Winter’s Rebirth: B1 - 7. First Contact

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-Day Fifteen-

The fifteenth dawn broke cold and clear.

Victor stood atop the eastern wall, hands braced on black stone that hadn’t aged a day in what must have been centuries. Below, the Frozen Fields had transformed—snow reduced to scattered patches, mud churning where herds passed, and grass so green it hurt to look at, erupting from earth that remembered how to live.

The valley breathed. Steamed. Lived.

And his hundred souls had carved a foothold in its teeth.

The first week had been brutal, marked by exhaustion and growing pains as they recovered from the harsh welcome they’d received. The second week was their windfall, with them finding their stride among the budding life of the valley.

There were a few close calls, but they served as learning experiences, and now his soul was fully rested.

Caldren was healing—slowly, painfully, but alive.

Lyra was proving herself more resilient and capable than he’d given her credit for; perhaps he’d let her fourteen years blind him to the fire in her spirit.

Kaia was advancing faster than even Caldren had expected, her amber training taking shape alongside the will of a soldier.

And Mara, now their one-handed instructor, had found a new purpose teaching not just Kaia but the younger teens and children—drilling survival, hunting, and discipline into them with the blunt grace of a woman who refused to be useless.

Victor didn’t like how much of the burden fell on the young—two-thirds of his expedition hadn’t even reached twenty. But no one had been given a choice in this task. Others might look at him funny since, physically, he was only fifteen in this world.

His duty was simple: ensure as many as possible returned home as heroes, so their suffering would mean something.

He began his morning rounds as he always did—circling the walls, taking reports, cataloging problems. Every step was a ritual now. Every checklist was a pulse of survival turned discipline.

A scribe handed him the latest survey, parchment inked with cramped handwriting and soil stains.

“Fortress wall integrity: forty percent by current estimate.”

Victor’s brow furrowed. Forty. He rolled the parchment tighter, walking the battlements as sunlight struck black stone that drank light instead of reflecting it.

The masonry told its own story. The bricks were flawless—dense, perfectly cut, and cold even under the thawing sun. The mortar between them, though, crumbled like old bread at a touch. The masons said they’d never seen anything like it.

There are mysteries we need to uncover in this land if we’re to survive… If these stones can weather the north’s curse for centuries, then they can defend us from what’s to come. The problem is…what forced the initial imperial expedition to abandon this site…or fall to it?

He let the question hang, exhaling a long breath; the fact that it was invisible for the first time in weeks was novel. His gaze swept the courtyard below, taking in the shifting shadows and scaffolding where the walls still groaned under their own age. Much of the outer ring couldn’t be walked without the ground shifting beneath one’s feet.

Caldren had spotted the issue first, hobbling through the yard on his third day of recovery like the stubborn old wolf he was, herbalists shouting at him all the way. He’d pointed up with his good arm, barking orders at the quarrymen to test theories while ignoring every “you’re supposed to be in bed.”

Lyra eventually gagged him. Literally. The fourteen-year-old had ordered two soldiers to restrain him inside the main sleeping quarters until he “respected medical authority.” Somehow, the old man actually listened.

Victor had watched from the wall, biting back laughter. Caldren had a weakness for fierce young women—it reminded him of his rebellious granddaughters, or so he claimed.

Still, even his interference had yielded results. The masons found that as they dug deeper into the foundation, the black stone became increasingly sturdy. It wasn’t the stone that was the issue; it was what bound it together, and that changed things.

Victor knelt, pressing his gloved palm against the wall. The surface was smooth—unnaturally so—and a faint pulse reverberated beneath the chill. Not heat. Not life. Energy. A vibration.

We need to figure out what substance they used for this mortar… It lasted centuries but resists standard mortar. It had to be harvested and crafted nearby. That’s a question for them to solve… But, right now, trying to patch it is like trying to hold water in a sieve.

Standard lime mortar cracked within hours as temperatures swung forty degrees between day and night.

Clay-based mixtures? Some local insect—or something worse—literally devoured them. Victor had watched one sample turn gray and flake away like ash over three days.

Rendered animal fat mixed with ash? The same problem occurred when larvae hatched inside the mixture after it was warmed by the sun.

The latest test showed promise: river clay mixed with powdered dire elk bone and a handful of ground frost-lichen from the black boulders that dotted the field. Boiled together into a paste and applied hot, it had held firm for four days.

