He presses the whole salmon into Onaga's arms. The cold bites instantly through fabric. The old man waves a hand. "Do whatever you want with it."
Onaga blinks, nods, and carries the fish away from the firelight to a corner. His breath fogs. He sets the fish down, gathers firewood, and crouches, trying to coax a flame from stubborn sticks. His fingers redden. The fire refuses him.
A voice erupts right behind him. "If you're going to eat wild fish, cook it thoroughly, and cut it open carefully to remove any parasites!"
Onaga startles, nearly dropping the fish. He whirls around. Comtois stands there, arms folded, face half-lit by the fire. "What are you doing here?" Comtois shouts, as if the night itself needs scolding.
"I'll watch you grill the fish," Comtois adds immediately, tone shifting to casual authority.
[What a weirdo.]
Onaga turns back to the firewood and rubs the sticks again, jaw tight.
Comtois steps closer, squats, peers at the fish. "This one looks like a sea bream."
"This one's salmon… look at the texture!" Onaga snaps, irritation slipping through as his hands fail him again.
Joon-soo reaches into his pocket and produces a fire piston. He adds tinder, strikes once. Sparks catch. Flame blooms instantly, decisive and clean. He hands it to Onaga without ceremony.
Onaga takes it, stunned, and holds it near the fish to begin defrosting the ice. The surface sweats, droplets hissing as they fall onto embers.
"Whatever, are you going to eat it raw or grilled?" Comtois asks.
"I'll cook it, I'm worried about parasites…" Onaga replies, already working, blade flashing as he prepares to clean the fish.
Then a presence settles beside him, close enough to feel. Onaga jerks again.
Aldo sits there, knees drawn up, face lit by fire and shadow. His expression is calm, unreadable, as if he has always been there.
"Taichou-sama, what are you doing here?" Onaga blurts.
Aldo watches the fish, the careful cuts. "Just grill the fish." He pauses. "I'll tell you later…"
"Taichou-sama, please tell me now…"
Aldo's mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. His gaze drifts toward the village edge. "I'm curious about the village girl, the one who ran out to save Canine Boy…"
Onaga frowns. "Wolfman… why does Taichou-sama always come up with something new…"
Aldo does not answer immediately. His eyes track movement beyond the firelight. "Soldier number 12…"
Onaga stiffens. "His name is Sun Yongliang."
Aldo nods once. "Soldier number 12 just revisited the wolf den and discovered a passage connecting to the slave-miners… so I'm thinking that the three sides—PPF, Canine Boy, and Slave miners—are connected…"
The words slip into the warm air like a blade. The chatter nearby continues, oblivious. Someone laughs too loudly. A cup clinks.
Comtois's eyes widen. Interest sharpens his posture. "This conspiracy is interesting…"
Onaga keeps working. He removes guts, skin, bones with practiced care, savoring the clean lines of the fish, the way heat firms the flesh. He listens intently, forgetting his usual ritual of silence before eating. The fish sizzles softly, a counterpoint to distant voices.
Aldo's hands rest on his knees. The fire reflects in his eyes. [Threads converging. Too neatly.] He exhales slowly. [Warmth doesn't mean safety.]
"We won't sleep tonight," Aldo says, quietly enough that only the two beside him hear.
Comtois grins, almost delighted. He tilts his head up, looking at the sky. "The moon is always in the sky at night." He laughs under his breath. "Of course, I, Comtois, will stay awake with her to hear you explain your scheme!"
Onaga flips the fish, the skin crackling. He takes a bite when it's ready—clean, rich, grounding. He eats and listens, the fire warming his face while tension coils just beyond the circle of light.
Around them, the village hums. Children dart between legs. An old woman hums a tune with no words. The pine tea steams, bowls refill. The calm holds, fragile as glass, masking the careful, tightening plans forming in the firelight.
