What unfolded before Wyatt’s eyes was a fragile symphony of madness and beauty. The frontier lay in ruin, a mere shadow of its former self, as buildings and camps were torn asunder by the frost drake that had ambushed them minutes ago. Huddled between two massive rock formations, Wyatt stood with a few children and a frail old dame—those who had been unable to escape as swiftly as the others.

  On instinct, he had abandoned the protective barrier cast by the royal guards and rushed to shield them.

  "Bless your kind heart, child," the old woman murmured, shivering under the North’s unforgiving cold.

  "I-Is it safe now?" a young boy asked, his wide eyes fixed on Wyatt.

  Wyatt glanced toward the battle. Arrows whistled through the air, striking the beast with little effect, while the royal mages stood in rigid concentration, maintaining the barrier that shielded them from the creature’s icy breath.

  "Not yet," Wyatt answered, his voice steady. He knelt to their level. "Stay here. I promise we’ll get you out safely." His gaze softened. "I have to help them. Be brave, little one, and watch over them for me, would you?"

  The boy nodded hesitantly.

  Gripping his father’s war hammer, Wyatt turned and sprinted into the open, where he found Uriel standing before a drawn circle, his battle staff in hand, murmuring an incantation.

  "Sir Uriel! You can’t be out here in the open!" Wyatt called.

  As if on cue, the frost drake’s gaze snapped to them, its ancient blue eyes gleaming with intelligence. Wisps of frost escaped its nostrils as it rose into the sky, vanishing momentarily. Then, with a piercing screech, it shattered the clouds above, unleashing an avalanche of frozen mist that surged toward them.

  From the distance, Cassian’s voice rang out. "Wyatt! Take cover!"

  But Wyatt stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. The mist swallowed the sunlight, plunging the battlefield into an eerie twilight. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced for the inevitable—

  Then warmth.

  Have I passed into the afterlife?

  His body struck the ground, yet he felt no pain. A rough jolt brought him back to reality.

  "Thank the Divines! You're an idiot, do you know that?!" Cassian’s panicked voice filled his ears.

  Wyatt blinked, disoriented, finding himself behind the ruins of a collapsed building, surrounded by a handful of royal guards who stood watch over something outside.

  The battle wasn’t over. The frost wyrm’s screams still pierced the air—but something had changed. Now, the beast sounded… engaged.

  "What on earth is going on out there?" Wyatt asked, still catching his breath.

  "See for yourself, lad." A guard reached down, helping him to his feet.

  Wyatt peered beyond the wreckage. Some royal guards still maintained the barrier, struggling to contain the devastation. But what truly caught his attention was Uriel—no longer chanting, no longer grounded. He was mounted atop a mighty beast.

  It had the muscular body of a lion, but the sharp talons, head, and vast wings of an eagle.

  "What in the Divines is that?" Wyatt breathed.

  "Zephandor," the guard answered. "A griffin of great renown. In the old days, they were believed to dwell only in the mountains of Eagleview. And yet, here we are, witnessing one in all its glory. Stories say Sir Uriel found it wounded in its youth and nursed it back to health. They've been inseparable ever since."

  Wyatt remained transfixed as the griffin soared, Uriel astride its back, maneuvering effortlessly through the frigid sky.

  "You should’ve seen the look on our faces when it sprang from the incantation circle," the guard chuckled. "Must’ve been some kind of binding spell."

  Above them, Zephandor let out a deafening screech. The battle had turned.

  Uriel and his griffin moved as one, weaving through the drake’s onslaught—dodging its claws, evading its freezing breath. The beast’s pained cries echoed across the frontier, striking fear into the hearts of those watching from afar as the skirmish raged on in the storm-laden skies.

  Time had passed, and the monster was nearing its limits. Its movements grew sluggish, its breaths ragged. Deep wounds marred its body, and as Wyatt and the others saw the signs of its impending fall, a cheer rose among them—victory was within reach.

  But the drake was not yet defeated.

  In a final act of desperation, it snapped its head toward a direction Uriel could not intercept. Its weary eyes locked onto a frail dame and the children, who had broken into a desperate sprint, trying to escape the battlefield.