He bounced lightly on the first restored battlement. No give, no shift—a small victory. The only issue was supply. To harvest enough bone to finish the fortress would be a nightmare. Still, as long as the hunts continued, the materials would come. The question was whether any northern animal bone would do. Time would tell.

They’d managed to secure the inner keep’s walls and the lightly damaged eastern battlement where sentries were posted. The issue was that they really needed to rebuild the entire foundation, resetting every brick. Right now, that was impractical.

The outer walls were still a death trap, with much of the inner keep itself. One good wind or a giant pressing against them, and whole sections could avalanche inward.

I need to go hunting… I suppose it gives me an excuse to test the hunter’s progress with their magic stone training. The last scare by the river is a problem, too… We need a way to create a riverway that’s free from those snakes. There are so many things I need to solve.

Victor made a mental note, tapping the rolled paper against his thigh before opening it and moving on.

The Training Grounds: fifteen out of ninety-eight have moved past the introduction phase… Mostly the hunters and cooks—ruby, sapphire, and amber. Interesting spread.

The courtyard opened below him, a churned mire of mud and sweat where wooden posts marked sparring lanes. Targets lined the far wall, pockmarked with arrow strikes and the blackened scars of fire tests.

Those crude posts had struck something beneath the muck; the same black stone that formed the rest of the fortress. Digging it out would take more time and manpower than they could spare. For now, it would stay buried.

Two dozen people moved through morning drills. Caldren sat on a stool near the center, barking corrections, his muscular, claw-scarred chest exposed as amber light rippled beneath his skin. It would be another week before he was fit to go out hunting. Still, it was impressive, but Victor suspected the old man was showing off more than instructing.

He wasn’t fooling anyone; the widower’s sudden enthusiasm probably had less to do with discipline and more to do with the older healer who kept glancing his way.

Victor’s lips twitched. At least someone’s morale is improving.

From his vantage, he spotted Kaia among the trainees, chestnut hair tied back, a faint sheen of sweat catching the pale morning light.

To her delight, she was finally building that “meat” she’d complained about, and in more places than one. Mara’s diet and Caldren’s exercise routines were doing wonders for her.

Two weeks ago, she’d been a hollow-eyed girl in oversized furs; now the fabric clung close to lean muscle and heat-flushed skin. Her sleeveless jerkin left her arms bare to the cold, yet the amber at her throat accelerated her blood, burning bright enough to steam her breath. 

Each swing of the battle-axe she’d claimed sent a ripple through the mud, amber soul-light trailing from her feet. The pattern was uneven and wasteful, but it was improving. The others gave her space.

Strength was rewriting her silhouette, and the script was still being written.

She’s showing as much progress as a knight’s daughter… Like Lyra. Soul strength potential isn’t equal for everyone, even if everyone can grow it. There has to be more to her past than even she knows…but that’s not important. Results are all that matter.

Below, Kaia adjusted her stance, unaware of the low hum that rippled across the courtyard as her next swing connected. The ax hit the post, cleaving halfway through before getting lodged. The edge hissed from the excess physical attribute the jewel fed into it, steam rising in thin threads that wove with the morning mist.

“No, no, no! You’re trying to force it, girl. Control the climb inside—don’t rush it. You need to be comfortable with the ascent. Never stationary, never backing down…”

“Got it!” she grunted, putting a boot against the post and yanking it out, wearing a grin. “I’m improving, though… I think I have a few more strikes in me.”

“One! You still need to run laps and alternate exercises. Jasper! The ruby doesn’t give power—it tests whether your soul can take it. Stop trying to rip the door open and start feeling around for the key!”

One of the twin hunters collapsed. “General, sir—when do we learn to throw fire? Like you did against the leopards?”

Caldren’s expression went grim. “There are two types of uses—augmentation and conjuring. Nobles can use both; sometimes, knights can manage it—Lord Victor’s already demonstrated it against the sunfire eagles. Commoners?”

He shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We didn’t get a ton of stones when I joined Lady and Lord Winterhart in their conquest, so our expedition handled less intensive work than you’ll need to this far north. Could be that you’re limited to one stone. So focus on what works: augmentation. Get strong, get fast, stay alive. Flashy fire movement comes later—if your soul can handle it.”

“Yes, sir!”

Old Jasper—a carpenter with a missing pinky finger—stood red-faced, holding a ruby shard. His hand trembled. The stone flickered, then died.

