Snow swept across the courtyard like drifting ash as the gates of the outer wall groaned open inch by inch. Torches sputtered in the wind. Horses stamped restlessly, sensing the tension radiating from the men preparing to ride.
Duke Veynar stood at the front, cloak whipping in the cold. He inspected every soldier—armor strapped tight, blades polished, expressions grim. These were the veteran ranks of his house, the knights who had endured the wars of the North alongside him.
But then—something caught his eye.
At the back flank, half-hidden behind armored soldiers, stood a small cluster of young northerners wrapped in thick furs. Barely men. Faces pale, eyes determined but fearful. They did not wear any armor—only the rugged clothes of the northern district clearly from the east side of the wall.
Veynar's brows drew together sharply.
"What are they doing here?" he muttered under his breath.
These were his people—his responsibility within the walls.
But not soldiers.
Not trained.
Not meant to be anywhere near this kind of march.
"You three." The northerners stiffened.
"Step forward."
They obeyed, boots crunching in the snow.
Veynar exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation flaring.
"This is not your place. Return to the inner ward—now."
One of them opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Before Veynar could dismiss them fully, Leonard hurried up beside him, placing a hand against Veynar's arm.
"Eldrin—wait."
Veynar gave him a cold sideways glance.
"They have no business here. I won't have boys freezing to death for a matter that doesn't concern them."
Leonard shook his head.
"It does concern them and they might be a good help for this search party."
Veynar's frown deepened.
"This better be good."
Leonard lowered his voice.
"They came to me earlier. Said they wanted to help find the woman and child that were taken that are dear to them by those northerners who escaped."
"These lads," Leonard continued, gesturing lightly toward them.
"They're from the same district as her. They… admired Vivienne. Said she treated them with warmth—more than most ever have. When word spread she was taken, they came forward on their own."
Veynar's jaw tightened at the names, but he held his silence. The frost in his eyes thinned for a heartbeat.
Leonard stepped closer.
"They claim the preacher from their district, an old man named Willard… They say he may be tied to this. And they suspect where he might have gone."
Veynar studied the young northerners. Their hands were trembling—not from fear of the cold, but from determination. From guilt. From wanting to make things right.
"They're rough," Leonard admitted with a shrug.
"But they know the snow better than any of us. The back routes. The hidden passes. And they're willing, Duke. Willing to risk their lives for her."
A pause.
"And for your boy."
Veynar looked away, jaw clenching as the weight of that settled.
"…See to it they follow through," he finally said, voice low. "And make sure they aren't a burden."
Leonard smirked faintly. "I'll keep them in line."
Then he leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"There's more. One of those lads said something about the preacher's past. The old man… he isn't just some crazy preacher. He's an old follower of the Far Northern Kingdom. A true believer in the old order."
Veynar's brows knit together immediately.
Leonard continued, "He was here during the northern war. Lost everything. His people, his home. Some of them never let go of that hatred. He's one of those stubborn ones—still preaching the old ways. Still cursing the empire beneath his breath."
A slow, controlled breath left Veynar's lips.
"Even after all these years…" he muttered, voice cold as the wind. "These ghosts still crawl out of the snow. Their kingdom is long dead—yet their grudges cling harder than frost."
Leonard nodded grimly. "And now one of them has taken your family."
Veynar's eyes hardened into steel.
"We must ride now," he said. "And may the empire's sun burn every traitor that stands in our way."
The horns sounded.
The gates opened wide.
And Duke Veynar led his men—alongside young northerners who once feared him—into the white wilderness.
Snow fell in heavy, whispering sheets over the deep forest. Beyond the trees, jagged mountains rose like dark teeth, their slopes swallowed by blizzard-white. And nestled between them yawned a massive cave—an icy mouth exhaling cold.
Inside its shadowed entrance, six middle-aged northerners huddled around torches. Beside them lay an unconscious woman and a small child, wrapped in furs. The old man, Willard, stood apart, flipping through a worn leather journal—its pages yellowed, edges frayed. He kept glancing toward the cave's depths, as though checking that they were truly on the right path.
Near the captives, the men murmured among themselves.
"Are we… sure about this?" one whispered, voice uneasy.
Another scratched his beard, frowning. "Yeah. This feels wrong. Not exactly what I imagined we'd be doing."
