The morning sun spilled a pale yellow hue across the snow, its light glinting like shards of glass over the frozen field. Hidden among the white, Imperial soldiers crouched in silence, their breaths forming faint clouds that vanished as quickly as they came. They had been stationed here since dawn, watching from the ridges overlooking the northern settlement below.
Captain Rhun adjusted the brass scope pressed against his eye, its lens fogging slightly from his breath. Through it, he could see the small cluster of tents, smoke rising lazily from campfires where northerners moved about their morning routines — men splitting wood, women washing clothes, children chasing each other in the snow. All seemed calm.
One soldier crouched closer, moving through the snow with a soft crunch until he reached the captain's side.
"Sir," he whispered, bowing his head slightly, "I've got something to—"
A sudden noise cut through the quiet.
Rhun froze.
From within the dark woods beyond the settlement came a sound — deep, distant, and strange. A flutter of wings followed, then another, until a whole murder of crows burst from the treetops, their cries sharp and violent against the still morning.
The northerners below looked up, startled by the sudden commotion. One man shouted for the women and children to get back inside their tents. The calm of morning shattered, replaced by the uneasy shifting of men gripping their worn-out axes and picks.
"What in the hells…" Rhun muttered, lowering his scope, eyes narrowing at the treeline.
The forest loomed silent again — too silent. The soldier beside him stiffened.
Then came the sound of hooves — no, not hooves, steps. The crunching of snow grew louder, heavier. A herd of deer burst from the woods, sprinting through the settlement in blind panic.
Northerners leaped aside as the beasts crashed through, scattering snow and supplies in every direction.
Rhun's gut twisted. Animals don't flee like that unless something terrifies them.
He nearly stood, voice sharp as he called out to his men in a low tone, "Stay alert! Whatever's in those woods—"
But before he could finish, something moved between the trees.
A figure emerged from the shadows, limping, its armor bloodstained and dented. Snow clung to every step as it staggered toward the settlement.
The soldiers tensed. Rhun's eye snapped to the figure, the sunlight catching on a familiar insignia carved into the man's pauldron.
His breath hitched.
"By the gods…" he whispered. "That's Captain Leonard."
One of Duke Veynar's best men. A knight who led battalions through blizzards and battles, who was said to have never fallen once in twenty years of service.
And now… he could barely stand.
Rhun's mind spun.
What the hell could have done this to him?
Leonard's steps faltered as he reached the edge of the settlement. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and blood. Northerners rushed toward him, one of the younger men calling out in concern.
"Lord Leonard! What happened to you?!"
Leonard lifted his head weakly, eyes wide with guilt and terror.
"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm sorry… to you all…"
The young man grabbed him by the shoulders, panic rising.
"My lord, you're bleeding! Please, come inside—let us treat—"
Leonard's hand shot up, clutching the boy's arm tightly.
"Don't you get it!?" he shouted hoarsely. "Run! All of you!"
The shout silenced the air. Men froze mid-step, exchanging looks of confusion and fear.
A middle-aged northerner stepped forward cautiously, voice trembling.
"Run from what…? Lord Leonard, did something followed you—"
He never finished the sentence.
A sword — massive, black, and jagged — came whirling out of the forest. It struck through Leonard and the young man in a single, sickening impact, pinning them both to the frozen ground. Blood sprayed against the snow in a wide crimson arc.
The world went still.
The northerners stood frozen in shock. The wind itself seemed to stop.
Rhun's throat went dry. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. His men beside him stared, wide-eyed, the horror reflecting in their faces.
Then the slow, deliberate crunch of footsteps.
From the shadow of the trees, something emerged.
A towering figure in black armor stepped into the light. Its plates were scarred and jagged, its helm crowned with cruel spikes that caught the morning sun. Heavy steps against the snow, a sound that made every man's skin crawl.
Rhun felt his stomach drop. His breath trembled.
No… no, it can't be.
The memory hit him like a hammer — a battlefield of ice, screams swallowed by blizzards, corpses frozen mid-fear. Thirty-two years ago, they'd fought these things. The DreadKnights. The monsters said to have been destroyed in the Northern War.
And yet one stood before him now.
Back to the land of the living.
His voice came out barely above a whisper.
"It's… impossible…"
Rhun clenched his teeth, forcing his fear down. He turned sharply to his men.
"Prepare to engage!" he barked. "We kill that thing before it reaches the civilians!"
The soldiers scrambled, pulling blades free, their breaths ragged.
Rhun reached into his satchel with a shaking hand. Inside, wrapped in cloth, was a stoned gliswing. He had used it earlier to keep watch, to stay hidden. But now…
He whispered under his breath, then crushed the stone in his fist.
It shattered, releasing a pale light that shot upward into the sky, transforming into a bird of light.
The wind howled again. The dreadknight turned its helm toward them, its eyes burning with a thirst for blood.