  With the last of its strength, the creature unleashed a massive wave of ice in their direction.

  A chorus of screams erupted as the expedition shouted warnings at the top of their lungs—but their voices were swallowed by the raw power of the drake’s attack. The icy blast tore through the air, shattering what remained of the protective barrier. The sheer force sent Wyatt and the others sprawling across the ground.

  Wyatt reached out, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with horror. He could only watch as the three figures stood frozen—mere seconds from death’s grasp.

  The old woman, trembling, threw herself forward in a desperate attempt to shield the children. She braced for the cold’s merciless touch… but it never came.

  Instead, a powerful yet gentle breeze swept past her, tugging back the hood that covered her head.

  The battlefield stilled. The expedition turned their gazes skyward.

  Perched atop the drake, his battle staff raised high, stood Uriel.

  "Your enemy is me!" he roared.

  With a forceful swing, he brought his weapon crashing down onto the creature’s skull. The impact was instant. The drake let out a final, ear-splitting screech as its body twisted in an uncontrollable descent.

  "Take cover!" someone shouted.

  The expedition scattered as the beast struck the earth with devastating force, tearing through the ground and leaving a wake of shattered stone and dust in its fall. When the dust finally settled, the troops gathered, surveying the wreckage. The drake lay motionless, its once-piercing eyes now dulled as it released one final, icy breath. The battle was over.

  Perched atop the fallen beast, Uriel exhaled a weary sigh and sank down, catching his breath after the grueling skirmish.

  A triumphant cheer erupted from the expedition.

  Cassian hurried toward the royal guard, who was tending to his winged companion. Uriel placed a hand on Zephandor’s powerful neck, his voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you for your aid, old friend." The griffin lowered its head in acknowledgment.

  "You have earned your rest," Uriel continued. "Return home now."

  With a gentle touch to Zephandor’s forehead, a summoning circle flared to life beneath the creature. In a blink, the mighty griffin vanished without a trace. "Sir Uriel!" Cassian hurried to his side. "Are you wounded, milord?!"

  Uriel let out a weary chuckle. "No, fortunately, I'm still in one piece. The only thing wounded is my pride—I thought I’d bring it down faster." He exhaled, shaking his head. "Seems all that reading has dulled my skills." Cassian looked at him in disbelief.

  The expedition rallied their troops once more, aiding the evacuees as they returned to their now-ruined homes. As Wyatt moved through the crowd to check on the displaced, the young girl from earlier approached him, clutching her brother's hand.

  "Thank you, kind mister," she said softly, her wide eyes filled with gratitude.

  Wyatt knelt to meet her gaze. "No need to thank us. You two were the real heroes here—protecting each other and this dame. Keep that up, and one day you might find yourselves among the royal guard, like them." He offered a warm smile.

  The girl glanced at the soldiers in the distance, her eyes lighting up with youthful wonder. "You're not one of them?" the old woman—the dame—asked, stepping closer.

  Wyatt shook his head. "No, I'm only an escort of sorts. A direct order from the regent himself."

  The dame's wrinkled face shifted in surprise. "Well, that means you must be someone important then! But—ah, forgive me—where are my manners? May I ask your name, good sir?"

  He straightened and gave a small bow. "Wyatt Blackwood of Rosetown, at your service."

  For the first time in what felt like years, his name carried a different weight. A spark of pride flickered within him, a warmth he had nearly forgotten. But the feeling was cut short by the dame's audible gasp.

  "Blackwood...?" Her voice trembled. It was as if she were pulling the name from the depths of an old memory. "You don't happen to know... Dale Blackwood?"

  Wyatt's heart skipped a beat. His surprise mirrored her own. "I do. He is my father."

  The old woman’s breath hitched. Her eyes scanned his face with sudden intensity, searching for something familiar. A chuckle escaped her, soft and wistful. "Dale Blackwood... that stubborn boy. All fire and talent, but no patience. A wild spark in the forge, always trying to shape steel before he understood its soul. Because of that, he discarded everyone who ever wanted to know or help him." She shook her head, her smile touched with fondness. "He needed a firm hand—and a kind heart. So I gave him food to fill his stomach and a house to sleep in." She continued.