A third clicked his tongue.
"What choice do we have? This is for our homeland. Have you forgotten how the southerners still look down on us—after everything? Even the ones who had nothing to do with the war. We were treated like dirt just the same."
"Still," the nervous one muttered, "kidnapping some random woman and her kid… This is too far, isn't it?"
From behind them, another man replied quietly, "She isn't random. The old man says she's special. Someone tied to the war."
Their torches crackled, lighting up their startled faces.
"Vivienne? Tied to the northern war?" one scoffed. Please. She's not a day over thirty. How could she be part of something that happened before she was born?"
Before the argument could grow louder, Willard snapped his book shut.
"Quiet," the old man hissed, annoyance cutting clean through the echoing cavern. The men stiffened, lowering their voices instantly. Willard returned to his journal, muttering to himself in old northern words none of them recognized.
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
"Whatever this is," one whispered, "it's for our people."
"Yeah… even if we don't understand what Willard's planning."
"If it means the revival of our homeland… if it means finally striking back at the empire—then so be it."
Silence settled again, broken only by the wind and the cave's hollow breath.
The wind howled like a wounded beast across the white expanse, carrying needles of frost that bit into flesh and armor alike. Duke Veynar rode at the front, his cloak snapping violently behind him, his eyes fixed on every shifting rise of snow as if he could pry the world open by staring hard enough.
His horse huffed clouds of steam. Veynar's jaw clenched with every step forward.
Beside him, Leonard guided his own mount through the deep drifts, squinting against the wind.
"Endless snow…" he muttered, brushing flakes off his brow.
"At this pace, this is going to take forever."
He glanced sideways—and his expression softened.
"Hopefully they're alright…" Leonard whispered, then raised his voice, placing a firm, steadying hand on Veynar's shoulder.
"Worry not, Eldrin. We will find them."
For a moment, Veynar's rigid posture eased—just a flicker, like a crack in ice revealing something warm beneath.
Before either could say more, a young northerner sprinted toward them from the scouting line ahead. His breathing was frantic, his boots sinking deep as he fought the snow.
"Y–Your Grace!" he shouted, stopping just short of Veynar's horse.
"I think… I think this is the right path—the one the old preacher kept muttering about!"
Veynar fixed him with a sharp look. "Speak clearly, boy."
The young northerner nodded quickly.
"He kept ranting in riddlings about 'the giant mouth in the forest… hidden beneath the jagged peaks'. Said it's the only place where 'the forgotten blood' could be awakened again." He swallowed nervously.
"Up ahead, Your Grace—three jagged peaks. Just like he described. A cave beneath them. It might be where they are."
Veynar turned his gaze to the horizon.
Through the snowfall—faint, but unmistakable—three sharp peaks clawed upward like black talons. Beneath them, the forest churned in the wind like a dark sea.
His heart tightened.
Vivienne… Rhydian…
He exhaled, steady and dangerous.
"You've done well," he told the boy, surprising the lad with the rare praise. "Fall back with the others."
The northerner nodded and retreated, still trembling.
Veynar then turned to Leonard.
"Leo. Stay here with the bulk of the men. Hold position."
Leonard frowned. "You plan to ride out with just a handful?"
"We need speed," Veynar answered. "And if this trail is false, I won't drag everyone into a wasteland. I'll take a forward party—confirm the path. If what the boy said is true…"
His voice darkened. "Then my family is there."
Leonard hesitated—just a breath—then gave a slow, resolute nod.
"Very well. I'll keep the line steady. Just don't die on me out there."
Veynar almost smiled, though it never fully reached his eyes.
"I won't."
He lifted a hand and signaled to his chosen men. Hooves shifted. Swords rattled. The forward party formed quickly behind him.
Leonard called out one last time before they separated.
"Eldrin! Be Careful."
And the duke—without turning—answered through the storm,
"I will."
Then he spurred his horse toward the jagged peaks, the snow swallowing their forms as they vanished into the white.
Far ahead—beyond the reach of the duke's torchlight, beyond the last familiar ridge—the mountains loomed in silence.
Nestled in their shadow, the cavern yawned wide and black.
Its breath was cold.
Its throat swallowed every sound.
Torches hissed weakly at its mouth, carried by the men who had come here with their captives.