…
Torvald looks up at the crescent moon, pale and thin like a blade hung carelessly in the sky. It feels close tonight, close enough to touch if he stretches his fingers just a little higher. The cold air brushes against his cheeks, sharp but clean, and his breath fogs faintly as he exhales. For a moment, the village feels suspended—quiet roofs, dim fires, the illusion of peace held together by sleep.
A hand touches his shoulder.
"Tor, you should be careful, or you'll be discovered by the slave-soldiers," Liv whispers. Her voice is barely louder than the wind sliding across the snow. She pats him lightly, a gesture half-worry, half-habit.
Torvald chuckles softly, teeth flashing white in the moonlight, sharper than they should be. "Don't worry, Liv, they're all asleep. Besides, our friends have sent a team to ambush us nearby tonight."
Liv smiles, but it's fragile, like glass warmed too quickly. "But… be careful anyway."
Torvald does not look at her. His eyes remain locked on the moon. "Don't worry too much. Luna always blesses those who do good. They are good people; I'm just repaying them by helping them."
He lifts his arm and points west, toward the darker line where forest swallows snow and shadow becomes absolute. "There, Liv. That's where my friends are hiding. It's easy to approach, easy to hide, and easy to retreat from."
Liv follows his finger with her eyes. The forest looks the same as always—silent, harmless, unknowable. She nods, trusting him, because trust is easier than doubt.
Torvald slips back into the house, the door closing softly behind him. Inside, the young ones laugh again, voices rising and falling, cups clinking. The night resumes its shallow breathing.
They do not know.
Above them, Comtois is sitting on the roof, perfectly still, knees bent, boots braced against frozen wood. Frost clings to the shingles, and his fingers rest lightly on his weapon. He does not move, does not even shift his weight. His eyes are half-lidded, listening.
Behind what looks like a flat, unremarkable pile of snow, Onaga Kei is pressed low, breath measured, face numb with cold. The snow is packed deliberately around him, his outline erased. He counts heartbeats, not seconds.
And beyond them, where the village thins into trees, Aldo is crouched behind a clump of bare trunks, snow soaking through his trousers, branches scraping faintly against his coat. He does not blink.
He listens.
Every word floats through the quiet like a thread being pulled too tight.
[So that's it.]
The laughter from inside the house sounds different now—too loud, too careless. Aldo's jaw tightens. [Connected. All of them.]
Minutes stretch. The moon drifts. Finally, Comtois shifts, silent as a shadow, and lowers himself from the roof using the ladder he placed earlier. Snow crunches once under his heel; he freezes, then continues when nothing answers.
Aldo crawls out from the trees, keeping low, palms burning from the cold. Onaga slides forward from the snow pile, careful not to disturb its shape too much. The three gather in the shallow dip between buildings, bodies pressed close, breath barely audible.
"Taichou-sama, how did you know they were connected to the PPF?" Onaga whispers, eyes wide, pupils reflecting moonlight.
Aldo frowns slightly, thoughts moving slower than usual, as if dragged through ice. "Liv followed us when we arrived at the cave. The PPF ambushed us just as we were leaving the cave. And that Canine Boy was the one in the cave…" He stops, words catching. He stares at the ground for a second, then shakes his head faintly, like a machine trying to reset.
"So what do we do now…?" Comtois asks, voice low but eager, coiled energy barely contained.
Aldo exhales. His voice steadies as he speaks, slipping into clarity through sheer discipline. "You scout the PPF hiding places. Onaga and I will go to each house in the village where our soldiers are sleeping scattered around, urging them to wake up. Most will remain still, holding their guns, listening for any sounds. If they see an intruder or hear any noise, they will fire back. The rest—whoever is in a house with a window leading outside in a hidden, blind spot—will go with me or you."
He pauses, eyes flicking toward the forest. [This has to be quiet.]
"Let's do it…" Comtois smiles, confident, already halfway gone.
He melts into the trees, swallowed instantly. Onaga and Aldo split, moving in opposite arcs, crawling low, slipping between houses. Doors open a crack, close again. Hands shake shoulders. Muffled whispers. The village remains asleep—barely.
