Trafalgar sat alone in his office, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the mana lamp and the muted hush of snowfall beyond the window. Thick flakes drifted down in slow spirals, piling quietly against the glass. The world outside was cold and still, locked beneath winter's grip, while inside the room warmth lingered.

He held a cup in his hand, fingers wrapped around the porcelain. When he lifted it, steam curled upward in lazy threads, vanishing just as quickly as it formed. He took a slow sip, letting the heat settle in his chest, his gaze never leaving the falling snow.

For a brief moment, there was peace.

Then came the knock.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

"Come in," Trafalgar said.

The door opened, and Arthur stepped inside, closing it carefully behind him. He stood straight, as always, posture disciplined, eyes sharp despite the late hour.

"The guest is fine," Arthur reported immediately. "I saw Lady Mayla go to greet her."

Trafalgar paused, the cup hovering just short of his lips.

'She really went,' he thought.

A flicker of surprise passed through him, followed by something else. Curiosity. He wondered what Mayla would say, how she would present herself, and what Aubrelle might think of the encounter. The thought lingered longer than it should have.

He set the cup down on the desk.

"Good," he said simply. "Now, update me."

Arthur nodded, understanding the shift in tone.

"How are the troops in Euclid?" Trafalgar asked. "Last I heard, we were already past a thousand."

"We are," Arthur replied. "Currently, twelve hundred in total."

Trafalgar leaned back slightly in his chair.

"That won't be enough," he said without hesitation. "Even if House Morgain can field thousands, I need a force that answers to me."

He glanced back toward the window, the snow still falling without care for borders or banners.

"I know I haven't involved myself much until now," he continued. "That changes from here on."

Arthur did not question it.

"We focused on quality," Arthur said. "Most joined as volunteers, but I set strict requirements. Pulse Core was the minimum."

Trafalgar nodded slowly.

Pulse Core. The third stage.

'I'm one above that,' he thought. 'Not impressive by Morgain standards, but it will have to do.'

"Of those twelve hundred," Arthur went on, "over four hundred are at Flow. We also have five individuals who reached Prime. They're the highest-ranked among us."

That caught Trafalgar's attention.

Prime. Few, but valuable.

His mind shifted immediately, sorting the information. Arthur's original unit came to the forefront of his thoughts. Three hundred soldiers, taken from the main family's forces. All trained under Morgain standards. Every one of them at least Flow rank.

That was his core.

His main strike force.

'In the Ritefield,' he thought, 'we could have held. More than that. We would have been a real power.'

The remaining nine hundred were different. Mixed backgrounds. Different classes. Civilians turned volunteers. Useful, but unrefined.

He imagined formations, roles, assignments. Frontliners. Support. Scouts. Logistics. The structure began to take shape in his head, only to collapse under its own weight.

Time.

He didn't have it.

'This really does feel like a turn-based strategy game,' he thought grimly. 'And I'm short on turns.'

He exhaled and looked back at Arthur.

"I have someone who will help organize everything," Trafalgar said. "I'll inform you shortly."

He reached out with one hand, and the air above his palm twisted as mana gathered. Mana condensed into a familiar shape. The Shadowlink Echo materialized smoothly.

Trafalgar fed mana into the item without hesitation.

"I need you," he said.

The words had barely left his mouth when a knock sounded at the door.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

"Come in," Trafalgar said.

The door opened, and Caelum stepped inside as if he had been waiting just beyond it.

There was no disguise this time.

His golden eyes were sharp and alert, hair combed neatly back, gloved hands clasped behind his back. He wore a tailored suit rather than armor, the kind meant for authority rather than battle. His posture was straight, composed, every movement controlled.

Arthur's gaze flicked to him at once.

Trafalgar spoke before any questions could be asked.

"You don't need to hide," he said to Caelum. "Arthur will be working with you."

Caelum inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, then looked at Arthur.

"As ordered," he said calmly. "Arthur is trusted. If that trust is ever broken, I will kill him."

The words were delivered without threat or emotion, as if stating a procedural rule.

Trafalgar nodded.

"That's fine," he replied. "I'll leave that judgment to you."

Arthur did not speak.

He swallowed, once, his jaw tightening. He did not know who this man was, only that he had responded to Trafalgar's call almost instantly. That alone was unsettling.

Trafalgar did not linger on it.

"I don't have much time," he said. "I want you to organize my troops."

Caelum's eyes sharpened slightly.

"Identify who is useful and who is not," Trafalgar continued. "Anyone who cannot serve will be removed."

He paused, fingers tapping once against the desk.

"I have a bad feeling. I'm certain I'll need these troops sooner rather than later."

Caelum nodded, already considering the task.

Trafalgar turned back to Arthur.

"Gather everyone," he ordered. "Training fields. I want all twelve hundred ready in thirty minutes."

Arthur straightened at once.

"Understood," he said.

He turned and left without another word, the door closing behind him.

Thirty minutes later, the training fields were filled.

Cold air hung low over the open ground, sharp enough to sting the lungs with every breath. Snow still clung to the edges of the field and the rooftops beyond, trampled into uneven patches beneath hundreds of boots. The sky was pale and heavy, as if pressing down on everything beneath it.

Trafalgar stood at an elevated platform overlooking the formation.

Twelve hundred soldiers stood before him, arranged in rough but orderly lines. Some faces were familiar. Men and women he had seen before in the Morgain castle, trained soldiers who had worn the family's colors long before Euclid mattered to anyone. Others were strangers. Civilians, volunteers, people who had chosen to stand here despite knowing what that might mean.

He let his gaze pass over them slowly.

They had chosen this.

He stepped forward.

The field grew quiet.

"My name is Trafalgar du Morgain," he said, his voice carrying without strain. "I won't waste your time."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"These are difficult times. What comes next will not be a joke, and it will not be clean."

A few shoulders stiffened. No one spoke.

"Fear is natural," Trafalgar continued. "If you're afraid, that means you understand the stakes."

He looked across the formation again.

"If anyone here wishes to leave, do it now. No punishment. No ridicule. No one will think less of you."

The silence stretched.

Snow drifted slowly between the ranks.

"No one who leaves today will be chased," he said. "But if you stay, understand this. From this moment on, you are soldiers."

His voice hardened, not with anger, but with certainty.

"Discipline will be required. Resolve will be required. I will not waste your lives, but I will demand everything you can give."

He let that stand.

This was his first time speaking like this. Standing above others not as a noble, not as an heir, but as a leader. For a brief second, doubt crept in.

'Was that too stiff?' he wondered. 'Too idealistic? Too formal?'

He had no frame of reference. No practice or rehearsed speech.

Seconds passed.

Then someone shouted.

Then another.

Cheers rose across the field, rough and loud, echoing off stone and steel. No one stepped out of formation. Not one.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly.

He stepped back from the edge of the platform.

"That's all," he said. "From here on, organization falls to Arthur."

Caelum was not visible to the assembled troops, already gone from sight, moving where eyes could not follow.

Arthur stepped forward to take over.

Trafalgar turned away.

Behind him, twelve hundred soldiers remained standing in the cold, unmoving.

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