“Again,” Caldren roared, not unkindly. “From the beginning. Breathe. Focus. Find the door. And, Kaia, get to running and then bulk up!”

The two nodded, Jasper’s jaw set, and closed his eyes as the teen swiftly wiped her blade with oil to clean it off.

Two weeks ago, eight of them couldn’t hold a channel for more than five seconds without backlash. Now we’ve got four who can manage a minute, two who can do two minutes, and Kaia—

His gaze found her across the yard. She was racing off, maintaining a remarkably impressive speed for her size and age, thanks to the magic trickle propelling her.

Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty.

Victor counted silently, watching for the telltale signs of strain: trembling hands, locked jaw, eyes starting to roll back.

At sixty seconds, she gasped and released the channel. The stone went dark. She stumbled, caught herself on one knee in the mud, panting. She had stopped near Mara, sitting on a makeshift bench, stump wrapped clean.

“Good.” The older woman tossed her a waterskin. “That’s five seconds longer than yesterday. Rest. Eat. Then do the wind-down exercise.”

Kaia nodded, still catching her breath, but there was steel in her eyes.

She’s close. Another week and she’ll be combat-ready with basic enhancement. In two weeks, she might be able to maintain it under stress. Maybe I should have her join me on a hunt today… If she can focus, she could take down an elk herself.

But she wasn’t the only success story.

Three of the cooks had shown sapphire affinity—weak, but functional. They couldn’t freeze a pond or shape ice, but they could chill a room, which had solved their biggest crisis two days into the melt. Their practice was keeping their icebox functional.

We’ll need to start mixing up our preservation methods soon. We need to get sand and seaweed from the beach to make glass for pickling, among other things. It’s not fast enough… We’re not advancing fast enough.

Victor sighed, observing the rest of his settlers stretching and yawning as a few left the inner sanctum. I need more people. We just don’t have enough hands. The biggest problem is security. This is the easy season.

He descended from the walls, crossing the courtyard toward the keep’s northern corner, where cold air bled from a doorway even now. He stepped inside.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees instantly.

The room was maybe twelve feet square, walls lined with black stone shelves stacked with wrapped meat, clay jars of rendered fat, and bundles of herbs. Frost coated every surface. In the center, a cook named Petra knelt beside a sapphire shard, cloudy but serviceable, pressed between her palms. Her eyes were closed, lips moving silently.

The stone pulsed faint blue. Cold radiated outward in waves, drawn into the black stone walls where it held.

Victor had tested it himself: the black stone didn’t merely insulate—it absorbed temperature like a sponge, but only in one direction. Channel heat into it, and it stayed warm for hours. Channel cold, and it became a freezer that would’ve made his Montana icebox look primitive. Not as fancy as the electric fridges his men used to brag about, but it worked.

Petra opened her eyes, startled to find him watching, and quickly stood. “My Lord. Just finishing the morning cycle.”

“How long can you hold it now?”

“Two minutes, maybe two and a half if I’m fresh.” She gestured to the shelves. “It’s enough to keep the room cold for six hours before I need to channel again. But climbing the ice slide with the daggers… Well, it slows me down. I can’t move fast. Mika and Loren take the afternoon and evening shifts. I’m the best so far.”

Victor nodded. “Good work. And don’t be hard on yourself. Everyone’s flow reacts differently. We don’t know why yet.” His voice softened. “But yours sounds particularly tricky. Keep at it—you’re doing great.”

He glanced at the stacked meat. “Any spoilage?”

“Since the thirty pounds of meat in the first week, before we grew stronger with the sapphires? None.”

“Keep it up. Let me know if you start feeling soul strain or if you make any progress. When you break past your current wall in the magic stone, it can feel overwhelming. You’ll want to rest for at least half a day before channeling after that first breakthrough.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

He left her to her work, stepping back into the relative warmth of the morning sun, glancing at the paper again.

The attrition of our blacksmith tools is going well. That mine needs to be explored, too… If we can find some of the empire’s most coveted metals, like mithril, then that could change everything with a boat trip to the southern city for trade. The reward would give me all I needed.

He rolled it up and scratched his brow. Still, best not to hope on the unlikely. Work with what we have. Don’t bank on what is a dream.

Smoke rose from the forge, a makeshift structure built against the keep’s western wall where geothermal heat vented naturally. It was a clever placement; they’d tapped one of the smaller vents from what was probably the same blacksmith zone of the previous occupants.