From above, it would look almost peaceful.
The situation now resembles a game of chance. The PPF and their allies wait, breath held, weapons ready. The slave-soldiers move like ghosts, disciplined, restrained.
If the plan were that simple, if the night obeyed logic, it would almost feel merciful.
But then—
A candle flares.
Too bright. Too sudden.
A door bursts open.
A slave-soldier runs into the village square, flame held high, face pale with panic. "Wake up! Everyone! There's an enemy!" he shouts, voice tearing through the night. He grabs the bell rope and yanks hard.
The bell rings.
Once.
Twice.
Metal screaming against the cold.
Windows fly open. Doors slam. Villagers shout in confusion, anger snapping instantly into fear. Dogs bark. Children cry.
Comtois freeze. Aldo gazes then nods.
Onaga, halfway through waking another soldier, stares in disbelief. His mind blanks. For a heartbeat, he does not move. Then he lunges forward and waves frantically. "Get back inside!" he hisses, shoving the man toward the door.
Too late.
From the forest, movement explodes.
The PPF team—about ten men—surges forward, abandoning concealment without hesitation. They do not retreat. They charge.
Gunfire cracks open the night.
Shots slam into walls, splintering wood, throwing sparks. Snow erupts in sharp bursts. Aldo ducks as a round snaps past where his head was a second earlier.
[They're not running.]
This is wrong. This is not how it was supposed to go.
But still in control anyway…
Aldo forces himself to move, hand already signaling toward the forest. Comtois's team receives the order to hold. He can almost feel Comtois's frustration from here, the coiled violence begging to be released.
Comtois obeys anyway.
The PPF storm into the village, firing as they move, aiming not for precision but impact—noise, chaos, damage. Villagers scatter, screaming. Some drop to the ground. Others freeze, hands over their heads.
The slave-soldiers react on instinct now. Guns come up. Shots answer shots. Smoke thickens, acrid and heavy. The clean lines of the plan dissolve instantly.
Aldo presses himself against a wall, heart hammering despite his effort to slow it. [This is spiraling.]
He spots Onaga across the square, crouched low, eyes darting, trying to reassert control. A villager stumbles between them and falls. Aldo cannot tell if they are hit or just terrified.
The bell keeps ringing, swinging wildly, its sound now a cruel mockery.
Then the night detonates.
Comtois, hidden at the edge, grips his weapon so tightly his knuckles pale. Every instinct screams to charge, to meet fire with fire, but the order echoes louder. Hold. Hold.
The PPF fighters fan out, using houses as cover, firing from doorways, windows. They are professionals or at least practiced. This is not a desperate last stand. This is an attempt to maul then vanish.
Aldo moves, low and fast, dragging a stunned soldier into cover, slapping his shoulder once to snap him back. "Stay down. Aim. Don't chase," he says, voice sharp, controlled.
Another explosion of sound. Wood collapses. A roof beam cracks.
[Everyone is watching. No one understands.]
The villagers scream again as a fire catches somewhere, small but terrifying. Someone throws snow on it. Someone else trips.
Onaga fires once, twice, precisely, forcing a PPF fighter to duck. His breath comes fast now. [Too loud. Too exposed.]
Comtois's team remains hidden, waiting for the signal that does not come. Sweat beads at his temple despite the cold. [If I move now, I will break the net.]
Aldo's plan collapses inward, like a lung filling with smoke. Every variable he accounted for has turned volatile. He signals again, desperately, trying to prevent overextension.
The PPF does not stay long.
As suddenly as they appear, they begin to pull back, firing as they retreat, leaving confusion behind them like a scar. They fade into the trees, disciplined even in withdrawal.
Silence follows—not peace, but the ringing absence of sound.
Snow drifts down again, settling on footprints, on shell casings, on the bell still swaying gently.
Aldo stands in the square, chest rising and falling, eyes tracking shadows that are no longer there.
The night has been irrevocably changed.