Winter in the Stern Territory seemed peaceful, in its own way. The snow coated the rooftops with a thin layer of white, and the air in the courtyard still held a vestige of the warmth from last night—just enough to make one think that the morning would be like any other. Ivy opened the door, and a strong cold wind blew in, extinguishing the last of the embers in the hearth. Though sleep lingered in her eyes and frost clung to her hair, the urgency in her footsteps was unmistakable.
"Alaric, get up. Father is waiting."
"Five more minute."
For a few moments, as Alaric tried to catch his breath, the soft silence in the room felt like the voice of a man caught between two rivers.
A stubborn child was a bit too big for the blankets. Then Ivy snatched him out of bed.
"You can't wait five more minutes!" Ivy huffed. "You're going into town with Father today."
"Can't you go instead?" Alaric muttered.
"Me? And who will clean the sheep pens, then?" she snapped back.
"ALERIC! GET OUT. NOW!" Their father's voice emanated from outside, leaving no room for argument. At the sound, Alaric jumped up and out of bed much faster than usual.
Out in the stable, Greywing emitted a bitter neigh. Her grey mare coat was worn by the cold wind, with white streaks painted through it as if a brush of strength had been applied. Greywing was said to be difficult, wild, and unsteady; but Alaric had always been able to calm her. They comprehended instinctively, wordlessly.
In the courtyard, their father had prepared the saddles—slow, firm, practiced—while his expression was one of worry. Without looking up, he said, "Today we're going to the capital. Tax matters have to be dealt with. Watch out; one day you will deal with these things on your own."
Alaric nodded. He knew Father hadn't meant for him to reach out, to look, to learn about the world beyond their country. Alaric did not loathe responsibility; he just wasn't good at expressing himself. On horseback, he preferred the wind to the rules of a hall. As the group left, snow crunched under the horses' hooves. Father led at the front, guards trailed behind, and Alaric fell into Greywing's gentle flow. She was no showy horse, sensitive to the reins, responsive only to him. When she got restless, a friendly caress of his hand steadied her.
The wind wasn't strong but sharp enough to numb their ears. The hills ahead were blanketed in pale snow, like a plethora of white tiles laid over the land. Branches bent and dropped snowflakes that whispered as they tapped one another. The guards mumbled, "grain prices, scarce game," careful not to let Father overhear. Alaric remained silent on the road, his eyes fixed ahead. He didn't dislike traveling; sometimes he enjoyed it. But today, Father's back felt abnormally heavy, as if holding something pinched inside him.
"Father… is it that bad this year?" he asked quietly.
"Bad, but not the worst," Father replied without turning. "The worst is that the Empire does not care why."
Alaric's heart skipped. One guard said, "Heard some territories up north were warned too. The tax men aren't listening to excuses." Father's voice hardened. "All we can do is endure. The rest… we'll see when we meet them." Alaric wished he could say more, but Father, tensing his chest, forced himself to swallow upon the thought. The closer they approached the capital, the colder and harsher the air became.
The huge gates appeared lifeless under the glare of the snow, with guards standing rigid behind their armor. Alaric instinctively stiffened; he never liked these sorts of places. The walls were too tall, too attention-seeking, too loud. Inside the tax hall, it was as cold as the stone walls. A clerk slammed papers onto the table.
"Stern's output has fallen dramatically. Without betterment, the royal estate will reassign the soil." Father described the frost, the failed harvest, and the absence of work. The official showed no sympathy, saying simply, "Let's hope so."
Father fell silent again, as if he were hauling a stone with no name. Alaric looked for something—anything—to say. But then a stench of oil caught on the wind. A dark column of black smoke began to rise above and spread across the horizon.
"In the direction of our land," Father murmured.
Greywing stopped, her ears turning and twitching. Alaric's grip tightened. He didn't wait for instructions; instead, he turned her toward home and kicked off with a full gallop. The wind cut across his face as the snow became a white veil. Father shouted after him, but the wind ripped his voice away. The guards were powerless to follow in his footsteps. Shadows brushed a dying light across the landscape; the sky was not yet red, but smoke had already doused the horizon.
"I'm going back for Ivy and Senn!" Alaric shouted.
Shadows mumbled from the treeline, "Let him go. We want the old man."
Greywing was running hard as they approached the ground. It wasn't just smoke; the scent of scorched oil and burning wood filled the air. Roof tiles smoldered. Trees had been reduced to ash. Alaric jumped from the saddle before Greywing stopped. The ground felt fragile beneath his feet, as if he were treading on the bones of something that had once breathed. Windows were shattered. Doorframes were charred. Furniture lay overturned. Someone had meticulously searched the house. No bodies. No blood. Someone must have taken them, or worse, something more sinister than death.
