The bells tolled through the fog.

  Not the clanging of alarm, but a measured warning. Three times, then silence. Then again, three more. Each note rang out across the frost-hushed earth like a question that none wished to answer.

  Morning in the Northern Reach was always quiet—quiet enough to hear a bowstring creak or a sword drawn slowly from leather. But this morning, the mist lay thick as wool over the Oath Keepers Bastion, smothering the color from banners and the warmth from breath.

  From that fog emerged a figure.

  A lone rider leading his mount, cloaked and hooded, the great hood of his travel-cape drawn so far forward it shadowed the whole of his face. He did not ride, though the horse was strong and hale. He walked. One hand wrapped loosely around the reins, the other resting near the leather strap of a short spear across his back. The iron-clad hooves of his mount made little sound on the damp ground.

  A soundless rider was always a cause for concern. A hooded one doubly so.

  By the time he reached the gate, six guards stood ready, steel already drawn, and their sergeant—broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with a bristle of grey stubble and the air of a man who’d outlived three commanding officers—stepped forth with hand on hilt.

  “Halt there!” the sergeant barked. “State your name and your business.”

  The figure said nothing.

  Not at first.

  Instead, he pulled back his hood.

  And the fog seemed to retreat with it.

  The man beneath the hood had a face that did not belong in one realm. It belonged to two. Heavy-browed and tusked, green-grey skin pulled tight over thick bones, but with the blue eyes of a Westernlander and the poise of a soldier born. His jaw bore scars too deep for a man, but too precise for an orc.

  A murmur rippled through the guards.

  One dropped his sword. Another stepped back.

  Even the sergeant stiffened, recognition flashing in his eyes like lightning behind storm clouds.

  “By the gates of Hollow mere…” one guard whispered. “That’s—”

  “Orlach,” the sergeant finished. “Orlach the Half-blood.”

  Scoutmaster of the Emperor. Ghost of the Steppe. The one who’d guided Gregor Willinghelm himself through the Ash Marshes during the Fourth Rebellion. Stories were told of Orlach in every barracks from the Bastion Hills to the Tide forts, and none of them ever ended softly.

  “I need to see the General,” Orlach said simply, his voice a graveled baritone softened by disuse. “Now.”

  The sergeant swallowed hard and barked, “Make way, you bloody fools!” He shoved his men aside and waved toward the gate. “Raise the portcullis! Let the man through!”

  Orlach gave only a nod in return, leading his steed through the rising iron maw.

  Oath Keepers was awake now.

  Inside the walls, the bastion bustled with morning drills. Wooden blades clashed against shields. Hoarse sergeants shouted names and threats. Young men and women ran in pairs with buckets of water, boots skidding in the mud. Cooks stirred iron pots over open braziers. Archers practiced with straw dummies marked with crude red X's for hearts.

  And everywhere Orlach passed, silence followed.

  He was used to the stares. Used to the parting crowds and the way even seasoned soldiers tried not to meet his gaze. Men feared what they didn’t understand—and even more so when what they feared walked in their midst like it belonged.

  The sergeant led him past the outer wall, beneath a stone arch lined with runes that pulsed faintly with defensive wards, and toward a winding stair near the left flank of the second curtain wall.

  “You’ll find the general above,” the sergeant said, stopping. “Good hunting, Scoutmaster.”

  With that, he turned and left.

  At the top of the stairs stood a tall man, arms crossed, a single silver bar glinting on his cloak clasp. His armor was clean, though worn. His face sun-darkened and lined at the edges, the sort of face that had spent more time in blood than in sleep.

  “Captain Alavator,” he said before Orlach could speak. “At your service.”

  “Well met, Captain,” Orlach replied, climbing the final steps. “I’m called Orlach.”

  “You’re well known to us, sir,” Alavator said without inflection. “The general awaits. This way.”

  He stepped aside and pushed open the heavy iron door behind him.

  Inside, the room was dim.

  More so than Orlach expected.

  Windows had been shuttered tight. Candles flickered from every table and wall bracket, their wax pooling like ivory blood. The air smelled of ink and dust, sweat and steel polish. At the room’s center stood a massive oaken table, sagging under the weight of northern maps, pins, tokens, and bundles of dispatches.

  Four officers stood about, each one murmuring status reports. At their head stood a tall, thin man with a curled mustache so extravagant it would’ve looked comical on a lesser figure. His armor was polished but worn beneath the joints, a man used to long campaigns. His fingers drummed across the edges of a report as he looked up.

  “Ah. Well met, Orlach,” said General Bhraime Montclef, extending his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

  Orlach clasped his wrist in the old way. “Too long.”