Inside, the cave stretched deep—wet stone, ghostly echoes, and ancient cold. And within that dark…
The rough scrape of wood beneath her back.
Vivienne drifted somewhere between nightmares and waking.
Darkness pressed against her from all sides. Cold seeped into her bones. Something heavy and rough lay draped over her body—thick fur, coarse against her skin.
Then a certain heat started.
A slow burn spread through her chest, familiar enough to stab straight through the fog in her mind. A tightening, a pressure—an old burning sensation she hadn't felt in years.
Her eyes flew open.
She forced her head to the side, she was bound tightly to a sled, every muscle stiff from the rope biting into her wrists and legs. The first thing she saw was Rhydian beside her, curled against the furs, breathing softly. Thank the stars—he was alive.
His soft breaths were the only warmth she could feel.
Her heart lurched.
Only then did she see the stranger walking ahead of them.
A man trudged through the snow-packed tunnel floor, both hands gripping a thick rope that was tied to the front of the wooden sled they lay on. Each pull dragged them forward with a dull crunch against the icy ground. His boots echoed softly in the cavern, swallowed by darkness.
Beyond him, several other men marched with torches held high, their flames spitting orange light across the jagged stone walls. The tunnel stretched endlessly, its mouth behind them already lost to shadow—like the throat of some ancient beast swallowing them whole.
A sharp throb pierced her skull. Her vision blurred for a moment. Memory crashed back in jagged pieces—
The door bursting open.
Strangers flooding inside.
Hands grabbing her.
Rhydian's frightened cry.
The crack of something hard against her head.
Nothing.
Now she was here. Bound. Dragged into a frozen cavern with men she had never seen before.
Vivienne inhaled slowly, forcing her pulse to steady.
They're not here to parley. And they're not here to spare us.
She tugged once, subtly, testing the ropes. No gives.
Her arms were tied to her torso. Her legs pinned beneath layers of fur and knots. She could force her way out—painfully—but not without drawing attention. Not without risking her child beside her.
If I move too soon… if I fight now… they might use him. Or harm him.
Her jaw tightened.
Not yet. Wait. Watch. Find the opening. When it comes… I take him and run.
She lowered her head back against the fur, body still, breath quiet. She would wait for her moment.
The sled jolted over a rock, and Vivienne pressed herself flat against the fur. Cold bit through her bones, but it wasn't the snow she feared.
Veynar… would he know?
She tried to imagine him, standing at the threshold of their home, noticing her absence. Would his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword? Would he swear quietly, low, and search anyway, no questions asked?
She dared not look away from Rhydian. The child slept, oblivious, small chest rising and falling. She tightened her grip on the ropes, silent.
I have to be strong. I can't falter. Not now.
The tunnel yawned ahead, dark and cold. Every step of the man ahead echoed like a hammer, each crunch of the sled on stone reminding her how far from Veynar she had fallen—and how far she would have to go before she could see him again.
The men's boots scraped against the stone-cold ground as Willard advanced, his eyes scanning the worn pages of his tattered journal. The old leather whispered with each turn, ink fading, edges frayed. He stopped suddenly, his gaze snapping forward.
Ahead, the cave opened into a strange, cavernous expanse. In the center, a perfectly round hole yawned like a black eye, its depth swallowing shadows, inside lay a pool of dark water, smooth as glass. Light spilled from above like a spotlight, cutting through the cavern's gloom, and small flecks of snow drifted through the opening, melting against the cold stone.
Willard's eyes widened, as if he were staring back into a memory he hadn't dared revisit for decades. "This… this is it," he murmured, stopping mid-step.
The men behind him slowed, noticing the pause.
"Is this it?" one whispered.
Another squinted at the walls near the pool.
"Hey… I recognize these markings," he said, pointing. An engraving in the old northern tongue glimmered faintly in the torchlight.
Willard's head snapped toward them, his eyes sharp.
"Hurry," he barked.
"Grab that woman—place her in the pool. Now."
The man who had been holding the sled's rope hesitated.
"And the boy, Willard? What do we do with the child?"
Willard paused, thinking, his eyes narrowing.
"He is hers. Take him as our own. He may yet be useful… her blood flows in him."
The man's voice trembled. "Blood? What do you mean—"
A sharp movement cut him off. From behind, a hand yanked his hair back, exposing his neck. In a flash, a jagged obsidian stone slashed through his neck. Blood spattered across the icy floor before anyone could react.
