The sharp Briggs wind whips against the fort's steel walls, whistling through the deserted corridors. The cold moon illuminates the snow piled on the battlements as Olivier Mira Armstrong, her cloak billowing behind her, strides firmly through the outer corridor. Her boots crunch against the ice, the only sound breaking the silence of the night.

She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, not just from the cold, but from the irritation gnawing at her from within.

"Damn it..." she mutters under her breath, her breath forming a white cloud in the air, her blond hair whipping in the wind "Since when did I allow an inept rookie to distract me?"

Her cheeks, barely flushed, and not just from the icy wind, would burn with embarrassment if anyone saw her right now. But there are no witnesses. Only darkness and her wounded pride.

"Pathetic. A raw, inexperienced soldier… And yet?" She clenches her fists, frustrated with herself. "He's just another disposable recruit. If he can't withstand Briggs's winter, he's not worth my attention, let alone…" She swallows, refusing to finish the thought.

But there it is, stuck in her mind like a thorn. The way that idiot gets back up every time she knocks him down. That stubborn look, as if he truly believes he can earn her respect.

"…Damn you." Her voice is a harsh whisper, almost vulnerable in the solitude of the night.

And the worst part is that, in some hidden corner of her mind, a part of her—small, insignificant, but there—has already begun to give way.