In the room where his siblings had been, he discovered a small cloth charm Ivy always sewed into her sleeves. Dirty, creased, and faintly smelling of pine resin, his hand trembled around it. This wasn't random violence. They were looking for someone. They had only been abandoned; they were silent.
Greywing neighed with a warning. Three figures skittered from the ruins, drawing their blades. Alaric reacted on instinct. He lunged to one side, reaching for his sword, but the timing of his turn was wrong. Ashwing slipped and threw him off her back. Even in falling, he hooked a strap around one attacker's arm and slashed the man's neck. It was not trained technique; it was reflex, muscle memory, years of practice. They both fell hard. A pain ripped inside him like something tearing open his shoulder. The second bandit sped in, blade cutting across Alaric's left shoulder. Blood rushed out.
Greywing stepped in to help; her hind leg struck the third bandit and knocked him off balance. Just enough time. Alaric stabbed the second man and then cut down the third. Blood drenched the snow. His shoulder burned, his breath thin and tight; he stumbled back, leaning against a half-burned beam. Greywing nudged him slightly, almost human in her concern.
"I'm fine… Thank you, Grey," he whispered.
Upon arriving in the central yard, he found Father's corpse there—blood and wounds everywhere. But Father still held his sword. Alaric knelt beside him, trembling fingers around the cold hand. The whole world went silent. There was no one for him to cry out to. Snow fell softly upon Father's forehead. Alaric swept it away as if caring for someone who was merely sleeping.
Footsteps crunched through the snow. A vanguard of northern knights appeared, frost clinging to their armor. The general at the head of the pack stopped briefly when he noticed the dim spark of hope burning in Alaric's eyes.
"You're wounded," the general said quietly.
"I'm fine," Alaric whispered.
"We saw the smoke rising and rode ahead. The main forces are behind us." The general maintained a respectful distance. "Did you come here alone?"
"I… I thought they might be here anyway…" Alaric choked.
The general looked down at the cloth charm in his hand. "We didn't find your siblings," he said in hushed tones. Alaric tightened his grip around the charm, and that faint light flickered once more.
"You can go with us to the capital. The kingdom and your blessing will defend you…"
"No." Alaric finally lifted his head—exhausted, broken, but anchored by something unrelenting. "I'm going to find them."
The general quickly accepted this with a slow nod. "We'll keep investigating. But if you want to go, I will not stop you."
Alaric said nothing. He held Father's hand for a second more. The general glanced at Father's sword, dried with blood.
"He fought like a true warrior." The bandit corpses told a tale of their own. "These were not ordinary raiders," the general said. "Do you know if they had a grudge against your father?"
"No." The general didn't press further. He draped a cloth over Father's face as the snow began to fall harder. Alaric pulled Father's hands lightly down onto his chest. His own shoulder throbbed with intense pain, but he did not rest. Greywing approached, propping him up once more. He touched the fabric charm to his chest.
"I will find them."
---------------------------------------------
He discovered a sliced rope; it looked clean-cut. Snowfall tracks, footprints, and a long drag mark led up north. A torn piece of cloth with faint blood confirmed the direction. Signs intact. They were alive.
As Alaric mounted Greywing, the general sighed. "It won't be easy alone."
"I know."
"You could return with me. If you really have the 'GODMARK', then the capital can guard you."
"My siblings need me."
"Very well."
"May hope guide you," the general said.
Alaric didn't look back. He didn't have the strength to. He rode into the night, the dim ember of light still burning weakly but stubbornly in his eyes. He didn't glimpse any more of Father's body—not because he didn't care, but simply because he couldn't stand it any longer. Snow muffled every sound as Greywing passed the edge of the territory. He touched no wind in his ears and had no taste of home; only cold, smoke, and thick silence enveloped him.
Alaric steadied his breath. Greywing picked up speed. Snow deepened the path to the north, the wind colder. To his chest was the charm—his only point of aim. Dusk bled crimson along the snow.
Greywing slowed. A faint trail—a narrow groove in the snow; torn, thin grass embedded within it; another scrap of cloth with light blood seeping across it.
"Aivy… Senn…" he whispered.
Then his soul sank into the snow. They were alive. They had to be.
He mounted Greywing again. "Let's go."
Night swallowed the ground, and snow erupted beneath her hooves. Only one light remained—the insistent glare in Alaric's eyes. Faint still, but unbroken. But ,there was still hope.
— End of Chapter One —