  "Hilda Bransdottir," she said, her voice gentle. "But to Dale, I was Old Bran. Not just his greatest supporter—but his family, when he had none. And now here you are, his pride and joy. You have his face… and your mother’s eyes."

  Wyatt was taken aback. The sudden shift left him speechless. "You knew my mother?"

  Hilda smiled wistfully. "Oh, I did, young one. I may have been the one cleaning up after his work and shielding him from naysayers, but she was the one who truly changed him for the better. I believe he made up his mind after she had nursed him back to health. The dwarves had plans for him, you know. A future carved in stone, destined for greatness. But no—he had already found his peace… with her, Divines bless her soul."

  Nearby, the voices of relieved parents echoed as they called for their children, embracing them with tearful joy.

  Hilda turned back to Wyatt, her eyes warm with curiosity. "So how is he now? I'm surprised he never mentioned me. I know he's a stubborn lad—hotheaded at that—but surely a story or two wouldn’t have hurt."

  Wyatt hesitated. He wanted to spare her from the truth. His gaze dropped, avoiding her eyes, yet somehow, he managed to force a response.

  "...He's doing well. After the destruction of Rosetown, he traveled with us to the Capital."

  It was a lie. And Wyatt hated himself for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the dame’s heart.

  Hilda’s face softened with blissful relief. "That’s good to hear. He may not be as old as I am, but he’s always needed to take better care of himself. Brash as ever, that one—quick to action, never thinking of the consequences, for himself or anyone else." She let out a fond chuckle before glancing past Wyatt.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "Ah, it seems you're needed elsewhere." She gave him a knowing look. "It was a pleasure meeting you, sweet child. If you ever find yourself in need—anything at all—just say my name. Tell them Old Bran sends her regards."

  Wyatt dipped his head in gratitude. The offer was strange, even cryptic, but something told him it might prove useful one day.

  "Thank you, Dame Hilda. Farewell." With that, he turned and rejoined Cassian, who stood waiting alongside the rest of the expedition, who were getting ready to embark once more now that the threat was neutralized.

  "Outstanding work, Sir Uriel," Wyatt remarked in awe after they had now departed and said their goodbyes to the community, who eagerly saw them off their journey once more into the deep north. "This magic you bear, it is unlike anything I have ever seen before. What is it?" He asked, curious to know if he was like Godric, who could utilize multiple forms. Uriel looked at him as if he had read his mind.

  "I rarely use mana nowadays, so I understand if you were caught off guard. I have mastery over the foundation of Transfiguration." Wyatt furrowed his brow. “Transfiguration? You mean shapeshifting?”

  Uriel chuckled, adjusting the straps of his satchel as they trudged through the snowy terrain alongside the expedition. “Not quite. Shapeshifting alters the physical form of a living being. Transfiguration, however, is the art of fundamentally changing the properties of objects and elements. It is far more complex—true mastery requires an understanding of both structure and essence.”

  Wyatt thought back to the way Uriel had effortlessly manipulated the battle to his advantage. To the ground and stones that shifted as if responding to his will, the changing of an icy breath to a cool breeze, and the battle staff that struck down the mighty beast after a single blow. It was unlike the brute force of a battle mage or the precision of an enchanter—this was something far more fluid, almost instinctive.

  “And you say you rarely use it?” Wyatt asked.

  Uriel gave a knowing smile. “Knowledge is my weapon now. There are others far more suited for battle.” His eyes flickered with amusement as he glanced at Wyatt. “And from what I understand, magic does not take well to you.”

  Wyatt exhaled sharply, watching the mist of his breath swirl in the cold air. “You could say that.”

  They continued onward, the wind howling against them as the North stretched vast and untamed before them. Though the conversation had shifted, one question still lingered in Wyatt’s mind: If Uriel rarely used mana, then just how powerful had he once been?

  ***

  After hours of relentless travel through snow-choked valleys and frostbitten forests, the expedition finally crested a ridge—and there it stood. Winterspire. The ancestral seat of the Warden of the North rose from the frozen expanse like a monolith of ice and stone, its towering spires crowned with frost, gleaming beneath the pale light of a dying sun.

