Snow flurried gently around them as the wind howled through the pines.
Alaric sat slumped in the saddle of a northern warhorse, held steady by the firm arms of the knight behind him. His face was pale, bloodied, and blank. He didn't speak. Not even when the knights asked.
"What's your name, boy?"
Silence.
"Where are you from? Are there others still alive?"
Only shallow breaths answered.
The leader of the patrol, Sir Aldren Voss, cast a glance over his shoulder. He was a tall man with a square jaw and thick black hair swept back beneath his silver-gray helm. His armor, marked by battle, bore the sigil of the Northern Stag across his pauldron. Deep scars lined his forearms, and his voice rumbled low like distant thunder. He was a Knight Rank 5, well known among the border patrols for his loyalty and grit.
Aldren furrowed his brow, watching the boy silently.
Alaric's hands trembled.
He could still hear Mira's screams.
"Alaric! Alaric!!"
Her tiny hands reaching for him—taken—while he lay helpless in the dirt.
A sob caught in his throat, but no sound came. Just the wind and the hooves crunching snow.
Eventually, his eyes closed, and exhaustion pulled him into darkness.
The Capital of the North
Valebast, the heart of the Northern Duchy, stood like a fortress carved from the mountains themselves.
Sprawling stone walls rose high above the snowbanks, watchtowers lined with enchanted braziers that burned blue in the cold. Steam from hot springs threaded between rooftops, and banners flapped from every window—silver stags on ocean-blue fields.
Inside, life thrived. Merchants peddled fur and iron, children played with enchanted snow globes, and warriors marched in clean columns across the main square. Magic-infused lamps kept the city warm and bright even as winter cloaked the land.
At the city's center stood Frostgate Keep, the seat of the duchess.
The Duchess of the North
Duchess Lireya Taldred stood upon the training balcony overlooking the city.
She was tall, regal, and clad in deep sapphire armor embroidered with water-etched silver. Her dark auburn hair was braided tight down her back, and her storm-gray eyes missed nothing. Her expression was calm, but resolute—shaped by decades of war and leadership.
She was a Knight Rank 10, and a Water Mage Rank 7. Her shield, forged from ancient ice crystal and dwarven steel, was said to have deflected fire breath from a wyvern.
Lireya did not smile easily—but when she did, it was warm enough to melt snow.
Her husband, Lord Marek Elrath, was waiting in the dining hall.
He was a broad-shouldered man with kind amber eyes, dressed in simple noble robes stitched with the green-and-brown hues of his Earth Mage Rank 7 lineage. Though not a knight, he once served as an elite tactician in the central region before marrying into the duchy. His magic was steady, dependable—like the man himself.
At the table sat their twins, Lira and Malric, both nine years old.
Lira, the daughter, had her mother's strong features and her father's gentle demeanor. She wore a tunic and leggings, her hair tied in a high ponytail, eyes curious and clever.
Malric, the son, had inherited his mother's silver eyes and already bore the proud posture of a young knight-in-training. His tunic was always neat, his shoes clean, and his aura faintly visible—a natural prodigy in aura manipulation.
"Sir Aldren sent word," Marek said, slicing into a roasted root dish. "They found a boy. Alone. Wounded."
Lireya nodded slowly, sipping her tea. "I feared as much. Hearthvale is gone. And if the rumors of the Veilborn cult are true…"
"Should we tell the Council?"
"Not yet," she said. "Let me meet the boy first."
Lira tilted her head. "Will he stay here?"
"That depends on him," Lireya answered.
Malric frowned. "If he's from Hearthvale… does that mean he saw the attack?"
Lireya didn't answer.
The doors creaked open.
A maid stepped in, bowing.
"Your Grace. The boy is awake. He's been bathed and dressed. He… he asked for food."
Lireya rose.
"Bring him."
Moments later, Alaric stepped into the dining hall. His steps were slow. His eyes still distant, rimmed with shadow. He wore simple clean linen and a thick woolen cloak.
He stopped when he saw the family staring at him.
"This is Alaric," the maid introduced. "From Hearthvale."
Lireya's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Welcome, Alaric," Marek said kindly. "Come. Sit. Eat."
Alaric hesitated, then took a seat at the far edge of the table.
His hands trembled as he reached for the bread.
And so began his time under the shield of the North.