"—So, tell me. Has your strength returned?"
"...Silence!"
Whether out of genuine irritation or the sheer embarrassment of being nursed by a Servant, Illyasviel ignored my query and quickened her pace. Though her expression remained a mask of defiance, the tips of her ears had turned a telltale shade of crimson. I let out a soft chuckle; to be so easily flustered... she was proving to be a most entertaining Master.
We were currently returning from the prana synchronization process that the white-haired elder had mandated. Since I retained my reason—unlike the typical Berserker who acted as little more than a prana-guzzling abyss—the ritual had concluded relatively swiftly.
Swift, of course, was a relative term. In the grand scheme of magecraft, it was still a grueling ordeal; the only mercy was that my duration of suffering under the synchronization was abbreviated. Truly, my distaste for magi remained constant. They reminded me far too much of Merlin... No, perhaps comparing them to that Magus is a bit too harsh a sentence for them.
Regardless, my resolve to extract Illya from the Einzbern clutches had only solidified. I had taken the liberty of scouting the castle—with her permission, naturally—and the sights I witnessed were abhorrent. The way they ground down other homunculi as mere fuel... no matter if they were 'artificial,' they were still lives.
I suppose expecting a magus to possess such a fundamental modicum of empathy is a fool's errand. One only needed to look at this 'final test' to see their depravity: casting a young girl out into the depths of a frozen forest, clad in nothing but a thin white dress. I watched Illya as she trudged through the snowscape, silent despite the biting cold that must have been piercing her marrow.
"...Does it not stir your rage?"
"Does what?"
"Their callousness. Casting you out like this... does it not make you loathe them?"
Illya paused. She stood still for a fleeting moment, a small speck in a world of white, before she resumed her trek.
".....It does not matter. I am a homunculus. I am a tool, designed only to secure victory in the Holy Grail War. And you are the same, Servant. Even if you refuse to obey me, it changes nothing. If I am left alone, I shall simply proceed alone."
"...I see."
It was a foolish question to ask. I knew well enough what Illya was like in this era, and yet I had allowed my own sentimentality to get the better of me. We continued through the wintry waste. How long had we been walking? Even after hours of travel, the horizon offered nothing but the unending silhouettes of the forest.
"...Hoy, brat. I believe we've taken a wrong turn."
"...I am not a brat! And I am well aware, so hold your tongue, Berserker!"
"More importantly, it seems we have company."
"What?"
Illya, who had been snapping at me, looked up with wary eyes. I gestured toward the shadows between the trees. There, a pack of wolves watched us, their teeth bared in predatory anticipation. There were at least twenty of them. Finally, their alpha emerged—a beast so massive it could rival a modern transport carriage.
Given their unnatural size, even among the lesser hounds, it was clear they had gorged themselves on the residual Mystery lingering about the Einzbern estate. What a nuisance. I had assumed such phantasmal-adjacent creatures would have vanished with the end of Britain's Age of Gods.
I surged my prana outward. The black plates of my armor materialized across my frame, and my visor snapped shut. I turned to Illya, who was staring at the wolves in paralyzed shock.
"What are you waiting for, brat? Run."
"I told you, I'm not—! And what of you?"
"Ha! I am a Knight of the Round Table. Do you truly think I would fall to a pack of mere curs? Be gone with you."
Illya searched my gaze for a heartbeat before she turned and sprinted away into the treeline. Once she was clear, I drew my blade, watching the wolves as they lunged toward me with maws agape. The steel caught the pale sunlight, gleaming with a cold, lethal radiance.
"Now then... let us see if I've grown rusty."
***
Illya sprinted across the endless white expanse of the forest. With every step, the frigid air buffeted her, causing her small frame to tremble violently. The cold was a physical intrusion, seeping into her skin and settling deep within her bones. Though her body threatened to lock up under the sheer frost, she forced her legs to move.