  Beyond its formidable walls, the mighty Everfrost Citadel loomed, a fortress carved from the very bones of the mountain, its battlements lost in the veil of an endless snowfall. The wind howled through the pass, carrying the weight of history and whispered legends, as if the North itself was watching, waiting to see who would dare claim its mercy—or its wrath.

  Wyatt and Cassian stood in awe, eyes wide at the sight before them.

  "By the Divines..." Cassian murmured, his voice filled with amazement. "What on earth is this place?"

  They trudged along the beaten path toward the imposing city as Khandem, the dwarven emissary, walked beside them. "This, lad, is Lord Rykard’s domain," he said gruffly. "The northerners rarely receive visitors from other parts of Primera, so expect eyes and ears everywhere."

  Khandem glanced up at the sky; the barely visible sun was already sinking below the horizon.

  "Uriel!" he called out to the royal guard. "It would be best to settle here for the night. I understand you have other business to attend to once we step foot in Lord Wintertomb’s hold?"

  Uriel gave a firm nod. "Indeed, I do." He turned to the men. "Let’s move. If memory serves me right, they have an inn here—The Frozen Stag. It’s the only place in Primera that serves Rimefang Mead. If you’ve never had any, now’s the time to try it and relax. You’ve all earned it. Go and grab a drink, enjoy some food and warm yourselves while I go and seek an audience with Lord Rykard."

  The expedition entered the city, crossing a bridge that spanned a vast ravine below. High above, the Wintertomb sigil—a silver key laid over a blue-and-white shield—flapped fiercely in the biting winter winds. Wyatt’s thoughts drifted to his father’s stories about House Wintertomb—how, despite their deep spirituality, they sought the truth in all things, even in matters of the divine.

  Once inside the city, curious eyes—frozen with suspicion—watched the expedition intently. But as they caught sight of the dwarven emissary, their expressions softened, a collective sense of relief washing over them. Wyatt noticed the shift in mood and surmised that the locals, too, had felt the looming threat of the frost drakes.

  After a few minutes, the inn finally came into view, sparking a chorus of cheers from the men, weary from both battle and travel. Smiles spread across their faces, save for Uriel, whose gaze remained locked on the towering Everfrost Citadel in the distance. Wyatt stole a glance at him and immediately understood—Uriel bore a weight far heavier than any of them could fathom. His struggle was far from over.

  "Khandem, treat the men to a few rounds of mead, food, and make sure they get some rest, would you?" Uriel said, his voice low but firm. "I need to look into something else first. I'll catch up with you later."

  Khandem gave him a knowing nod, his gruff expression softening. "Aye, lad. You can count on me." He turned to the royal guards who had gathered outside the inn, waiting for his signal. “Well, don’t just stand there! You heard the man! Get inside already!”

  The men poured into the inn with loud cheers, but Uriel barely noticed them. His steps were slow and deliberate, each one taking him closer to the citadel. Wyatt watched him go, his concern mounting.

  "Hey, you all right?" Cassian's voice broke through the silence.

  "Yes, I'm fine. Be right there," Wyatt replied, his eyes lingering on the figure of Uriel before he turned to head inside.

  But before he entered, Wyatt glanced over his shoulder one last time. Uriel was already out of sight, swallowed by the vastness of the citadel ahead, leaving Wyatt with a lingering sense that this journey was merely beginning.

  ***

  After hours of eating, drinking, and singing to shake off their fatigue, the men finally retreated to their rooms, each one sinking into an exhausted slumber. The once-rowdy inn, alive with laughter and song until midnight, had fallen into silence. Only the barkeeper and a few workers remained, gathering plates and mugs while others swept the floor, their movements slow and methodical.

  Wyatt shared a room with Cassian, who slept soundly across from him near the window, his sword and shield propped against the wall within reach. But while his friend rested without care, Wyatt lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind too restless for sleep.

  With a quiet sigh, he slipped out of bed and carried his war hammer with him. He opened the door carefully, and made his way downstairs. He was drawn toward the hearth, hoping the warmth of the fire would ease his thoughts.