They’d run a clay pipe to feed the forge, and suddenly had a heat source that didn’t require burning precious firewood or ruby soul-power.

Inside, sparks flew as Tormund—the head blacksmith, built like a barrel with arms—hammered an axe head back into shape. Four more tools waited their turn: a pickaxe with a cracked handle, two saws with broken teeth, and a knife that had snapped clean in half during butchering.

“My Lord,” the blacksmith grunted, not stopping his work. “Here for the damage report?”

“Give it to me straight.”

The smith set down his hammer and wiped his forehead. 

“We’ve got maybe a week before critical failures start showing. Axes are dulling faster than I can sharpen ‘em with how dense those trees are. The black stone’s harder than anything we’ve touched. Miners can’t chip it—bent three picks trying. Little bastards keep eating the edges of my work like a slap-fisted curse.”

He held up one of the damaged heads, nose wrinkling. “Saws are losing teeth cutting that blackwood timber too. Knives’re holding up better, but we’re down to three good skinning blades thanks to those damn hides, and one’s already got a stress fracture.”

He gestured to a corner where bent nails, shattered chisels, and twisted saw blades formed a small pile of metal corpses.

“I can patch most of it, but we need iron—raw or salvaged—and more charcoal. Steel we can make later, once the furnaces are stable. Unless we find somethin’ mystical in those damn mines to pump up manpower, we’re waiting for it to drain.”

Victor studied the pile. Every broken tool is lost labor. Every repair takes Tormund off new production. We’re bleeding efficiency. If only we could figure out how to cut this black stone, maybe we could make pickaxes or saws out of it, given how tough it is.

“Right, the mine shaft,” Victor mumbled, reflecting on the area that had been uncovered several hundred yards into the north tundra area. “The one under the snowmelt—still draining then?”

“Aye. One man noted iron for certain in the area they could reach, and possibly copper; it’s mixed with the black stone, too. But it won’t drain for another week, maybe two, they say, depending on how fast the runoff flows. And even then, the general says we’ll need miners with sapphire stones to keep it from flooding while we work.”

“They’re training on it. The mining team has two with the affinity, though progress is slow.” Victor’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Be patient as they test out mining methods. I know it puts you behind, but tools that function in the north are paramount for our survival. We need to adapt.”

Tormund grunted in agreement. “I get it. Miners aren’t the only issue. The carpenters and their blackwood? We’re running out of close timber on the plains. We’ll need to make a trip to the forest soon for handles, sled repairs, and scaffolding for the walls. Fieldwood’s hard itself, but what happens if the real forest’s tougher than these buggers?”

“I know.” Victor’s mouth thinned. “That and a mill are next on the list. I’m figuring it out, but it won’t happen today. Today, other problems are pressing harder.”

“Understood. Good luck, Lord Victor. We’ll be here pounding our arms off…”

The light of the smithy faded as he turned and entered a mostly collapsed section of the fortress, bricks being lined up on the side. He entered a stairway that descended into the keep’s lower level, steps carved from black stone, unworn by centuries of elemental exposure.

Torchlight flickered against walls that seemed to drink the light, and at the bottom, a sealed door. No—a formerly sealed door. The miners had broken through on day 4, peeling back the rusted and decayed steel to expose what they first thought was a storage room or maybe an armory.

Instead, they’d found dirt.

A chamber sixty feet long and forty wide, packed floor to ceiling with earth, as though someone had deliberately buried it alive.

Victor had ordered caution after the first probe struck something solid several feet down.

What they unearthed had justified it.

He stepped through the threshold into the partially excavated room. The far wall was still buried, but enough had been cleared to expose a section of glistening, polished black floor—and the hot spring that welled from deliberately fashioned slits near its center.

Steam drifted lazily upward, curling through torchlight. The runoff slipped through a sculpted channel and vanished into the deeper stonework.

It wasn’t rough or accidental. It was engineered.

The surface here wasn’t the coarse black brick of the outer fortress. It was different—smooth as glass, darker than night, catching faint reflections of his torch in mirrored veins. Not granite. Not marble. Something purer. Almost like obsidian…or something older still.

Victor crouched, fingers brushing the polished floor. It was warm. Alive, almost.

You’re the heart of this place, aren’t you? The question is…why were you buried with how useful you are? Maybe the winter changes you somehow? Time will tell, but we should remain cautious.

