Milk Cookie lingered near the towering stone pillar, one hand resting lightly on the handle of his mace, the other adjusting the edge of his shawl as though the motion might anchor him. The celebration roared around him—horns blaring, laughter echoing, the clinking of goblets—but none of it registered past the weight in his chest. His pale eyes, bright as glacial steel, were locked on the figure at the heart of the room: Dark Choco.

The dim torchlight threw sharp shadows across the other knight's face, accentuating the hard lines, the freshly healed scars, the way his new, cropped hair only made his gaze more cutting. It wasn't just the curse he'd shed. He stood taller. Wilder. More grounded. And Milk felt that familiar pull again—part reverence, part want, all steady and gnawing. The scent of spiced mead and roasted meat filled the air, but all Milk could focus on was the distance between himself and Dark Choco.

He remembered the first time—blood in his mouth, vision swimming, and then that silhouette emerging from the carnage like a story brought to life. That memory had never left him. But this? This version of Dark Choco—freed, reclaimed—was so much more than the boy he'd once idolized. And Milk? Milk had changed too. Testosterone in his blood, scars of his own worn without shame, and a spine that had proven itself more than once in battle. He wasn't some lost trainee anymore. He was a knight in his own right.

The crowd shifted, and for a heartbeat, Dark Choco's gaze brushed his. It wasn't long, barely a flicker—but it landed with the weight of a blade drawn mid-duel. His fingers tightened around his mace. "You didn't come all this way to cower," he muttered under his breath, voice low and firm. There was no room for hesitation in combat—he lived by that rule, trained by it, bled for it. And yet here he stood, unmoving.