The jolt made the entire carriage shudder. The wheels jumped, and Seti's grave warning echoed from outside:
"Hold on, we're going downhill and the terrain is rough!"
The world turned for a few moments. Hans clung to the seat with the rigidity of a man who already knew what it meant to smash bones against wood. Frida, her hair disheveled, tried to adjust her dress while being tossed from side to side. Only Lena didn't care about the dust, the wrinkled clothes, or the shaking. Her chest burned with so many revelations.
As soon as the jolts stopped, she was the first to open the heavy carriage door. She wanted to see what she never could have, if not for the opportunity that had arisen — as complex and dangerous as it was.
The icy air hit her like a blade, but didn't stop her.
Her eyes widened.
And then she saw it.
The wall.
It wasn't man-made, nor artificial in any way. It was made of mountains.
A colossal range, raised like a natural wall of the world, stretching across the horizon from east to west.
To the right, it rose from a deep abyss, where the wind howled like a trapped beast and unnameable monsters ruled that land as if by right.
To the left, it sank into a breath of stormy fire, where the toxic air of sulfur and magma made life cruelly and utterly impossible.
And in the middle… it stretched endlessly — massive, white, crowned by peaks that tore through the clouds — leaving only a narrow pass, as if to save all that lived on the other side from complete natural isolation.
It was the edge of the Empire. And also the beginning of the northern people's territory.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Hans's voice broke the silence, deep, almost reverent, as if trying to erase what had been said and shift the focus to something more superficial.
"Yes…"
Lena replied, her breath fogging in the cold air. Her eyes sparkled.
"Have you been here before, Professor?"
"I have…"
Hans scratched his beard, looking at the same horizon, but without the same wonder.
"But it was a long time ago. And for very different reasons."
A rustling sound came from inside the carriage. Another head appeared, travel-worn and disheveled.
"Let me see!"
Frida almost tripped over her own feet as she pushed herself outside. When she looked up, her eyes welled with tears.
"Wow… it's beautiful!"
The wall wasn't just stone and ice. To Lena, it seemed like a sentence etched into the world by the gods: This is the edge of the world.
Seti dismounted the griffin with a fluid jump, the shallow snow crunching under his boots. He approached Hans with firm steps, his body upright as if every gesture was calculated to convey confidence.
"Gentlemen"
he said in a grave tone, his voice almost drowned by the wind whistling through the rocks,
"we're less than five kilometers from the Imperial outpost."
He adjusted a short spear strapped to his back that neither Lena, Frida, nor Hans had seen before and cast a quick glance at the horizon, as if already gauging the danger that might be lurking.
"I'll go ahead to find the scouts and secure a safe passage."
he added, already turning toward the griffin's saddle, now detached from the carriage.
"Bastet will stay behind to protect you."
Bastet, unmoving until then, lifted her chin in a silent gesture of agreement. Her golden helmet reflected the faint gray light of the sky, and her presence was more eloquent than any promise.
Hans simply nodded, trying to hide his nervousness.
Lena, on the other hand, couldn't take her eyes off the warrior — that figure seemed more myth than flesh and blood. Despite the bone-chilling cold, the woman ignored it as if it were a mild autumn breeze.
Frida hugged her own arms, trembling both from the cold and from anticipation.
"Thirty minutes."
said Seti, already mounting the griffin.
"Wait for me."
The clinking of claws on the ground echoed like muffled thunder, kicking up swirls of snow. In moments, Seti's figure was disappearing against the white horizon, leaving behind only the distant roar of the creature.
Seti's griffin vanished into the thin snow like lightning, wings closed against the wind, becoming pure speed over the frozen ground. Bastet, still, kept watch with the calm of a predator who knew exactly what would happen if anything dared approach.
Half an hour later, the sound of claws tearing the ground announced the return. Seti was not alone. Behind him, awkwardly mounted on a horse, was a young scout from the imperial army.
Lena looked at him with curiosity. He seemed to be her age — maybe one or two winters older. The worn-out uniform, the cape torn by the wind, and the face marked by the cold said it all: he wasn't a noble's son, but from a family that had had no choice. Soldiers like him were common in the Empire. For those who couldn't afford an education, all that was left was to take up arms and earn a simple wage, just enough to keep food on the table. Lena's father had followed that same path, many years ago.
The boy dismounted from the griffin with a quick bow, still a bit stunned to be in front of travelers escorted by legendary creatures. His voice came out steady, but filled with respect:
"You must be Hans, correct?"
"That's right, young soldier."
Hans replied, adjusting the heavy cloak on his shoulders.
"My name is Hans. These are my students and assistants, Frida von Hack and Lena Vogel."
The scout turned pale for a moment. His eyes widened, fixed on Frida.
"Von Hack?"
he repeated, almost in disbelief.
"You mean… Wolf von Hack?"
Hans opened his mouth to answer, but Frida stepped forward with the ease of someone who had carried the weight of that surname since birth.
"Exactly. Wolf is my father."
The air between them seemed to shift. The respect that already existed turned into something greater: a mixture of reverence and fear. The name Wolf von Hack still carried weight in the Imperial ranks — an echo that made even the youngest soldiers straighten up at the mere mention.
Lena watched everything in silence. Inside, a pang of envy struck her chest. It wasn't the pride Frida inspired — but the way the world automatically responded to a noble name. A surname could bend spines faster than any sword.