They had a natural bath that flowed into a discreet exit point within the elegantly designed space. Water bubbled up, steaming in the heated air, flowing across the floor in a shallow channel before draining through a gap in the southern wall.

The fascinating part was that the water glowed faintly white, purple, and green, lit from within by something Victor didn’t understand.

Geothermal. But more than that. There’s magic in it. Something almost…spiritual?

They’d learned of its properties by accident, when Caldren—being Caldren—had decided to “test it personally” and jumped in to marinate. The effect had been immediate—weak healing for minor cuts and burns, but a powerful calm that settled the spirit. Lyra’s healing had improved for nearly an hour afterward.

Victor still wasn’t sure what to make of it. But the warmth in the room, the gentle pulse of the water, and the faint hum that lived in the stone left him with one unmistakable thought:

This spot was chosen for the fortress for this purpose.

So they’d carved out the bath—just big enough for a few person to sit in—where the water pooled deepest. Lyra used it twice daily, soaking to recover her soul strain faster. He wasn’t sure if there were diminishing returns, so he wanted to approach it cautiously.

Others rotated through for injuries or exhaustion.

But Victor didn’t totally trust it. There was never anything in this land that gave up something for free. There would be a price to pay for this blessing, even if they couldn’t see it now. They needed to prepare for the fact that someone had deliberately buried this chamber.

He rose and walked the room’s perimeter, tracing the edges where mortar had crumbled away and gaps yawned between the black stones. In several places, the brickwork had been filled in—as if something had once forced its way through.

If something can eat through mortar and pry stone apart, it can get inside. The thought settled heavily in his mind. We need to assume there’s a creature capable of that—and that the fortress’s former residents failed to contain it.

He crouched beside the western wall, where packed earth still sealed most of the chamber. Tunnels wormed through it—two feet across, spiraling in deliberate, patterned arcs.

“Insect burrows,” one of the miners had called them. “Can’t imagine what insect gets that big, but the tunnels are old. Ancient.”

Gone? Victor thought. Or hibernating—waiting for some fool to disturb the waters again. Perhaps the soul energy in the baths was what drew them in. Maybe it broadcasts life to whatever had once lived below.

He made a mental note of the horrific possibility. They’d need to not only rediscover the fortress’s mortar composition but also improve it.

Perhaps a jewel-dust additive? If we can find even low-purity stones, they might repel or insulate against whatever these things are.

It was something to bring up with the mining team.

For now, the spring was a gift.

But in the north, gifts usually came with teeth.

Victor turned from the buried wall and climbed back up the stairway, the faint warmth of the chamber following him like breath from something sleeping deep below.

The heart of the fortress had become their gathering place. Sleeping platforms lined the walls—timber frames padded with furs, enough for most of the hundred to sleep without freezing. A central fire pit burned low, its smoke vented through a gap in the ceiling they’d left open on purpose.

One wall was covered in maps: the valley, the river, the forest’s edge. Creature territories were marked in color: Red for wolves, black for shadowmanes—crossed out—blue for elk herds, yellow for unknown threats.

Supply logs hung beside them—ration counts, tool inventories, stone reserves.

Victor scanned the numbers, brow tightening.

Food…9 days remaining at current consumption. We do need another major hunt within three days. Might as well knock that out today if I can.

Mortar materials, enough for thirty more feet of wall repair.

Firewood is critically low. Blackwood burns hot once dried, but there isn’t a lot of dead or dry wood in the fields for cooking or heat. Hmm…

The last line was the knife at their throat. They’d stripped every fallen branch within half a mile. The small copse to the south was reduced to stumps—grave markers jutting through the mud.

Which meant one thing: Blackwood Forest.

But to reach it, they’d have to cross the river. One of the hunting parties was out scouting right now, having used a giant beaver dam upstream that they’d marked as their safest route. The snakes seemed to steer clear of it, for now.

Victor folded his arms, eyes narrowing on the sketched blue line that split the map like a wound. The Iceflow was thawing fast, swollen with meltwater, crawling with the same creatures that had nearly dragged two hunters under. 

Then there was the mill problem…

Shaking his head, Victor left the inner area to enter the courtyard. He found Jasper and two other carpenters near the eastern wall, bent over sketches drawn in the mud with sticks.

“My Lord,” Jasper said, straightening as Victor approached. “We’re still working the angles.”

“Show me.”

They’d drawn a rough diagram in the mud—river, forest, proposed mill placement.