  “What brings the famous Scoutmaster all the way to our snow-bitten doorstep?”

  “I carry a private message,” Orlach replied. “From the Emperor himself.”

  The general arched a brow. “I see.”

  He glanced at the officers. “Gentlemen. Give us the room.”

  They filed out swiftly, not one daring to glance back.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Once they were alone, Orlach reached inside his cloak and withdrew a leather cylinder sealed with the wax and signet of Gregor Willinghelm. He held it out, watching as Bhraime examined it closely, the general's brows knitting together in concentration.

  After a moment, Bhraime set the letter upon the table and leaned over it, eyes shut, head bowed in contemplation. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. Finally, he raised his head and looked at Orlach, his expression serious. "What is this new threat the emperor speaks of, and why is it so important that I bring four regiments back to the capital immediately? Surely he is aware of our situation out here."

  Orlach said nothing.

  “I’ve got Tezekke raiders crossing the high slopes daily,” Bhraime went on, voice rising. “Black-marketers slipping between outposts. Slavers whispering down from the Frostedge. If I leave, I leave three regiments to cover miles upon miles of wilderness.”

  Still Orlach said nothing.

  When the general had exhausted his words, Orlach replied softly, “The Emperor knows the risk. But this threat… it is unlike anything he’s ever faced before. He believes it may require all the realm’s strength. Even then—it may not be enough.”

  That silenced Bhraime.

  The general’s jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed.

  But he nodded.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll have the men ready to march by midday. You’ve had a long ride—find food and rest. My men will see to your horse.”

  “My thanks,” Orlach replied with a bow of the head and turned to go.

  As the heavy door shut behind the half breed, two captains entered from the opposite corridor—Alavator and Laflour, the latter a lean man with red hair tied in a knot and a perpetual squint.

  Alavator spoke first. “General… was that truly—?”

  “It was,” Bhraime said, not looking up. “Orlach.”

  “But why? What message could the Emperor send by him alone?”

  Bhraime tapped the sealed scroll on the table.

  “There has been a war council called in the capital. I am to bring four regiments and attend. We leave with all haste. Make ready at once. Four regiments.”

  “What?” Laflour blurted, red-faced. “That’s more than half our strength!”

  “I know,” Bhraime said. “That’s what worries me.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll command the bastion in my absence,” Bhraime cut in. “We are taking men, yes, but this fortress will stand. You’ll find a way.”

  Laflour opened his mouth again, but the general raised one hand, and the words withered.

  “I said you will find a way.”

  “Yes, General,” Laflour murmured. He stood straighter.

  Bhraime turned to Alavator. “Now make ready for our departure. I want us moving before the bells ring again.”

  “Yes, General,” Alavator replied, already turning to leave.

  But Bhraime’s voice followed him.

  “Marcus.”

  The captain paused.

  “I know the emperor. He would not call us from our posts lightly. Something’s coming. Something that frightens him.”

  Alavator turned, expression hard.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know,” Bhraime answered truthfully. “But I mean to find out.”

  He stepped forward and gripped Laflour’s shoulder.

  “Hold the bastion. Keep the flame lit. Do not let this border fall.”

  Laflour held his gaze. “Until my dying breath.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  With that, the general took his leave, the weight of the emperor's message pressing heavily upon him as he descended the stairs, his mind racing with thoughts of the looming threat that was left unsaid, and the responsibility left behind. The bastion bustled with life around him, but Bhraime's heart was already on the road ahead, a path fraught with uncertainty and danger. The realms were shifting, and he would need every ounce of strength and cunning to navigate the storm that lay ahead.

  A short time later:

  The crows would not stop watching him.

  They lined the frost-slicked parapets of Oathkeepers Bastion like black-robed mourners at a funeral not yet begun. Bhraime Montclef had seen crows in war—feasting on the fallen, circling above battles yet to be joined—but never like this.

  Not staring. Not waiting.

  Not as if they knew.

  The courtyard below seethed with steel.

  Four full legions. His legions. Rows upon rows of grim-eyed men and women wrapped in wool and chain, their breath steaming into the brittle cold. Standards hung still. Not a banner stirred. The drums were silent, though their skins had been stretched and mounted. The soldiers waited, but the silence was wrong—too tight, too thick, like something was holding its breath.

  Bhraime watched them from the high tower balcony, his scarred hands resting on the stone ledge, his joints aching from the cold—or perhaps something deeper.

  There was a sickness in the air. Not the kind that rotted flesh, but the sort that whispered at the base of the skull when dreams refused to end.