The soldier seemed in shock. Hans's hand on his shoulder — a gesture that should have been trivial — made the young man stiffen as if touched by an inquisitor. Only when nothing happened did he breathe deeply and regain his senses. Even so, his body remained rigid, every movement now laced with forced reverence.
"We're starting to feel the cold settle in."
said Hans, cutting through the awkward silence.
"Could you lead us to the camp? I need to speak with your leader about some matters."
The young man nodded too quickly, as if being scolded. The weight of a noble surname could turn even seasoned soldiers into eager servants. Lena and Frida exchanged discreet laughs at the situation — although Lena, deep down, felt the bitter sting of comparison. She remembered when she first met Frida: she had probably reacted the same way, dumbstruck in front of a name that carried power on its own.
"Very well… come with me."
the soldier replied, trying to sound confident.
The pace was quick. In less than forty minutes, they reached the only visible pass through the endless wall. The space opened into a narrow valley, flanked by cliffs rising out of sight. Even with all the snow, the colossal outline of the wall was visible — not just stone and ice, but a symbol of separation between two worlds.
Lena and Frida exchanged awestruck glances.
"Wow… it's much more grand in person."
Frida murmured, her voice low like a prayer.
"Yes."
Hans replied, with a darker tone.
"Let's head to the main camp. There, we can get a clearer idea of what awaits us."
They advanced between rows of tents. What stood out wasn't just the number of men, but also of women — all in uniform, all armed. The Imperial army made no distinction between sexes — only numbers. It was this mass that kept the wall protected, not individual glory.
The smell of iron and smoke mingled with the biting cold. Shouts of command blended with the creak of chains, the clash of weapons being tested, and the roar of recruits in training.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached a tent. At first glance, it looked much like the others: thick canvas, wooden reinforcements, torches stuck in the ice. Only two details marked it: a flag hoisted above, fluttering with the imperial insignia, and the yellowish tone of the fabric — distinct enough to reveal it as the command headquarters.
Hans took a deep breath.
"This is it."
The flap of the tent was open, and from the outside it was already possible to feel the heaviness of the air inside. Four officers, all in immaculate uniforms and shoulders marked by the weight of their insignias, were in discussion. The low, grave tone made it clear it wasn't routine talk — but something urgent.
Hans took a deep breath and entered, even without being called. The tension inside seemed to crack like ice under an unwelcome step. Four pairs of veteran eyes turned to him and the young women behind.
"Good afternoon."
he said, his voice steady, though the sweat on his forehead betrayed him.
"I'm looking for General Wilhelm II."
One of the men stepped forward. He was elderly, with short-cropped white hair and eyes cold as steel blades. Though bent by time, his upright posture made it clear: he could still defeat any reckless youth in combat.
"May I ask who's requesting?"
he asked, his deep voice heavy with irritation at the interruption.
Hans, nervous, reached into his pocket. As he pulled out a document, it slipped from his fingers. He hurried to pick it up, brushing the snow off as if the gesture could erase the embarrassment, before handing it to the veteran. The man took the paper reluctantly, read it quickly, and looked up with a mix of disbelief and disdain.
"So… you're the negotiator... and Professor from Sigurd?"
he said, spitting out the word as if it were filth.
Before Hans could reply, another officer stepped forward. Unlike the others, he didn't have white hair — his black mane, still as firm as night, framed an austere face. His dark, penetrating gaze seemed to cut through flesh and bone.
"What kind of sick joke is this that woman's come up with this time…"
his voice came out calm, but sharp as a freshly honed blade. It was the kind of voice that didn't need to rise to command, for it already carried the authority of decades of instant obedience. He paused, sizing up Hans and then the young women behind him.
"I thought this time the Empire was taking things seriously. But clearly…"
a crooked, poisonous smile formed on his lips
"… they've run out of good ideas and decided to send clowns and smooth thighs instead."
The comment hung heavy in the air — though not for the veteran officers. Among them, low, short laughs echoed — filled with malice and venom. These weren't guffaws — they were sharp barbs, tossed by those long used to wounding with words before ever drawing a sword.
The youngest among them then raised his hand.
"Gentlemen, we'll discuss the events of the week later"
he said to the veterans, showing no concern for the insults directed at the guests.
"You're dismissed."
The three older men withdrew, but not without casting weighty stares at Hans and the girls. It was the kind of look that judged without speaking — that measured worth not by what one was, but by what they appeared to be: outsiders in a place that didn't belong to them.
When the flap closed, only the young man adorned with medals and symbols remained, along with Hans and the two young women. The silence was dense, but the feeling had shifted: no longer that of intruders in a forbidden room, but of pieces newly placed on a far greater board.
The young man slowly reclined in the chair in the corner of the tent, like a king who didn't need to raise his voice to rule. The gesture was calculated, almost theatrical, but still carried an authority that made the space around him fall silent.
His eyes settled on the newcomer. There was confusion in his gaze. There was anger.
But above all… doubt.
It wasn't doubt about intentions — it was about what stood before him: two young women and an academic.
Not soldiers. Not veterans.
The Empire had sent… a scholar and children?
Disbelief burned across the young man's face, though not wildly. It was a cold flame, held in silence, as he considered whether he was facing a grotesque mistake… or something far more dangerous.