'A nation rule By weakness is a nation doomed to fall. Do not trust the cheering, for people would shout as much if you or I were going to be hanged. The loyalty of men is fickle, swayed by fear, by power, by the weight of a sword at their backs. I did not seek a crown, nor did I bow to one. I broke it, because power without virtue is corruption. And I would not stand for it. He who stops being better, stops being good. So I did not stop. The battlefield does not reward hesitation, nor does history. The truth of a man is found in his actions, not his words. And the measure of a man lies in what he dares to do. Let them call me a tyrant. Let them curse my name. In the end, only one thing matters. Who stands, and who is remembered'
Valkar Eltheran II the Mad
The fog pressed in like a second skin. Every step Sif took squelched slightly in the damp undergrowth, his sword gleaming faintly in the pale light. Beside him, Jane walked lightly, her red hair vivid even in the gloom, a stark contrast to the world drowning in grey.
She hummed softly—a tune that didn't belong in a place like this.
"You always hum when lost in a nightmare?" Sif asked, half-teasing, half-wary.
Jane smiled. "Only when I know someone's watching. Makes the ghosts feel left out."
Sif gave her a sideways glance. That was the third oddly timed joke she had made. She looked human, sounded human, but the way she moved… it was too smooth, too unaffected by the cold or the silence. Maybe it was the fog playing tricks on him. Maybe it was him.
"Tell me again," he said, shifting the weight of his blade on his shoulder. "This Elandar… the Glass Man. You really think he's real?"
Jane's expression darkened. "If he's not, then we've both gone mad in the same direction."
They walked on, silence crawling between their words until it grew heavy. Then the trees opened.
Before them stretched a vast, frozen lake. The fog hugged its surface, and beneath the clear ice, vague shapes moved slowly—dark, serpentine things like shadows trying to escape.
Sif stopped. "That's not normal."
"No," Jane whispered. "This is his territory. The lake of eyes."
Sif blinked. "Lake of—wait, what?"
But she didn't answer. She was staring at the center of the lake, her face gone pale.
Sif stepped forward carefully. A low cracking noise echoed under his boots. The ice was strong, but the sound—it wasn't coming from the lake.
It was above them.
He looked up.
Figures hung in the fog above the lake—barely visible at first, like cloth caught in branches. But then they twitched. Bodies. Wrapped in mist. Suspended as if something invisible held them like puppets.
Some of them had their mouths open. Frozen in mid-scream.
Sif took a step back. His boot slid slightly. Jane grabbed his arm. "Careful," she said quietly. "This is where he starts to play."
As if on cue, a sound drifted over the lake. A soft chime, like glass being tapped.
Then another.
And another.
The frozen lake began to shimmer with a pale blue glow, revealing faces beneath the ice. Human, elven, even vimpire—men and women trapped in the frozen water, eyes open, lips moving in silent agony.
One of them looked just like Sif.
He flinched.
"Not real," he muttered. "This isn't real."
"I told you," Jane said, her voice eerily calm, "he likes playing."
Then, from across the lake, came a sound that didn't belong. A child's laughter. High-pitched. Echoing. And far too close.
A figure stepped out onto the ice across from them.
He wore a cloak of shifting crystal, and his face was smooth, almost featureless, like a porcelain mask. Where his eyes should be, shards of glass reflected the world like a shattered mirror. His voice when he spoke was layered—child, man, woman, all at once.
"Two players," he said. "How delightful."
Sif raised his sword. "We're not here to play."
"But you're already playing," said the Glass Man. "The moment you stepped into my mist, you began."
He lifted a hand. The ice between them cracked.
And from the lake, something began to rise.
It had too many arms.
Sif shoved Jane behind him, heart pounding. "Any ideas?"
She smirked faintly. "You won't like them."
"Try me."
"Run."
The thing beneath the ice screamed.
Sif and Jane found themselves at the edge of a sheer drop—the path vanished in a wall of mist and ice. Jane's brow furrowed as she peered into the gray nothingness. "There's no way through here," she murmured, voice tight with frustration. Sif tightened his grip on Ronar's sword. "We'll find another," he replied, though even he felt the fog's chill pressing in.
