The night fell over Frostveil.
Wind howled across the empty plains, scattering snow over the frozen trail where a southern caravan had stalled for rest.
Lanterns flickered in the dark, halos of gold trembling against the white. Horses neighed nervously, their breath misting like ghosts. The night was too still. Too deliberate.
Then came the screams.
Steel tore through the silence as shadows dropped from the ridgelines, their boots crunching into the snow. Dressed in the navy-black coats of Northern soldiers, they moved like one organism, precise and cruel. No banners. No insignias. Only death.
The southern guards didn't even have time to question why their supposed escorts had turned on them. The first volley of blades struck before the word betrayal could even reach their tongues. Arrows hissed through the air, impaling men to their wagons. A single torch rolled into the cargo—grain, spices, medical supplies—and flames erupted in the snow, devouring color and reason.