“Standard water mill needs current to drive the wheel,” Jasper explained. “The Iceflow’s got plenty now that it’s thawed. But—”

“—the frostmaw serpents own that river—three so far I’ve seen,” Victor finished. “Hauling logs across their territory is suicide.”

“Aye.” Jasper pointed to a smaller line. “There’s a tributary—fifteen feet wide, branches off here, half a mile north, runs close to the forest edge as it curves into the field and tundra. Less current, but enough to turn a wheel if we build right.”

“And is there a serpent near it?”

“One further up, but doesn’t seem to patrol that branch from what one of the watchers reported. Too shallow, maybe? At least, that’s the scouts’ theory after watching it three days—no sign of it.”

Victor studied the sketch. It could work. But a mill that close to Blackwood meant exposure to whatever lived there. Dire wolves at minimum. Goblins. Ogres… Frost trolls. Maybe worse. Dire bears…

His father told him if he saw those latter two, pack it up and move. It’s not worth the price at their level.

“How long to build?”

“Two weeks if we have the lumber and manpower—which we need the mill to cut—which we need lumber to build.” Jasper grimaced. “Chicken-and-egg, My Lord.”

“Then we solve it the hard way.” Victor’s tone was flat. “Send a team into the forest edge with some of the hunters—no deeper than fifty yards. Harvest by hand. Enough for the mill frame and wheel. Once it’s running, we scale up.”

“That’s…dangerous, My Lord.”

“Everything here is dangerous. I know they’ll be scared, but make a plan, show it to Caldren, then execute. Timber teams move in two days.”

Jasper nodded, already pale.

Two days. That would give Victor time to scout the forest edge himself—to assess threats, maybe thin a wolf pack or two before they began. It would provide Kaia with real experience, as well. Hopefully, nothing too serious, but you couldn’t hope for that in the north.

He left them to their planning and continued his circuit.

Near the northern wall, three scribes huddled over parchment weighted with stones—maps, notes, observation logs, every scrap of information they’d gathered in two weeks.

“My Lord,” the eldest said, looking up. “Morning report’s ready.”

“Summarize.”

“Dire elk migration’s in full swing. Herds are leaving the plains, heading northeast toward Blackwood. Over two hundred counted this week. Musk oxen are moving west along the coast. Arctic hares everywhere—population explosion since the melt.”

“That’s good for easy prey. Predators?”

“Dire wolf packs reforming. Three groups within five miles—two east, one north. No direct contact yet. They’re hunting elk and giving shadowmane territory a wide berth.”

“Shadowmanes?”

“No sightings since General Caldren’s kills. Territory remains clear, but, as you said, hard to spot something that prowls in shadows.”

“And the river?”

The scribe’s expression soured. “Frostmaw serpents are active. Three we’ve spotted, surfacing four times near the main channel. We watched one drag down a dire elk—froze the water solid… Swallowed it whole. I’ve never seen something like that. Avoid the Iceflow, My Lord. It’s their river now.”

Victor had seen that kill himself from the wall, channeling amber. A fourteen-foot elk, a thousand pounds of muscle—helpless once the serpent wrapped it, flash-frozen and unhinged its jaw to swallow before dipping back beneath the ice to digest.

“We’ll see… The forest?”

“Movement,” the scribe admitted. “Shadows between trees, sounds at night. Could be wolves. Could be something else. We haven’t sent anyone close enough to confirm.”

That’s the problem, Victor thought. We understand the plains now, to some extent, the valley. But the forest’s still a black box. The most dangerous box.

“Keep watching. I want daily reports on anything that comes out of Blackwood—even rabbits… Especially if they’re red.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Victor left them and climbed to the eastern wall as the sun crested the horizon, painting the valley in copper and gold. He stood where he’d started, hands on black stone, surveying what they’d built.

Walls: fragile but standing.

Food: adequate—for now.

Water: solved, with mysteries attached.

Tools: degrading but serviceable.

Training: slow but steady.

Morale: strained but holding.

Threats: contained, building on all sides.

We’ve bought time, he thought. But time’s the one thing we can’t stockpile.

Behind him, the fortress stirred—smoke from breakfast fires, the ring of hammers, voices calling the morning shift. One hundred souls. Fifteen days. Still alive.

A miracle.

He let himself feel it for a heartbeat—not pride, exactly, but relief. The fragile kind that came from surviving one more night while death circled just beyond the walls.