Rhun drew his sword, its steel gleaming in the dim morning sun. Rhun and his men ran down the steep, snow-covered hill, hearts hammering, weapons clutched tight, prepared to face the dreadknight.
The dark figure moved with deliberate slowness toward its sword, still embedded in the ground through the two men it had pierced. The young northerner, gurgling and drowning in his own blood, raised a trembling gaze toward the knight — pure terror threaded through his final moments as his last breath escaped him.
The knight yanked its massive sword free. The two fallen men flopped together like ragdolls, crimson staining the white snow.
The northern villagers froze, gripping worn axes, pickaxes, and swords, their faces pale, their nerves frayed.
How could they possibly defend themselves against this nightmare?
One man, driven by a desperate mix of fear and courage, charged forward, screaming. His pickaxe struck the knight's chestplate with a loud clang, piercing the thick armor.
But the knight did not flinch. Not a muscle moved.
The man froze, staring up at the towering figure. Then, in a blur of speed, the knight's hand shot out and grabbed him by the head. The man struggled violently, clawing at the iron grip, kicking and twisting — but it was useless. His entire body lifted from the ground, his muffled cries trapped behind the knight's unyielding hand.
Then — crack.
A sound like a watermelon crushed beneath a boulder. Flesh, blood, and bone all together — spilling across the snow.
The headless body thudded to the ground, crimson spreading across the whiteness.
The northern men and women, paralyzed by fear, stared in disbelief. Then the screams erupted — high-pitched, desperate, chaotic — and weapons clattered to the snow.
Men, women, children — all scattered, running for their lives.
Suddenly, a hail of arrows cut through the morning sky, thudding against the dreadknight's armor. One arrow found its mark, piercing the gap in the monster's helmet. Yet it didn't stagger. The knight's gaze swept up the snowy hill, locking on the soldiers clad in armor and winter furs, who had come to intercept it.
The dreadknight tightened its grip on the massive sword. Then, in its vision, one man glowed faintly with golden light. Something stirred within the nightmare, a primal rage.
It shifted, positioning itself with terrifying precision, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike — the giant sword poised to launch again.
Captain Rhun's heart pounded as he and his men ran down the slope, weapons raised.
"Take cover, men! That thing is about to do something..!" he shouted, but it was already too late.
A soldier beside him was obliterated in an instant, armor and blood splattering across the snow as the giant sword hurtled through the air.
Rhun's stomach lurched. How could a man — or whatever this abomination was — throw a sword that far with such effortless strength? This was the same monster from the northern war… it truly had returned.
Rhun barked orders with trembling hands and a mind racing with fear, courage, and grim calculation all at once.
"Scouts, shepherd the villagers behind the walls! The rest, stand with me! We either fight… or we die trying!"
He looked over his shoulder, seeing the fear in his men's eyes — soldiers who'd fought wolves, rebels, even frost giants, but never this. So he grinned, rough and fierce, blood running down his cheek.
"If we survive this, lads!" he bellowed, voice echoing through the snowy wind.
"Drinks and great women — all on me!"
A ripple of laughter broke through the fear — shaky, but real. The soldiers lifted their weapons, shouting back as one, "Raaahh!"
Rhun's grin faded into a hard, steady look as he turned back toward the monster advancing through the snow.
If we survive… they'll remember this day. If not, we'll meet our ancestors with our swords drawn.
He stole a glance upward at the gliswing he had released earlier.
See everything… remember my orders. Return to the dukedom if I fall.
And then the dreadknight moved again, its massive sword raised, eyes glowing like embers in the cold morning. Rhun roared, raising his own blade — and the imperial vanguards charged beside him, courage and madness burning in their hearts.
Far from screams and fear.
The wind howled differently here — calmer, colder, the kind that hummed through the snow-laden pines instead of carrying the cries of battle.
Their commander — a tall man in a long fur-lined coat and white-plated armor, his hair and beard streaked with frost — stood at the ridge overlooking the valley. His gaze lingered on the distant forest where black smoke coiled faintly against the pale horizon.
"Has Captain Rhun received the message?" he asked, his voice rough with the cold.
One of the scouts approached and bowed slightly.
"Aye, sir. The gliswing already returned. Captain Rhun should have received it by now."
The commander grunted, nodding once.
"That's good he should be here by now." His breath misted out in the frigid air as he descended the slope where his men were gathered.
Below, a group of knights knelt beside a wounded man half-buried in the snow. His armor was gone — only torn leather and fur remained — his dark hair matted with blood, his breath faint but steady.
The commander's expression hardened.
"Duke Veynar…" he muttered under his breath.
He knelt beside the unconscious duke, brushing away the frost clinging to his face.
"Rhun must hurry," he said aloud. "We've found the duke."
We were lucky to find this place, he thought grimly. Too lucky.
They had been scouting the northern passes for days, nearly ready to withdraw before the storm worsened. But one of his men had spotted a glint — steel buried beneath the snow, a blood trail leading to this very path. Fate, or cruel chance, had guided them here.
