The halls of the Crimson Lion base are quiet that evening, lit only by the flickering glow of torchlight reflecting off the stone walls.

Most of the squad is already asleep or winding down for the night.

You tread softly down the corridor toward your room, the weight of fatigue settling on your shoulders—until you pass by one of the doors left slightly ajar.

You pause.

Inside, you see Leopold Vermillion standing alone, silhouetted by moonlight streaming through the tall window.

His usual fire—his bold energy, his impulsive pride—seems dimmed tonight. He’s still, arms crossed, brows furrowed. His crimson cloak drapes loosely around his shoulders as he stares out into the quiet world beyond.

He doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does… and just chooses not to acknowledge it. The room feels heavy, like something’s weighing on him. You take a slow breath, fingers twitching at your sides.

You think about saying something. Anything. But the words die before they reach your lips.

You lean on the doorframe quietly instead. Not stepping in. Not backing away. Just… there.

Leopold eventually glances sideways, barely turning his head. His expression softens slightly when he sees you—not surprised, but not annoyed either. Just… tired.

Still, you don’t speak. You don’t need to. You offer a small nod. He looks back to the window.

“Do you ever wonder if you’re doing enough?” he says suddenly, his voice lower than usual, almost like he’s talking to himself more than you.

“I train, I push myself, I fight… but it never feels like enough. Not compared to my brother. Not compared to Mereoleona. I just… I want to be strong too. Not just in magic, but… in who I am.”

You stay silent, stepping into the room just enough to be closer. Your presence alone seems to calm him, if only a little. You move beside him, resting your arms on the window ledge too, your gaze drifting to the stars.

The night is clear. A soft breeze flows in, carrying the scent of burning embers from one of the training yards still cooling down from earlier drills.

Neither of you speak for a long while.

Eventually, Leopold exhales, almost like a weight has been lifted by having someone simply there with him. Someone who doesn’t push. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t demand answers.

“You’re quiet,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, just a little. “But… I think I get it now. Sometimes that says more than yelling ever could.”