Before they could move, a figure emerged from the haze—Elandar Mire, his mirrored helm reflecting their tense faces. He leaned on his polished cane and let his gaze drift first to Jane. "Jane of Orvalia," he began softly, "you have spent your life tending to the broken—mending bones, feeding the hungry. Your kindness lifted your sisters from destitution and your reputation spreads far beyond these northern roads."
Jane's breath caught. She straightened, astonished. "Who—how do you know my name?" she whispered, confusion and unease warring in her eyes.
Elandar turned to Sif, his voice sharpening. "And you, Fox of Blackreach, trained by the Mountain Hawk himself. Your blade rang like thunder over Berthol and Lismorth, earning you a name whispered in both fear and hope." He paused, studying Sif's reaction.
Sif's jaw clenched. He glanced at Jane—her eyes were wide, a mixture of pride and alarm. He opened his mouth, then closed it, uncertain whether to protest or admit the truth.
Elandar inclines his head, the soft clink of glass on steel echoing. "Legends persist," he continued, "even when buried behind bars. But riddles are not solved by silence." With a sudden gesture, four crystalline figures—once legendary swordsmen—stepped from the mist to surround them.
Before they could strike, Sif moved with lightning speed. His blade sang through the air, shattering each glass form into glittering shards at his feet. Hearts pounding, Jane covered her mouth in astonishment.
As the last figure fell, Sif lunged forward and drove his sword into Elandar's chest. For a breath, crimson bloomed inside the mirrored helm. Elandar laughed—soft, mocking—blood at the corner of his lips. "Did you think it would be so easy?" he whispered, before dissolving into the swirling fog.
Where the mist receded stood an ancient chapel, its stone walls gleaming pale in the dawn light. Jane and Sif stared at the silent building—and the path forward lay open once more.
They rested for a while, seated on a slope just below the path, where the air was less bitter and the ground only lightly dusted with snow. Jane sat beside Sif, stealing glances at him from time to time, as if trying to match the quiet man beside her to the legend she'd just heard.
"Are you really... Sif of Blackreach?" she finally asked, her voice laced with awe and confusion.
Sif tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
"After the war… after the treaty was signed… there were no parades, no songs. Just silence. Then rumors started. People said you'd been thrown into the Devil's Pit. That you'd been erased," she said. "You were the North's hero. And then—nothing."
Sif exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the white horizon. "It's a long story."
Jane gave a slight smile. "We have time."
He looked at her for a moment, then leaned back, resting his arms on his knees. "It was during the Battle of Western Gate. Commander Ronar—the leader of the Fourth Legion—was killed in the charge. We won the battle, barely. But scouts reported that a Dominion force five times our size was moving straight toward the capital."
Jane's eyes widened.
"We were the only ones left standing in their path. Some nobles suggested we abandon our positions—let the Dominion pass, let them burn, pillage, and defile the heartland while we saved ourselves."
Jane scoffed. "Cowards."
"I thought the same," Sif muttered. "My comrades and I refused. But the nobles wouldn't back down. So…" He paused, staring at his hands. "We silenced them."
"You mean… you killed them?"
He nodded, voice low. "Every last one. And I took the blame for it."
Jane looked down, her expression clouded with emotion.
"What about the capital?" she asked after a moment. "Why didn't they send reinforcements?"
Sif clenched his jaw. "When they heard the Dominion was closing in, they declared a full lockdown. No messages in or out. No scouts, no riders. To them, we were already dead. They sealed the gates and waited."
"And after you won?" she whispered.
"They found out what I did," he said. "And they couldn't let that story spread. So they arrested me."
Jane's voice was quiet. "And how did you escape?"
Sif shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe a royal pardon. Or maybe someone just forgot to check the locks."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of old wounds and unfinished tales. But as they looked up, the fog had cleared, revealing the ancient cathedral ahead—its massive doors dark and still, like the mouth of something ancient, waiting.
Sif stood first, brushing the snow off his cloak. "Shall we?"
Jane rose beside him. "After you, Fox of the reach."
And together, they stepped toward the threshold.