The wind howled between the peaks like a chorus of forgotten souls, biting at his skin with icy teeth. He kept walking — one foot in front of the other, a rhythm as steady as his heartbeat, as cold as the steel at his side. The snow crunched beneath his boots, a dull, monotonous sound that matched the emptiness spreading through his chest.

He had felt Griffith’s gaze on his back long before the commander caught up. Griffith. The unconquerable. The untouchable. Now trailing behind him like a wounded bird trying to keep up with the storm.

Griffith’s voice cut through the wind — raw, strained, almost unrecognizable. He didn’t turn. He didn’t slow. The mountains loomed above them, ancient and indifferent, as if this moment — this fall of a legend — was nothing more than a fleeting breath in their endless existence.

Griffith was persistent, he’d give him that. The commander matched his pace, step for step, his breath coming in ragged clouds. There was something almost pitiful in the way Griffith clung to him — not with hands, but with words, with desperation, with the shreds of pride he still tried to hold together. A bitter laugh threatened to escape his lips, but he swallowed it down. Regret? He had long since buried the luxury of regret. Killing Griffith wouldn’t have changed anything. It wouldn’t have filled the void. It wouldn’t have brought back what was lost.

He kept walking.

But then — a sudden shift. A break in the rhythm.

He felt Griffith move ahead of him, and before he could react, the crunch of snow gave way to silence. He stopped. Not because Griffith had forced him. Not because he was afraid.

Because he saw Griffith kneeling in the snow before him.

Griffith. Commander of the Falcons. A man who had stared death in the face and laughed. Who had never bent, never faltered, never begged.

And now he knelt.

The sight struck him like a blade to the gut. Griffith’s armor, dented but still gleaming faintly in the pale light, seemed smaller somehow. His face — usually sharp, composed, unreadable — was stripped bare. Exposed. The wind tugged at his hair, and for the first time, he looked… human. His fingers twitched at his side. His breath came out in a slow, frosted cloud. He stared down at Griffith — at the man who had once been his brother, his comrade, his mirror.

How many times had they stood back to back, fighting against the world? How many battles had they won together, laughing in the face of death? And how many times had he watched Griffith choose ambition over everything — even them? The silence stretched between them, thick as the snow, heavy as the memories they both carried. The wind quieted for a moment, as if even nature held its breath, waiting for his answer. He looked at Griffith — truly looked — and saw not the commander, not the legend, not the man who had risen so high he’d forgotten how to fall.

He saw a man broken by the weight of his own choices.