The cold morning air bit at their faces as the party rode back from the hidden cave. Snow clung stubbornly to their cloaks, and their breaths spilled like fog into the dim light. Commander Aldoustan led the group, his jaw locked tight, a stern and worried look carved deep into his expression. The men behind him rode in silence, unwilling to break the heavy tension that followed them like a shadow.
Behind the commander rode Duke Veynar, wrapped in a thick fur coat, still shivering despite its weight. His fingers trembled around the reins.
Aldoustan finally broke the silence.
"Duke Veynar…" he called, his voice low, edged with something grim.
"What happened here exactly?"
The duke didn't answer. He only lowered his gaze, breath unsteady. After the report of the Gliswing last night… none of them had slept without feeling something crawl down their spine.
Aldoustan exhaled slowly, almost in frustration. Snow cracked under his boots as he halted his horse. In his gloved hand, he held the stoned Gliswing—the same one that arrived to them last night with the final report Captain Rhun ever sent.
His grip tightened.
"Rhun's… last message," Aldoustan muttered.
Last night — inside the frozen cave
The storm outside had howled relentlessly. Commander Aldoustan returned into the cavern, shaking snow from his shoulders, carrying the Gliswing he had retrieved from the entrance. Its feathers gleamed like melted glass and flames against the flickering fire.
He walked toward the campfire where the men huddled for warmth. The cave walls glowed orange from the flames, their shadows stretching long and tense.
Duke Veynar looked up when he saw it resting on the commander's shoulder—his eyes widening, breath hitching.
"Is that… a Gliswing?" he whispered, disbelief and awe mixing in his tone. "They… they look magnificent." His voice barely carried, the cold almost swallowing his words.
Commander Aldoustan gave a slight nod, lips curling faintly.
"Magnificent indeed this birds are…" he said.
With a subtle gesture, he signaled the creature. The Gliswing lifted gracefully, wings flowing like fire, and glided down to perch on his arm.
The men leaned in.
Then—in one sudden, shocking motion—Aldoustan threw the Gliswing into the heart of the campfire.
The flames erupted upward with a fierce whoosh.
"W–What the—!" Duke Veynar jolted back, panic ripping through his voice.
"why—why did you kill it?!"
Aldoustan only chuckled under his breath, the sound low and unsettling.
"Duke Veynar…" he said, tone turning chillingly calm as a smirk tugged at the edge of his lips.
"Just so you know… these things aren't exactly alive."
"More so," Aldoustan continued, eyes reflecting the fire's glow,
"They cannot be killed whatsoever."
As if answering him, the flames inside the firepit roared higher. The men flinched as the heat surged, forcing them back.
Then—
From within the fire, shapes began to form. The blaze flickered wildly, twisting and bending until the flames reflected something like a moving tapestry.
Aldoustan stepped closer, watching with grim certainty.
"There it is," he whispered
"The visions… the Gliswing's memory. It's showing us what it witnessed from Captain Rhun's final report."
The flames danced.
And then the visions began.
The fire twisted violently—then narrowed, forming a single swirling core of blackened embers. The warmth in the cave shifted into something oppressive, heavy.
Duke Veynar instinctively stepped closer to Aldoustan.
Then the first image sharpened.
A dark, moving shape appeared within the flames… its outline flickering like shadow wrapped in fire.
The cave fell dead silent.
The shape grew clearer—
Armor scorched black.
Flames licking off its pauldrons.
Crowned thorns carved like twisted, molten metal.
Eyes—hollow and burning.
A Dreadknight.
Aldoustan's breath left him like a punch.
"What in the gods' name…" he whispered, voice dropping into a harsh rasp. "A Dreadknight. Here? In the far northern ridge? Impossible…"
But the flames showed no mercy.
No lie.
No illusion.
Just the truth.
Duke Veynar stared, the color draining from his face before flushing red with anger—then collapsing into guilt. Then Aldoustan continued onto his words.
"That—those things haven't walked our lands since the Old War…" he muttered through clenched teeth. His hands trembled, not from fear, but fury. " Duke…How did this… did you know of this? How did any of this happen?"