  To his surprise, he wasn’t alone.

  Khandem sat near the fire, smoking his pipe in silence, the embers casting a warm glow over his weathered face. Without looking up, he gestured to the empty spot beside him.

  "Grab a seat, lad."

  Wyatt hesitated before stepping forward. "Sorry if I ruined your peace and quiet, Khandem. I had trouble sleeping."

  Khandem let out a quiet chuckle, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Can’t say I blame you. That skirmish would keep anyone on edge. How the others managed to sleep after all that baffles me."

  Wyatt watched the fire flicker, the embers glowing like dying stars. Khandem offered him the pipe, but he shook his head.

  "Well, given their reputation, I’m sure they’ve seen worse. And Cassian? He could sleep through a landslide." Wyatt smirked.

  Khandem chuckled, the two sharing a brief moment of peace before Wyatt’s expression hardened. Deep down, he knew—this was the last good night’s rest they’d have for a long time. "We’ve barely scratched the surface, haven’t we?"

  Khandem exhaled another slow breath of smoke. "Aye, lad. What we faced today was just a taste of what’s coming. If the frost drakes have truly awakened, then we may be staring down the end of the world itself."

  Wyatt clenched his fists. His mind drifted back to the battle, to how he had done nothing but get in the way—Uriel and the Royal Guards had fought like legends, while he had been little more than a bystander. A pitiful feeling gnawed at him. Maybe Sir Byronard had been wrong to bring him along.

  "Don’t beat yourself up too bad. You did what you could," Khandem said, as if reading his thoughts. "Even I was useless at the time."

  The words did little to shake the doubt from Wyatt’s mind. He hesitated before asking, "...Do you think we can make it out of this alive?"

  Khandem met his gaze with a steady, hopeful look. "As long as someone has the guts to stand and fight, there's always a chance, lad." He tapped the ash from his pipe. "Besides, you've yet to meet the Stormborn Kings. We dwarves are a hardy folk—don't underestimate us so easily."

  Wyatt frowned. "I don’t know much about dwarven culture, apart from a few stories my father used to tell me. But these kings… who are they, exactly?"

  "Well, strap on. This is going to be a long night." Khandem replied, eager to share what he knew. "In the old days, the dwarves once followed a single ruler—the High King of the Stormborn. But centuries ago, a war shattered that unity, nearly driving our people to ruin. That war, known as The Sundering of the Anvil, was a brutal conflict between two rival clans vying for the throne after the previous king died without an heir. When the dust settled, neither side had won. The kingdom stood on the brink of collapse, its forges cold, its halls divided. It was then that two brothers, Sindras and Vargas, rose to power—not as conquerors, but as unifiers." He continued. Wyatt listened intently to the story, as he never knew that the dwarves had a similar event like theirs.

  "Sindras, the elder, was the scholar and tactician, a master of lore and diplomacy, if I do say so myself. He understood the weight of history and the importance of preserving dwarven tradition. He wielded Tharnok, the Runebound Scepter, the ancient relic of House Stormguard, said to hold the wisdom of kings past. Where others saw only division, he saw a way forward." Khandem said as he stood up and shifted to a battle stance.

  "Vargas, the younger, was the warrior and smith, a legend on the battlefield. With arms strong enough to bend steel, he forged the weapons that defended our people in our darkest hour. He carried Draknhjold, the Stormbringer, an axe reforged from the weapons of fallen foes. Unlike Sindras, Vargas did not seek compromise—but he would die before seeing his people tear each other apart again. He and your father got along quite well, if I remember." This statement piqued Wyatt's interest, who was now fully enveloped in the story.

  "Rather than let our people fall into ruin, the brothers proposed something unheard of—a dual monarchy. Two kings, ruling as one, balancing wisdom and strength. Sindras would reign over the Stonecrown, guiding diplomacy, trade, and law. Vargas would rule from the Iron Throne, leading our armies and safeguarding the kingdom’s borders." He continued as he drank from a mug to quench his thirst.