  He turned from the courtyard and moved back into the chamber.

  A fire had been lit in the hearth, but it did nothing to ease the chill that had settled into the walls. Judicator, his sword, leaned against a wooden chair. Its presence gave him little comfort.

  The scroll still lay on the table.

  Broken seal. Imperial black.

  He had not read it aloud. He did not want the men to hear the tremor in his voice.

  The words were simple enough. The emperor required his return to Struttsburg. Immediate. Without delay. Bring four regiments, no less.

  And that was all.

  No cause named. No battle declared. No map. No threat.

  Only the signature of Emperor Gregor Willinghelm, stamped in wax and pressed in blood-red ink.

  Bhraime had held that scroll in his hand all morning, and the weight of it had not lessened. It felt like lead.

  No—like sin.

  He descended the steps of the tower slowly, each tread echoing through the ancient stone.

  As he passed beneath the archway, the cold struck him harder than he remembered. He blinked up into the pale sky. Still snow. Still silence.

  Still those fucking crows.

  At the head of the courtyard, beside the drummers, Captain Alvator sat astride his white charger, armor gleaming with oil and frost. A stalwart officer. Loyal. Bhraime had trusted him with his life more than once.

  Beside Alvator sat Orlach—hooded, still, massive even from a distance. Half-orc, half-man, all shadow. The Emperor’s Hound. Old friend, though he barely resembled the creature Bhraime had once fought beside in the southern wars. Orlach looked like a statue carved from grave-rock. He’d arrived early that morning. Said little. Watched everything.

  Watching now.

  And behind them all stood Captain Laflour, arms folded, face carved from stone. His orders were to remain. Defend the bastion should the Empire fall around it.

  Bhraime had not missed the bitterness in his silence. Or the relief.

  He stepped forward.

  Thousands of eyes turned toward him.

  He did not feel the wind, though it tugged at his cloak. He felt only the weight of the scroll still in his memory.

  And the dread clawing behind his ribs.

  Then he began to speak.

  “Brothers.”

  “Sisters.”

  “I have led you through storms and fire. Through betrayal. Through nights so long we thought the sun might never rise again. I’ve buried sons. I’ve stood atop towers soaked in ash and held the line when the gods turned their eyes.”

  “But I tell you now… I do not know what waits in the capital.”

  “I do not know what the emperor wishes of us.”

  “I only know… has need.”

  That admission sent a ripple through the assembled host.

  Bhraime continued, his voice steady, his words sharper than steel.

  “The message came without detail. No banners summoned. No proclamations posted. No trumpet blown.”

  “He called for me. He called for us. For every sword. Every horse. Every shield.”

  “And something in the way he called…”

  He let the silence linger.

  “Something in that scroll spoke of warning.”

  A murmur rose behind the lines.

  A soldier shifted uneasily. A horse nickered.

  Bhraime gritted his teeth.

  “Some of you look south and imagine rebels. Or warlords. Or monsters.”

  “I pray it is only that.”

  “Because I fear… it is worse.”

  He began pacing, slow and measured, his boots crunching frost beneath him.

  “We march not to war, but to the unknown. Into a silence thick enough to choke.”

  “We are being pulled. Like iron filings to a lodestone. The capital does not ask us to come—it drags us.”

  “And still. We ride.”

  “Not for coin. Not for banners. Not for glory.”

  “But because if we do not… we may never know what threatens our beloved Empire.”

  The words landed like stones.

  He stopped before the first rank. A boy there—sixteen at most—looked at him with wide, pale eyes. He reminded Bhraime of his own son, dead twenty years.

  He bent low and took the boy’s hand.

  “I will not promise you safe passage,” he said quietly.

  “But I swear to you—I will not leave you behind.”

  Then he rose.

  He turned to the drummers and gave a single nod.

  The first beat hit like thunder.

  Captain Alvator raised his sword. “Crimson Wing! By honor and oath, forward!”

  The legions stirred. Shields lifted. Hooves pawed stone. The banners of House Montclef, once proud and golden, looked tarnished in the winter light.

  Orlach said nothing. He simply turned his steed and began to ride.

  Captain Laflour watched them from the wallwalk, his breath fogging the air.

  Once the first line cleared the gates, Bhraime mounted his warhorse—Gravemane, a beast as gray and old as his master. He did not look back.

  The bastion behind him felt colder than the mountain wind.

  He knew, deep in his chest, he would not see it again.

  That late afternoon, the last of the legions passed through the broken eastern gate.

  And as darkness began to creep in, a sound echoed through the woods beyond the bastion.