Winter claimed the north early.
Snow covered roads.
Wind cut through armor.
Horses struggled.
Men cursed.
And marched.
Aren rode at the front.
Cloak stiff with frost.
Breath like smoke.
Eyes forward.
Always forward.
The Northern Road twisted through mountains and pine forests.
White.
Silent.
Deadly.
Draven scouts watched from afar.
Invisible.
Patient.
Supplies ran thin.
Wagons broke.
Rations shrank.
Complaints grew.
Aren walked among his men.
Shared bread.
Shared cold.
Shared silence.
Respect followed.
At Frostgate Fort, they halted.
Old walls.
Cracked towers.
Half-abandoned.
A border relic.
Caelis met them there.
Grayer.
Harder.
"Welcome to the edge of the world," he said.
Scouts brought grim news.
Draven forces gathered beyond the ridge.
Thousands.
Waiting for spring.
Waiting for weakness.
Aren inspected defenses.
Rotting gates.
Loose stones.
Empty armories.
"Fix everything," he ordered.
"Steal if needed."
They did.
Lysa trained archers daily.
Tom ran messages.
Faster.
Braver.
Stronger.
Nights were worst.
Howling wind.
Distant horns.
Unknown shadows.
Men dreamed of home.
Some never woke.
One dawn, frozen bodies were found.
Throats cut.
Scouts.
Draven's warning.
We are here.
Aren gathered officers.
"They test us," he said.
"We will not blink."
Snow fell harder.
War slept.
But did not forget.
From Frostgate's tower, Aren watched the white horizon.
Rowan had sent him away.
But fate had sent him here.
To the border of kingdoms.
And of himself.