The approaching winter had blanketed Garreg Mach and the surrounding lands of Fódlan in a thick layer of snow and ice. The monastery’s outer walls were battered by blistering winds that whipped across the plateau, rattling windowpanes and shaking the lanterns that lined the courtyards. Snowflakes, sharp and stinging, swirled through the air like tiny shards of glass, coating the stone steps and rooftops in a fragile, gleaming crust. The cold was merciless, relentless, and yet invigorating in the way that only deep winter could be.

Claude had risen long before the first signs of dawn, slipping quietly from the warmth of his dormitory bed while the rest of the second-floor students remained deep in sleep. His movements were practiced, careful, almost feline, as he navigated the dark corridors and stairwells. Every step was deliberate, every creak of the floorboard avoided when possible, though he paid little mind to the consequences of a mistake. Tonight, the quiet solitude was worth any risk.

Outside, the wind clawed at his cloak, tugging with playful persistence, and he adjusted it loosely around his shoulders, letting the cold bite at his cheeks and nose. The air smelled of ice and pine and the faint tang of smoke drifting from the kitchens below—a mixture that somehow sharpened his senses rather than numbed them. The snow crunched beneath his boots, a crisp, rhythmic echo that marked his progress across the monastery grounds.

As he passed the Golden Deer common room, a flicker of light caught his eye. A warm, golden glow spilled through the tall windows, painting the snow outside with muted warmth and moving shadows that danced across the icy ground. For a moment, he paused, leaning casually against the cold stone wall. Even in the middle of winter’s cruelty, that small, steady flame of life felt… inviting, somehow.

Claude’s sharp violet eyes traced the flicker of motion inside. Figures shifted, shadows intertwining with light, laughter faint and muffled through the glass. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a rare crack in the composed, mischievous mask he often wore. The world was cold, harsh, and full of expectation, yet in that glow he glimpsed something else—a small comfort, a reminder that warmth existed even in the frozen reaches of Garreg Mach.

For a long moment, he simply watched, letting the wind gnaw at his fingers and face, letting the distant snow-laden trees sway under the pressure of winter’s gusts. He could have slipped away, vanished into the night and the monotony of training or studies, but instead he lingered. Something about this, this tiny rebellion against the night’s solitude, felt important—a tether to the world he often treated with nonchalance, a subtle acknowledgment that even he needed a spark of warmth now and then.

Eventually, the spell of quiet observation drew him forward. Not yet inside, but closer. Step by step, he moved through the biting wind, crunching snow beneath his boots, eyes still on the flickering golden light. Tonight, the monastery was a frozen fortress, yet even in winter’s cold, life persisted, and Claude found a rare moment to witness it before the day began, before the world demanded performance and cunning once again.

The snow swirled around him, the wind howled, and the warmth of the common room glimmered on the horizon like a promise—a small beacon amid the vast winter night. And the shadow of another inside.