The palace grounds stirred with disciplined movement. Imperial soldiers assembled in precise lines, their armor gleaming beneath the pale morning sun. Crates of provisions and weapons were being packed and loaded into carriages, the air alive with the sound of steel, commands, and marching boots.
From the sidelines, a lone man observed in silence.
He moved with a deliberate, almost regal discipline — each step heavy with authority. His full-plated armor was of dark steel, engraved with the sigil of the Imperial Throne. This was the Hand of the Emperor, the man who walked beside Emperor Ivan himself — his most trusted right hand.
Beside him strode Robin, jotting notes on a parchment as they passed rows of troops.
"The supplies from the eastern barracks have arrived, my lord," Robin said, adjusting his glasses while writing quickly.
"The last division should be ready by dusk, though the cavalry still awaits the new batch of horses from the southern stables."
The Hand gave a short nod.
"Make sure the captains are informed. We leave no room for delay."
Robin hesitated, then added in a lower tone,
"Also, His Majesty has requested your presence later today… privately."
The Hand's helm tilted slightly, though his voice remained steady.
"Understood."
Hours later, the vast halls of the Imperial Palace echoed faintly with his armored steps. Servants moving through the corridors stopped and bowed as he passed — their eyes following his imposing figure.
"That's the Emperor's Hand…" one whispered.
"He's even taller in person," murmured another.
"I heard he's the only man who's ever stood equal to Marchioness Catalina in a spar."
"Really? Even so," said a maid quietly, "Lady Catalina is still unmatched — no man could surpass her strength."
"Indeed," another agreed softly.
Their whispers faded as the armored figure stopped before a tall, gold-engraved door. He stood straight, his voice deep and composed as he announced himself:
"My Emperor. It is I — Lord Tristan Igor Darius. I come as summoned."
"Come in" came the calm reply.
Inside, the chamber was dimly lit by the glow of lanterns. Emperor Ivan sat upon a red velvet couch, a great map spread before him across a marble table. Miniature pieces representing legions and battalions marked the map — their positions surrounding the northern border.
Ivan looked up as Tristan entered, gesturing for him to sit.
"Join me, Tristan. We have much to discuss."
Tristan removed his helm, blond hair—faded with streaks of silver—catching the light as he looked up. His face bore the marks of age and battle, yet his eyes still gleamed sharp and unyielding, the gaze of a man who'd lived too long on the edge of a blade.
"The preparations are nearly complete," Ivan began, his tone calm but distant. "Within days, you march for the northern frontier. Duke Veynar remains unaccounted for, and reports speak of growing unrest within the dukedom. This cannot wait any longer.."
As the Emperor spoke, Tristan listened intently. Yet beneath Ivan's composed voice, he sensed unease — a shadow of worry he hadn't seen since before Ivan ascended the throne.
Finally, Tristan broke the silence.
"Your Majesty… you seem troubled. What troubles you?"
Ivan's gaze lingered on the map. His hands, usually steady, curled slightly around the edge of the table. Ivan exhaled, leaning back slightly, his voice low but burdened.
"If it comes to the worst—if this expedition fails… if I fail—then whatever stirs beyond those snow mountains may break through the wall again. And if that happens…"
He paused, giving a wry, weary chuckle.
"Tell me, Tristan… should I just sacrifice the lives of thousands of my people, simply so Lady Catalina won't be called to duty again? For the sake of her peace—and my pride?"
His laugh died softly, replaced by quiet sorrow.
"If I did that, I'd be no ruler. I'd be a tyrant. No different from my own father…"
Tristan stood abruptly, his armor clattering softly. He placed a fist over his chest and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," he said with unshakable conviction, "I swear upon my oath as your Hand — it will not come to that. Nor will I allow her to be bound again by duty. I shall ensure victory, even without her aid."
Ivan met his eyes, a faint smile breaking through his fatigue.
"You've never failed me, Tristan. I trust you still won't."
Tristan bowed deeply, then turned to leave—his determination cold and unshakable. As the door closed behind him, Ivan sat in silence once more, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows over the map before him.
"Let us hope… your word is enough, old friend," he whispered.
Weeks slipped by like shadows across the map.
From the gilded halls of the capital to the frozen edges of the realm, the Emperor's will moved swiftly.