The vision widened.
The flames expanded, stretching high like a burning tapestry. Now the Gliswing showed them the scene from above—what Captain Rhun must have witnessed in his final moments.
A circle of knights—Rhun's men—surrounded the Dreadknight, weapons drawn, breath visible in the frozen night. Their formation was tight yet desperate. They had fought long before the Gliswing ever arrived.
Aldoustan's jaw hardened.
"They were already losing." His voice held a quiet, horrified reverence. "Damn it, Rhun… why didn't you fall back?"
Duke Veynar shook his head, swallowing the tightness in his throat. "Because he knew what that thing meant." His voice cracked.
The view shifted again, the flames bending to reveal another angle.
A group of knights—Rhun's second line—were escorting the wounded northerners: castaways from a battle none of them yet understood. Men limping, some carried, children bundled in torn furs.
"If it reached the castaways… the northerner refugees wouldn't stand a chance."
Aldoustan clenched his fists so tightly the leather of his gloves strained.
"So that's what you were protecting…" he murmured. "Brave fool. You always put others first."
Duke Veynar's guilt swelled, raw and visible.
"I should've been more clear in my message.… But at the time I was desperate for help.. I—"
Aldoustan cut him off softly—but firmly.
"This isn't your fault, Veynar." His eyes remained fixed on the burning tableau. "If a Dreadknight returned, then this is far bigger than failed patrols. This… this is the start of something old waking again."
Veynar didn't answer.
The vision in the fire shifted once more, the flames tightening inward—
The Dreadknight raising its blade.
Rhun's men bracing for the inevitable.
Snow turning to steam beneath their feet.
The cave felt colder.
Heavier.
Aldoustan exhaled slowly, voice low and grim.
"Show us everything."
The Gliswing obeyed.
The fire roared—
And the next moment of Rhun's final stand came to life.
The Present
Hooves crushed over hardened snow as Commander Aldoustan rode at the front, his grip tight on the reins, jaw locked in a silence that weighed worse than the cold.
Duke Veynar rode slumped between two knights, head bowed, the exhaustion of starvation and frostbite carved deep into his features. Every breath he took was shallow, uneven — proof he lived, but only barely.
They were heading south.
Away from Captain Rhun's last known position.
Aldoustan's chest twisted painfully at that truth.
We should be riding to them… gods, Rhun… your men…
But that thought died under a harsher, colder one:
Even if we turned back, what could we do?
He swallowed, throat tight.
They had seen it — all of them.
That glimpse in the gliswing's flames.
That thing rising out of the dark fire like a walking curse.
A dreadknight.
Just one was enough to turn a hundred trained soldiers into meat on snow.
His men rode behind him now — twenty knights, hardened veterans — and yet Aldoustan knew the truth that none of them dared voice.
They would not survive a direct confrontation.
Not against that.
He guided his horse over a ridge of ice, exhaling steam.
Rhun, damn you… he thought, not with anger but with a raw ache of helplessness.
If I drag these men back to you, I'm signing their deaths. And Veynar— he glanced over — …if he dies, the North fractures. The Wall weakens. The whole line falls apart.
That was the mission.
Retrieve the Duke.
Alive or dead.
And Aldoustan had found him half-buried in the snow like a corpse waiting to be claimed.
He had done his duty. But it didn't quiet the guilt gnawing at him. He tightened his jaw.
We cannot save them.
We cannot fight that monster.
We cannot do anything but survive long enough to warn the Wall what woke in the night.
He forced himself to sit straighter in his saddle.
A dreadknight… Gods.. Gods help us all.
The horses marched on, leaving behind only the echo of men who wanted to turn back — yet had no power to change what awaited them in the north.
Within the stone halls of the dukedom, Renholt sat hunched over a mountain of parchment, quills, and half-melted candles. The room was silent save for the scratch of ink and the occasional crackle from the hearth. Outside, the wind moaned against the windows — the North reminding him that even within the Wall, safety was only an illusion.
He rubbed his temples and leaned back in his chair.
Lord Darius' men should have reached the ridge by now… Gods above, let them find Duke Veynar alive. The North cannot afford another loss.