The commander stood, his white fur coat flaring in the icy wind.
"Keep tending to him," he ordered. "We move the moment he wakes — no later."
His gaze lingered once more on the sky, where the gliswing circled faintly in the sunlight.
Where the hell is he.. That man is always quick with his feet.
He looked toward the dim horizon, where distant crows wheeled over the treeline. Then his eyes drifted to the cave beside them — its mouth wide and black, breathing cold air like the maw of some buried beast. The very place where they found Duke Veynar laying unconscious in the snow.
Blurry vision. A tunnel of frost and shadow stretched endlessly before him—cold, hollow, and silent.
The dim light of a torch wavered in his grip, surrounded by the faint clatter of armored men moving behind him. Their breaths fogged the air like ghosts.
Then—
A piercing, inhuman scream echoed through the dark.
Eyes—bright blue, feral, and unblinking—flared in the depths of the tunnel.
And everything went black.
Veynar jolted awake.
He gasped, lungs burning, sweat clinging cold to his skin. His vision reeled—until the flicker of a campfire steadied his senses.
Men in silver armor sat nearby, their breastplates marked with the Imperial sigil. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
"What… what are they doing here?" he muttered hoarsely, clutching his head as the world spun.
"How did they—"
Pain lanced behind his eyes, the remnants of the nightmare—or memory—throbbing with every heartbeat. When his gaze dropped, he saw himself swathed in heavy furs, thick blankets pulled tightly around him to fend off the biting cold.
A soldier approached carefully, kneeling by the firelight.
"Your Grace… please," the man said, voice soft but urgent.
"Calm yourself. You're safe now. We found you half-buried in the snow—by the gods, we thought you were dead."
Veynar stared at the man, disoriented, his breath still uneven. The crackle of fire filled the silence between them, and outside the cave's mouth, the wind howled like a mourning wraith.
A deep, gravelly voice cut through the crackle of the campfire.
"Duke Eldrin Thane Veynar… you're one damned hard man to find."
Veynar lifted his head, blinking through the haze of exhaustion. The tall figure before him stepped into the firelight—white hair, a heavy beard streaked with frost, and eyes that had seen far too many wars.
"Aswaldous Aldoustan…?" Veynar's voice rasped, disbelief and relief twisting together.
"So… the Emperor did receive my message after all."
Aldoustan gave a dry huff, lowering himself to crouch near the fire.
"Aye, he did. Though I wouldn't call his reaction pleased." His tone turned edged. "Especially after you had the gall to request the Maiden Knight herself."
Veynar's eyes lowered, shadowed by guilt.
"I had no choice," he murmured. "This wasn't something any ordinary man could face."
The commander's brow furrowed.
"What are you saying? What in the hell happened out there, Veynar?"
The duke winced, his hand tightening around the fur draped over his shoulders. Pain flickered across his face—not just from his wounds, but from something far deeper. He looked away from the commander's stare, unable—or unwilling—to speak.
"Sir! Captain Rhun's Gliswing—it's flying outside!"
The shout echoed through the cave, breaking the low hum of crackling fire.
Aldoustan turned sharply toward the entrance, the torchlight glinting off his white beard. Beyond the dark mouth of the cave, a faint flicker of golden light pulsed through the storm.
He looked back at Veynar.
"Whatever you saw out there… you must tell me, Eldrin." His tone hardened, using the duke's given name—something only an old comrade could.
"If it threatens the Wall—or the Empire—speak of it now."
But Veynar said nothing. His eyes lowered to the fire, shadowed in guilt and silence.
Aldoustan exhaled through his nose, grim, then turned and strode toward the cave mouth with the soldier who had called out.
Outside, the cold hit them like knives. Snow drifted thick through the air, carried by a relentless wind that howled through the jagged stones.
"There, sir!" the soldier pointed. "On that tree—see the light?"
Aldoustan narrowed his eyes. A soft, ghostly shimmer pulsed on a branch not far from the ridge. He raised two fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle.
The light flickered once—then vanished.
A split-second later, a streak of motion sliced through the air. The Gliswing burst from the shadows, wings glimmering like shards of crystal, and landed squarely upon Aldoustan's shoulder.
The soldier flinched back, nearly slipping on the ice.
"Fuck—! I didn't even see it coming!"
Aldoustan chuckled under his breath, running a gloved hand along the creature's sleek, luminous wing.
"You haven't seen anything yet, lad." His tone turned faintly nostalgic.
"If this were the Conquest years ago… these little devils could kill a man before he'd even blink."
The cave was quiet save for the faint crackle of fire. Veynar sat wrapped in furs, eyes fixed on the wavering flame as memories blurred in and out—screams, snow, and the glint of something inhuman in the dark. His hands trembled once before stilling on his lap.
In the silence, only one name echoed through his thoughts.
"Vivienne… where are you…"