Then he saw movement.

Far east, where Blackwood’s shadow began—a figure. Small. Staggering.

Victor’s hand went to his bow. Amber light flickered across his eyes, sharpening vision as he entered the grueling inner battle with himself, a wicked grin in his own eyes, daring him to maintain it for an hour.

On the outside, he saw him.

A man. Alone. Limping.

One arm clutched to his side. No gear. Clothes torn.

He paused, saw their smoke, and headed straight for the fortress.

Victor didn’t move. Just watched. Waited.

Someone from another noble group… The Blackwood’s group. A probing scout, or truly escaping something? I suppose we’ll see soon enough if the serpent doesn’t get him.

The man stumbled, fell, and rose again. Kept coming.

He was wounded, badly, but determined.

“Sentry!” Victor called.

A guard appeared. “My Lord?”

“Lone man approaching from the east. Wounded. Alert Caldren—spear team to the gate. Nobody goes out until I say. Get everyone inside.”

“Yes, My Lord!”

The guard ran.

Victor kept watching. The man was maybe a quarter-mile out now, moving slow, then slower, until he fell again—and didn’t rise. He’d fallen just before reaching the still half-frozen river.

Son of a bitch is going to make me go to him… Shit.

Victor descended the wall at a run, crossing the courtyard in seconds. He found Caldren near the training yard, already struggling upright.

“Sit,” Victor ordered.

“My Lord, as you enjoy saying, like hell—”

“I know. I saw him. But you’re not going anywhere with that arm.”

He turned to the crowd of hunters, soldiers, and laborers who had gathered, looking for orders—looking scared. Each of them knew that contact with another noble group could bring great fortune or ultimate misfortune here in the frontier.

“I need a healer—volunteer only. No—not you, Lyra,” he barked as the fourteen-year-old half raised her hand, shoulders sagging and a pout coming on. “Someone ready to ride with me to retrieve a wounded man. I won’t force anyone—it’s not an order. This is a risk.”

Silence.

Then Katie—one of the younger herbal assistants—stepped forward. “I’ll go, My Lord.”

“You understand the risk? We don’t know who he is, what hurt him, or if it’s following. He could be a knight, jump up, and attack us the moment we arrive with magic stones.”

“I understand.”

Victor nodded. “Pack your kit. We leave in two minutes. Saddle a reindeer—the strongest.”

People scattered.

Caldren caught Victor’s arm. “Be careful, My Lord. If it’s—”

“I will.” Victor met his gaze, anger flashing in his heart upon thinking about the prince who had command over his twin sister. “Hold the fort.”

The old general released him, jaw tight.

Two minutes later, Victor and Katie rode through the gate on a massive reindeer—sapphire-hearted, sure-footed even in mud. Victor rode in front, bow across his back, claymore in hand instead of its sheath; Katie behind, medical pack strapped tight.

They covered the distance in five minutes. Victor kept a close eye on the shifting ice and patches of open water. No movement, yet. He listened for any shouts from the fortress if anything else came after the fallen figure.

The man lay face down in the mud, and Victor dismounted a distance away, scanning the treeline through amber-lit vision. Nothing moved—no heat but small game. Yet the forest’s shadows were deep.

“If he makes a move, run north with the reindeer—to the beaver dam—not back across the water,” he told Katie, and approached slowly.

The man was young, in his mid-twenties, with lean muscle visible under torn clothes. Deep gashes across his back looked like makeshift weapons—rough and unfinished—a short arrow punctured through his side, and frostbite along both arms.

Shit… Frost Goblins. If they’re hunting him, then they’ll be here soon, and if they see the fortress… I need to handle them before they report back. Damn you…

Victor knelt and rolled him gently onto his flank. The stranger groaned, eyes flickering open.

“Easy,” Victor muttered, noting that he’d lost all his gear in the flight. “We’ve got you. Can you speak? Goblins?”

The man’s lips moved. “Gob…goblins… Five.”

Then his eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Katie checked his pulse. “Alive—barely. He’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t know if he’ll make it unless Lady Lyra stabilizes him. If you can quickly cauterize the wounds, we can probably move him.”

Victor grimaced, taking out his knife as fire licked along the blade. “I’m not going to be gentle. We move swiftly back to the keep…”

Eyes blazing amber and ruby, he handed the heated blade for Katie to use as he held the man down. “I need to hunt down those goblins.”

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