Snow howled over the battlements as the imperial banners approached the massive stone gates of the northern wall. The structure loomed like a fortress carved into the mountain itself. Within it lay the dukedom—its cities and farmlands encircled by layered walls, one behind another, each guarding the heart of the realm and the towering outer wall that faced the unknown wilderness.
At the gates, a man in a fur-lined coat waited anxiously. It was Renholt, the Duke's trusted advisor.
As Tristan rode in at the head of his column, the advisor stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Lord Darius, welcome to the northern dukedom."
"Advisor Renholt. I received your reports. Tell me—how fares the dukedom?"
Renholt's expression faltered — the weariness in his eyes betraying weeks of unrest.
"The situation grows unstable, my lord. The vassal lords… they argue day and night. With Duke Veynar missing, they each seek to claim authority. The walls may still stand, but inside these halls—order is fading."
Tristan's jaw tightened. He dismounted, handing his reins to a soldier before following Renholt through the iron gates.
"Then I'll see to them myself."
Inside the grand hall of the Duke's keep, a long table stretched beneath a chandelier of cold iron. Seated around it were the dukedom's vassal lords, their voices raised in angry dispute, red-faced and defiant, their hands slamming against the table in frustration.
"The Duke abandoned us! He took his men north and left the rest to fend for ourselves!" one lord shouted.
"Mind your tongue! He went to protect this realm!"
"Protect? He took our best soldiers! Now the wall's undermanned!" another barked.
"Then perhaps you'd prefer to lead them into the snow and die in his place?" An older lord said angrily.
"We cannot hold the wall and feed the Northern provinces both!" cried a third.
The argument grew louder — until the great double doors swung open with a thunderous clang.
The room fell silent.
Every man turned toward the entrance as Lord Darius strode in, flanked by imperial guards. His presence alone commanded submission. The vassals scrambled to their seats and bowed deeply.
"L–Lord Darius… the Emperor's Hand…" one stammered.
Tristan said nothing as he made his way to the end of the table. Only when he sat did the others dare take their seats again.
Their silence did not last. Soon the lords began to speak again — complaints, demands, fears, all spilling over each other like a pack of snarling dogs.
Tristan's patience snapped. His voice boomed across the hall, sharp and cold:
"Silence!"
The chamber froze. Even the torches seemed to quiet in the sudden stillness.
Tristan rose to his feet, drawing a sealed parchment from his cloak. The imperial crest glinted beneath the firelight.
"By the command of His Imperial Majesty Ivan Ivorton de Albanus, I, Tristan Igor Darius—the Hand of the Emperor—am appointed to maintain order in this dukedom until Duke Veynar returns. Furthermore, by His Majesty's decree, I will lead the search beyond the far north, to find the Duke and secure the wall until his safe return."
The parchment struck the table with finality.
No one dared speak. The hall remained still, save for the faint crackle of torches and the slow, measured breath of the Emperor's Hand.
Later that evening, within Duke Veynar's private office, Tristan stood beside Advisor Renholt as snow drifted past the high windows.
"You have my gratitude, Lord Darius. The council would have torn itself apart had you not intervened."
Tristan's gaze remained fixed on the window.
"Their loyalty is fragile. Power invites ambition, especially when a seat is empty."
Renholt sighed, shoulders heavy.
"Aye… and if the Duke doesn't return, many of those men will vie for his place. That could ignite civil war—and with whatever lurks beyond the wall, we cannot afford two battles."
Tristan nodded slowly.
"Then we'll find him. Before the North devours itself."
By dawn, the courtyard was alive with motion once more. Rows of imperial banners rippled against the cold wind as soldiers assembled under torchlight.
Tristan strode through them, his armor already dusted with snow, his voice carrying over the clamor.
"Captain Rhun!"
A captain stepped forward.
"My lord!"
"Captain. You will take the vanguard. Scout beyond Frostreach Pass and mark anything unusual—tracks, movement, remnants of battle. Anything that may lead us to the Duke's trail."
"Understood, my lord. We march at your signal."
As the captain rode off, Tristan turned his gaze toward the towering outer wall—the colossal barrier separating the dukedom from the far north. Beyond it stretched the endless white wilderness, silent and unknowable.
He tightened his gauntlets, his eyes cold and resolute.
He muttered under his breath. "The Emperor's will be done… and may the gods guard us from what lies beyond."
"And we'll hold this wall — or die upon it."
The horns sounded, and the northern wind howled in reply.