His gaze wandered to the frost-laced window. Snow blurred the world beyond, swallowing the silhouettes of distant mountains. The uncertainty gnawed at him.
If they fail… if Veynar truly fell there… Then all of this— he glanced at the sealed letters and the map of the northern front
—becomes meaningless.
He sighed and looked down again—
When a sudden burst of light flared outside the window.
Renholt lurched back with a strangled yelp.
The glow was so bright and sudden it jumped his heart up into his throat. His chair legs snapped backward, and Renholt crashed to the floor in a very undignified heap.
"G—GODS' BLOODY—!!" he hissed, clutching his chest.
As the light cleared, a familiar silhouette appeared perched right on the window's edge.
A Gliswing.
Renholt stared at it, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open.
"…What— another message? Now? Really?" he muttered in disbelief, still sprawled on the floor.
He scrambled upright as fast as dignity would allow, brushing off his robes and clearing his throat loudly as if someone had witnessed his humiliation.
He moved to the window, undoing the latch with trembling fingers. The cold rushed in, followed by the radiant creature tilting its head at him.
"Alright… easy now. Don't— don't do anything sudden—"
The Gliswing darted inside in a blaze of molten-glass feathers.
Renholt shrieked.
"WAIT—NO—DON'T—GET DOWN FROM THERE!"
The flaming creature glided lazily toward the ceiling, circling high above the shelves of scrolls and the dangling chandelier as if inspecting the entire room.
"Stop that! If you burn anything you're burning all of my life's work—" Renholt panicked, waving his arms. "Come here! Down! DOWN!"
And to his utter shock—
it listened.
With a single, graceful sweep of its wings, the Gliswing descended straight toward him.
"W-WAIT— NOT THAT CLOSE!!"
Renholt squeezed his eyes shut and raised both arms in front of his face, bracing for scorching fire or a dive straight into his nose.
…But nothing burned.
Slowly, his eyes cracked open.
The Gliswing was perched gently on his arm — glowing like molten glass, flames flickering softly around its wings. The heat wasn't painful at all. Only warm. Comforting, even.
Renholt released the breath he had been holding.
"Oh…" he whispered, awe creeping into his voice. "You're… not burning me."
The Gliswing blinked once, the orange light pulsing gently.
"I'm… going to assume you're not here to set my office on fire," he said quietly.
"…Alright then," he murmured, bracing himself. "What news do you bring us this time?"
Up on the northern walls, the cold cut sharper than steel. Snow drifted lazily over the battlements as two watchers paced their usual route, boots crunching softly over frost.
One of them tugged his cloak tighter, breath fogging the air.
"Colder than usual this morning," he muttered, rubbing warmth into his fingers.
His companion cupped a tin mug between his palms, letting the steam curl up against his face.
"Aye… colder and quieter," he answered.
"But I did see a Gliswing earlier. Brought another message." He took a sip of his cocoa, sighing.
"Hopefully this one isn't more bad news."
The first watcher leaned on the stone edge, eyes fixed on the snowy horizon.
"Think they've found the duke?"
The other lowered his cup, expression tightening.
"Gods, I hope so. If not… well, I don't know which miserable lord they'd toss on that seat next."
Bootsteps broke their conversation.
A third soldier emerged from the shadows of the watchtower—older, broader, and sharper in presence. His expression alone was enough to snap their spines straight.
"Focus," he barked.
"The last thing we need is another lapse. Talking like that is how those treacherous Northerners slipped past us in the first place. The duke had to march out himself because of it."
The two younger men stiffened. "Yes, ser."
The stern man didn't return the courtesy. His gaze was fixed outward, narrowed against the swirl of white beyond the walls. Morning light blurred the view, the snowstorm turning everything into a pale smear of shifting shapes.
"Hold," he murmured, leaning closer to the battlement.
"What in the hells… is that?"
The younger soldier beside him tried to follow his line of sight.
"Could be Lord Darius's men returning," he offered quietly.
"The Gliswing did fly from that direction. Maybe it brought word they're on their way back."