She had left her Servant behind. It did not matter. A Servant was a tool; it held no intrinsic meaning. If he died protecting her, he would merely have fulfilled his purpose. That was how it was meant to be. Or so she told herself.
"...Ah!"
A hidden root, buried deep beneath the snow, caught her foot. Illya tumbled down a steep embankment, her vision spinning as she rolled. When she finally came to a halt on level ground, her entire body screamed in agony. Pain radiated up her spine, and she shivered as she struggled to rise.
She could not fall here. She had to survive and reach Fuyuki. Whether the Servant she had summoned lived or died was irrelevant. If he fell, she would simply summon another. Yes, that was all there was to it. Steeling her heart, she forced her frozen legs to take another step. Then another.
*Crunch.*
The sound of snow being crushed underfoot echoed too close. Illya turned, a scowl forming on her face as she prepared to scold her Servant for being late. However, the words died in her throat. Behind her stood seven wolves, their muzzles dripping with saliva as they circled her.
Panic flared in her chest as she looked into their hungry eyes. She turned to run, but what could a small girl accomplish with a body already half-claimed by the frost? They caught her within seconds. As the first wolf lunged, she threw herself to the side. She avoided a direct bite, but its claws raked across her shoulder.
A searing heat bloomed amidst the cold, and her white dress began to stain a vivid crimson. As she hit the ground, her left ankle buckled with a sharp snap of pain. She was pinned by the snow, unable to find her footing.
Illya stared at the approaching pack. Their teeth glinted like knives in the dim light. Terrified, the cold grip of death began to choke her. *I don't want to die here.* Tears blurred her vision. After all the agony she had endured, after all the sacrifices of the homunculi who came before her, she couldn't let it end in this godforsaken forest. *I want to live. I want to live!*
"Please... someone, save me..."
As the prayer left her lips, the lead wolf leapt. Illya squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable tear of flesh.
*THWIP!*
"YIPE!"
Instead of the crushing weight of a predator, there was only the wet thud of steel piercing meat and the agonizing yelp of a beast. Then came a voice—one she had begun to recognize.
"—You've done well to endure this long, Illya."
"Ber... serker...?"
She slowly opened her eyes. Standing before her was the knight in pitch-black armor, a bulwark against the darkness. He had impaled the leaping wolf on his blade mid-air. Illya felt the hot tracks of tears on her face.
"...You're late, Berserker..."
"...My apologies. That alpha was surprisingly resilient for such a mangy creature."
He wrenched his sword free, and the carcass of the wolf fell lifelessly to the snow. Illya watched him from behind as he stepped forward to meet the remaining pack. She watched the way he moved—the fluid, terrifying grace with which he cleaved through the beasts to keep her safe.
In that moment, a realization struck her. She had treated him as a mere tool. She had hated him without cause, projecting her own ancestral grievances onto him. And yet... even then...
He was protecting her.
"—Why... why did you save me?"
"...Hm? Whatever do you mean by that?"
"I hated you for no reason! I treated you like an object! So why... why go so far for me?"
"Hmm."
He sheathed his sword and scratched the back of his helmet as if searching for an answer.
"Does one truly need a reason to save a life? I simply saw a little brat in trouble and acted accordingly."
*Ah. So that was it.*
He didn't see her as a 'Master' to be served. He saw her as a child to be protected. The weight of that realization broke the last of her defenses, and Illya began to sob in earnest. Seeing her distress, the knight sighed awkwardly before pulling her into a gentle embrace.
The lingering chill in her soul seemed to melt. Illya buried her face in the cold metal of his breastplate and let out all the emotions she had suppressed for years.
"Waaaaaaah!"
"...Good heavens. It seems my Master is a crybaby brat after all."
He chuckled softly, his hand resting on her head in a tender gesture. For the first time in an age, Illya felt the warmth of another person. Eventually, the exhaustion took hold, and she drifted into a deep sleep in his arms—a small, peaceful smile finally gracing her lips.