The man gurgled, choking on his own blood. His staggered steps revealed what lay behind him—Vivienne, finally free from her ropes, holding a sharp obsidian blade in her hand. With a swift, practiced kick, she struck him. The wounded man stumbled forward, colliding with the two men ahead. The three of them went down together, crashing against the icy stone floor, groaning and scrambling.
Willard's eyes widened, his journal slipping slightly from his grasp.
"What—how did she—?" he stammered, momentarily frozen in shock.
Vivienne didn't pause. She scooped up Rhydian, holding the child close. Every step was deliberate, careful, yet urgent. Her heart hammered, cold and furious at the same time.
The men around her scrambled, shouting, but she was already moving—dashing through the cavern with the obsidian blade clenched tightly, a shadow against the pale light spilling from the ceiling.
"After her!" Willard shouted, voice sharp, commanding, and filled with disbelief.
Vivienne's eyes darted to the darkness ahead. She couldn't stop. She wouldn't. Not until her child was safe.
The cavern rang with shouts and scrambling feet. Willard barked orders, furious, but Vivienne was already in motion. She pressed herself low, gripping Rhydian close, the obsidian stone cold and deadly in her hand.
Vivienne stumbled over the jagged stones, each step unsteady, her body straining to stay upright. Ahead—a faint light. The exit. She could feel the rush of wind brushing against her face, promising freedom.
But then—a whistle.
Fast. Unexpected.
Something tore through her right leg. She cried out, falling forward, instinctively curling around Rhydian to protect him. Pain seared through her, hot and biting. She looked down and froze. An arrow protruded from her thigh.
How? Where had it come from?
Shuffling footsteps echoed closer. She forced her eyes upward.
A man stood there, rough-hewn and grizzled, his scruffy beard streaked with gray. Somewhere in his forties. Guarding the cave exit.
She had thought she could escape. She had been wrong.
"I was right to post near the exit," the man said, bow in hand, eyes narrowing as he looked at her. "But I didn't expect you fools to let a woman slip through so easily."
The men chasing her arrived, panting heavily, frustration clear in their voices.
"That bitch… she's a sly one!" one spat.
Another shouted, fury spiking his tone. "She killed John! That fucking bitch!"
The bowman laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.
"All of you got bested by a woman? Unbelievable."
Then his eyes caught something behind the others—Willard, emerging from the cave.
"You should've picked better men for this, Willard," he sneered, his voice low, carrying disdain. "These fools aren't northern warriors one bit."
One of the men chasing Vivienne spat out, "You bastar—" but before the word could leave his lips, his companion clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Come now… that's Cregan. Let's not meddle."
The first man grumbled, frustration flashing across his face, but stayed silent.
Vivienne's breath came ragged. Pain bit into her leg, but fear for her child and the taste of freedom spurred her forward. She would not falter now—not when the exit was so close.
She started to crawl, dragging herself over the jagged stones, holding her boy close as if nothing else mattered.
Cregan, the man with the bow, watched her with a raised brow, a slow smirk curling his lips.
"Feisty one, aren't you?"
With a swift kick of his boot, he struck her head. Knocking Vivienne out of consciousness.
Cregan straightened and glanced at the other men.
"Come on, then," he said, voice sharp. "Bring her back. And make certain she doesn't slip away again."
The men moved quickly, hoisting Vivienne and the child back onto the sled. The sound of wood scraping over stone echoed through the cavern as they disappeared deeper into the darkness.
Willard lingered for a moment, eyes fixed on the retreating captives, then turned away, muttering something in the old northern tongue as he walked alongside the rest of his men.
Cregan's lips curled in a derisive snort.
"Crazy old man," he murmured under his breath.
He watched in silence as the men carried Vivienne and her child back into the cavern's shadow, the pool of water looming nearby, the old man's journal tucked safely under his arm.
He turned away, boots crunching against the stone, "I'm curious… but I'll let this old fool play his game. I won't be chained to it if it fails.
Vivienne's small body twitched beneath the furs. The men's boots echoed in the dark tunnel, fading deeper and deeper into the cavern.
And somewhere above, the cold wind whistled through the cavern mouth, carrying with it a silent warning—freedom was gone, but only for a moment. The real storm was yet to come.