The northern air carried a cold that pierced not only the skin but seeped deep into the bone. Mist fell slowly, cloaking the barren land and stiff pine trees like ancient sentinels. Atop the stony hill guarding the small city of Veldrakar stood an old yet imposing structure Fortress Vaelric, the northern command center and ancestral seat of one of the Empire's oldest noble houses.
Duke Armand Vaelric stood on the high balcony of the western tower, draped in a heavy mantle lined with gray wolf fur. His sharp eyes scanned the morning fog, as if trying to read signs of war from miles away.
The wind carried scents of iron, sweat, and a faint trace of burning wood. Below, the fortress courtyard echoed with the sounds of discipline booted drills, the clashing of steel, and sharp cries of combat training.
He said nothing. He simply watched.
"The sky's too calm today," came a quiet voice behind him.
Garrick Thorne, tactical head and the Duke's most trusted aide, stepped forward. His silver hair was tousled by the wind, and his face bore the fatigue of one who lived under commands and the shadows of bloodshed.
"Perhaps it's just the season," the Duke replied softly, "Or a sign the storm hasn't arrived yet."
Garrick handed him a scroll.
"Main forces are on standby. Eastern and southern garrisons are shifting. Logistics reinforced. Captain Oswin and Lieutenant Valenne are en route."
The Duke opened the scroll, reading silently. His eyes scanned quickly, but every line weighed heavily in his mind.
"The rebellion in the southeast keeps growing," he murmured. "And now word is... one of the Archon's Horsemen has intervened."
Garrick gave a curt nod.
"Lucard Vehlheim."
The Duke clicked his tongue.
"If Vehlheim's involved, this isn't just a rebellion anymore."
He walked inside, past a large table scattered with old maps and miniature military markers. The room was quiet, lit only by pale sunlight from the arched window.
Soon, the wooden door opened. Three figures entered and saluted.
Captain Oswin Caerne, massive in build and thunderous in voice. His face bore the scars of many campaigns, but his seasoned eyes remained clear and calculating.
Lieutenant Valenne Rook, lean, cloaked in gray, with a longbow slung over her shoulder. Her gaze was sharp, calculating like a hawk eyeing its prey.
Ilyas Dorn, young but resolute, head of logistics. He spoke in numbers and supply estimates, not empty promises.
"You've heard the reports from the southeast," the Duke said, his voice calm as stone. "Rebellion… militia… perhaps something deeper."
Oswin smirked.
"They think they can copy revolution out of mud and ruin? Let them try. We have snow and steel."
Valenne responded flatly,
"But we don't know who's arming them. They're too prepared to be just starving farmers."
Ilyas added,
"There's irregular movement of goods in the southern routes. Weapons, food, maybe even gold. But no official record."
The Duke gave a slow nod, then turned his gaze to the map.
"I won't send troops to extinguish smoke until I know where the fire begins," he said flatly. "We send scouts. Deep. Very deep."
Garrick stepped in.
"Our shadow units are ready. I can deploy them tonight."
"Deploy them," the Duke ordered. He looked at each of them in turn.
"And all of you ready the troops. No panic, but sharpen them. The North does not bow to loud threats. We bow with silence. And with blood, if needed."
He stepped back out onto the balcony. The mist had begun to break, revealing the snowy valley below.
"The Empire may hesitate. But we do not.
We are the first wall…
And if that wall falls, the world will have no ground left to stand on."