  "It was a gamble, but we dwarves—seeing the wisdom in Sindras and the unbreakable will of Vargas—swore loyalty to them both. And so, we rebuilt our land and prospered. When Unrel Wolfsbane, your first king, proposed an alliance with our kind, the two kings accepted without hesitation. Sindras saw a grand opportunity for progress, while Vargas respected Unrel’s skill on the battlefield. A man who could unite all the kingdoms of Men under one banner was either a powerful ally… or a foe too dangerous to make an enemy of."

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair, astonished. "Incredible. To think our races were once so intertwined. But tell me—why do so few of our kind even know that mana exists?"

  Khandem gave him a surprised look. "I thought you would have known by now. I believe only the monarchs and the heads of your Great Houses know the truth. If memory serves, Sindras once spoke of a sacred vow—a binding pact that erased the knowledge of mana from the minds of every man, woman, and child, save for a select few. It was mana, after all, that allowed your kingdom to rise to power."

  He exhaled a slow breath of smoke before adding, "To be honest, lad, that was a bold move by your rulers. Without the Royal Guard and the Seven, we dwarves and the elves would have the numbers to match, if not surpass, your armies. But given the destruction caused by the civil war twenty three years ago, I believe it was the best decision they could make." Khandem let out a long sigh, tapping the ash from his pipe before rubbing his tired eyes. "But I believe this has been enough talk for one night, lad. My bones ache, and my bedroll is calling my name. Ghor Nheram awaits us tomorrow. It'd be best to be well rested."

  Wyatt agreed with the emissary’s suggestion, but just as he stood, a thunderous explosion erupted outside. The entire building shook violently, sending people tumbling to the floor. Some woke with a jolt, while others clung to whatever they could as tremors rattled through the walls.

  "What was that?!" Wyatt shouted, struggling to maintain his balance. Panic set in as the barkeeper and the maidens screamed, but Khandem was quick to take control.

  "Check outside, now!" he barked.

  Wyatt scrambled to the door, flung it open, and stumbled onto the ground, disoriented. When he raised his head, his heart nearly stopped. A blinding pillar of light shot into the sky from the ancient castle of House Wintertomb, sending chunks of ice and stone crashing into the frost-covered buildings below. Civilians fled in terror, while soldiers scrambled to arm themselves, their shouts barely audible over the chaos.

  Then, movement caught Wyatt’s eye. His stomach dropped.

  A figure was hurtling from one of the castle towers—straight toward him.

  He barely rolled aside in time, expecting a sickening crash. Instead, he heard only a pained groan. Wyatt turned to see Uriel, sprawled on the ground, his battle staff already in hand. His armor was battered, but the faint glow of defensive mana flickered before fading.

  "By the Divines... that hurt." Uriel groaned as he pushed himself up. "Looks like it's going to be a long night."

  "Sir Uriel! What in the seven hells is going on?!" Wyatt demanded, still reeling.

  The Royal Guards wasted no time, pouring out of the building. Some scaled rooftops, bows at the ready, while others formed a defensive line in front of Wyatt and Uriel.

  Khandem and Cassian were the last to emerge.

  "What’s happening?!" Cassian asked, strapping on his shield and sword.

  As if in answer, a shrill, inhuman screech pierced the air. It came from the shattered tower Uriel had been flung from—but it was no frost drake. No beast Wyatt had ever encountered made a sound like that.

  Then, one screech became many.

  Dark figures crawled from the wreckage—some tumbling down in twisted heaps, others using razor-sharp claws to scale the walls. Their grotesque forms slithered and skittered toward them, moving with an unnatural hunger.

  Wyatt’s throat tightened. "What in the...?"

  Uriel’s battle staff flared with a deep orange glow. "That, my friend, is what’s happening."

  "Stand your ground!" he commanded. Royal Guards and soldiers snapped to attention, weapons raised.

  Khandem muttered a curse under his breath. "By the old gods..."

  Wyatt turned to him, demanding answers. "Khandem! What are these things?!"

  The dwarf tightened his grip on his war axe. "I’ll tell you if we survive!" He then raised his voice for all to hear. "For now, lads—fight like you’ve never fought before, or we all die here!"

  The creatures screeched louder, their horrifying forms closing in.

  And then the battle began.