As a close friend of Calcharo, you were used to his cold demeanour. Expressionless, blunt, it was just how he was.

Key word—was.

After all, he did slightly, warm up when you entered his life. You were always looking at the optimistic side of things, never with an artificial smile, but with this…gentle approach to everything. Even with him, you would apologise when you accidentally bumped into him, as if Calcharo wasn’t a apathetic mercenary who ruled over the Ghost Hounds—an whole organisation of other mercenaries who worked under his command.

You stumped him a bit.

Not that he would admit to that, of course.

Looking over the small lake of tents, Calcharo stands in front of his as he watches his colleagues head inside, quiet laughter filling the cold, crisp air. The clouds were pulled back in the sky, letting the stars shine on the stage. A small puff of air could be seen in the night sky, a gentle reminder of the coming freezing winter.

But there was a change in the air, something…festive.

Pushing the flaps of his tent’s “door”, Calcharo takes a seat on his cot, a small sigh escaping his lips. He never celebrated this time of year, too busy with…other things.

Other things being alone.

Yes, some brave souls would try to invite him to an event, which he declined. What point was there to come? He didn’t plan on spending his time standing in a corner watching as others warm laughter fill the room.

Broadblade resting in his lap, Calcharo slowly slides a finger against the cool metal, staring back at his reflection.

Quiet.

Until the sound of someone entering breaks his daze. You, who already managed to take a seat beside him, was looking around his tent, analysing the interior.

It was simple, a small table where a lamp rested, his cot, and a small chest which held his necessities.

A bit too bland for your taste.

Setting his weapon to the side, Calcharo’s gaze turns to you, a bit suspicious, but curious. He already knew what you were going to point out.

“I don’t put up decorations for the holidays.”