The older man didn't answer. He slid a hand into his satchel and pulled out his brass scope, flipping it open with stiff, cold fingers.
"Let's pray you're right," he muttered.
He raised the scope to his eye.
Snowflakes spattered against the lens, blurring the view—
until it sharpened.
His breath faltered.
Where an entire patrol should have been trudging home…
Where dozens of riders should be visible through the snow…
There was only one figure.
A single figure staggering toward the walls, alone in the endless white.
The older soldier adjusted the scope slowly, breath fogging around his face as he focused the glass again. The image sharpened little by little—white haze peeling back until the lone figure finally emerged in full clarity.
Wearing dark armor, heavy and unfamiliar.
A massive sword slung across his back like a slab of iron.
There was no imperial crest.
No sigil of Lord Darius.
No mark of any northern regiment.
"Gods…" he whispered under his breath. "That armor… it's not ours. That's no man from Lord Darius's patrol."
The figure trudged onward through the snow, steady and unhurried, as if the storm itself parted for him.
And suddenly—
none of them could tell whether they should shout a warning… or run.
Far below the walls and deep within the stone halls of the northern stronghold, Lord Darius—The Emperor's Hand, but now acting lord in Duke Veynar's absence—walked briskly through the corridors of the castle.
The cold seeped even into the halls here, the northern drafts biting at every corner. Darius rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. His day had been filled with managing reports, ration counts, and the unrest caused by the duke's disappearance. His shoulders ached with responsibility.
He was just rounding the corner toward his study when he spotted someone rushing toward him.
"Lord Darius!" Renholt jogged up to him, breath clouding the air, face tight with worry.
"My lord—thank the heavens—I've been looking everywhere for you."
Darius stopped at once, brows knitting.
"Slow down, Renholt. What is it? Did something happen while I was away?"
Renholt nodded rapidly, still catching his breath. His hands trembled slightly as he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, warm-glowing stone—the dormant form of a Gliswing.
"One arrived while you were gone," he said, voice both relieved and anxious. "It brought a message. From Commander Aldoustan."
Darius took the stone carefully, his expression sharpening. "And? What news?"
Renholt swallowed. "They… they found Duke Veynar, my lord. Alive."
For a moment, hope flickered across Darius's face.
But it faded when he saw Renholt's expression hadn't brightened.
"There's more," Darius said quietly. "Isn't there?"
Renholt nodded again, troubled. "Yes, my lord. The message contained… something else. A phrase. Something Aldoustan must have meant only for you."
Darius frowned. "What phrase?"
Renholt hesitated before repeating it, unsure of its meaning.
"He said… 'The rising sun shall rise once more.'" His voice lowered.
"I don't understand it. Is it a code? A warning? Commander Aldoustan sounded… urgent."
Darius froze.
His expression drained of color. His hand clenched around the Gliswing stone so tightly Renholt feared it might crack.
Renholt's breath hitched. "L–Lord Darius? W-what does it mean?"
Darius looked at him with an expression Renholt had never seen before—fear.
Real fear.
"It means," Darius whispered, "that something we prayed would never awaken… has returned."
Before Renholt could ask—
Darius grabbed him by the shoulder, grip firm and commanding.
"Renholt. Listen carefully," he said, voice low but shaking with urgency. "Gather everyone who cannot fight—women, children, healers—evacuate them immediately. Get them underground. Now."
Renholt blinked, startled. "My lord—!"
"And summon every able soldier we have to the gates," Darius continued, voice cracked with urgency.
"This is not a drill. Move."
Renholt had never seen him like this. His stomach knotted with fear.
"L–Lord Darius, what's happening? What did Aldoustan mean—?"
He didn't finish.
A thunderous BOOM ripped through the keep, Chandeliers swung. Renholt screamed and ducked as dust rained from the ceiling.
Darius snapped his head toward the nearest window.
Smoke and dust erupted outside.
The northern wall—thick, fortified, carved of ancient stone—now bore a massive crater.
Something had struck it—
something huge.
And whatever it was—
It was close.
Too close.
Darius's pulse thundered in his ears.
"…It's already here," he whispered.