the inn muttered, his expression twisted in disgust.

Unfortunately for him, Zayden heard. His head turned slightly, his crimson eyes glinting beneath the falling snow.

The murmur in the crowd died almost instantly, the air thickening with something heavy—a silent warning that demanded obedience.

"Did you say something?"

His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. The man’s smirk faltered, his confidence draining away as quickly as it had come.

"N-No, my lord," he stammered, taking a step back.

Zayden’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he looked away, adjusting his gloves as if the man had never existed.

"Good," he murmured, his tone indifferent—almost bored.

He stepped forward, brushing past the silent crowd, his long jacket trailing behind him like a shadow.

Ren followed quietly, his gaze flickering between Zayden and the men who had been standing around the mocker.

For a brief moment, he understood why soldiers feared him even when he said nothing at all. But he couldn’t understand why Zayden let such insolent behaviour go. After all, in Hianshu, it would have been punishable by death. And if he wasn’t wrong, the General wasn’t one to let things slide.

Or maybe he is?

Ren wondered, recalling the numerous times Zayden had been merciful toward him.

As they entered the building, the smell of freshly baked bread and fried vegetables reached Ren’s nose. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the kitchen. His throat turned dry; he wanted to taste it.

"Are you hungry?" Zayden asked, noticing his expression, his mouth slightly parted as if awaiting an answer.

Ren quickly shook his head.

"Well, I am. Let’s head to the room and come downstairs to get some food, alright?"

Having said so, Zayden followed the man at the counter, who was arranging a room for them.

"Hmm... Two rooms?" the owner asked, glancing at Zayden and Ren.

"Yes," the General replied.

"That will be two hundred shirings." Grabbing a pen, the man began writing down the receipt. He wasn’t told that the man before him was a General. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have spoken so nonchalantly—rather, he wouldn’t have dared.

Just as Zayden was about to pay, Ren grabbed his hand, stopping him.

Confused, Zayden turned toward his servant.

"My Lord, one room will suffice."

Too stunned to speak, Zayden only paid for one room. The servant sent by the shop they had been to earlier bowed, quietly exiting. The inn owner simply handed over the key.

They entered the room, Zayden turning the handle after twirling the key. The door closed softly behind them, shutting out the storm and the muffled sounds of the inn.

There were far too many people downstairs, talking about things neither Zayden nor Ren paid attention to. Was this place always so lively, or was it only tonight because of the storm?

Zayden’s crimson eyes lingered on Ren, still trying to process the young man’s sudden decisiveness. His voice, usually calm and commanding, faltered slightly.

"Do you perhaps... are you attracted to—"

"My Lord," Ren interrupted, his voice cutting through the question like a blade before the General could even finish.

"You need to save money. Why waste it on two bedrooms?"

Zayden’s jaw dropped, the words hanging in the air.

What?! Does he still think I’m poor?!

He clenched his fists.

Ren met his stunned gaze with a faint, almost teasing smile.

"I can sleep on the floor, My Lord. It is merely one night."

Zayden blinked, his jaw still slightly slack. Crimson heat rose to his cheeks, his mind scrambling.

Sleep on the floor? One night?

His pride bristled. Yet the thought of Ren in the same room, even like this, sent a strange warmth through him.

"You—" he began, but his voice caught halfway. The words he wanted to say: I don’t care about money, refused to leave his mouth.

Ren’s gaze softened, though the teasing curve of his lips remained.

"It is no trouble, My Lord. Really. I can manage."

Zayden ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.

Manage? He doesn’t even understand what he’s asking... or tempting me with.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Ren could hear.

"You’re not just saving money, are you?"

Ren tilted his head, eyes glimmering in the lamplight. "Perhaps? I just don’t want to trouble you unnecessarily."

Zayden’s heart thudded loudly in his chest.

"Ren..." He swallowed, trying to steady himself. His hand hovered near the edge of the small table, unsure whether to reach for Ren or stay back.

Ren stepped back, the warmth from his body brushing against Zayden’s sleeve.

"Shall we... go downstairs, then?" he asked, looking up at the taller man.

The General gave him a curt nod, stepping backward.

"Let’s go."

***

After having dinner, they had returned to their room.

Zayden went to take a shower. Meanwhile, Ren, who had already taken a quick one, stood by the window, his hands resting lightly on the cold glass. The warm lamplight of the inn reflected off the panes, but he barely noticed. Outside, the snow fell heavily, yet his thoughts drifted far from this peaceful scene.

He saw the streets of his memory—not the quiet market alley, but ones soaked in blood, smoke curling into the sky while blue flames consumed buildings. Humans and non-humans screamed, each striking the other without mercy, people dying before they could even cry for help.

It was the first time he had been on the front line. Ilyan had always been there, guiding him, helping him see clearly—but all he saw that day was terror in people’s eyes as they died.

The Temple had no idea Ren could see without his blindfold, that he could look at people without killing them instantly. Ilyan had found a spell that allowed him to see things clearly, and for that, he had been grateful.

Now, standing here, those memories pressed on him again. The snow outside mirrored that long-ago winter, soft yet unrelenting.

Faces of the fallen, cries carved deep into his chest. His heart tightened, a familiar ache he thought he had buried, resurfacing with every snowflake drifting past.

"What are you thinking about?"