The Frostmere range rose from the land like the bones of ancient gods — jagged white peaks stabbing the clouds, their sides streaked with old ice and the smoke of hidden forges.
The air cut like a blade.
Mazen rode near the front of the Howling Pact column, his cloak heavy with frost. Behind him, Emberfall banners snapped against the cold wind, Ishra grim as a storm cloud.
Shadow of the North rode at his side.
"This place hates outsiders," Shadow muttered, gaze on the looming ice walls ahead.
"They'll hate us worse when they hear what we came to ask," Mazen said.
The main gates of Frostmere — ancient wood banded with black iron — opened with a groan. A small party stepped out.
At the front, a tall woman with hair like spun snow, clad in layered leathers and bearing a slender ice-forged spear.
Vara Snowveil.
Frostmere's chief war advisor, sharp-eyed, dangerous, no taste for rebellion games.
Beside her, a massive brute of a man with a braided beard and an axe half his size.
Gorik Stonejaw.
The Frozen Cliffs' warhammer.
Vara's eyes cut through the gathered warbands like a blade.
"You travel armed to our gates and expect a welcome?" she called, voice crisp as cracking ice.
Ishra rode forward.
"We travel armed because your king hunts us like wolves. We didn't come to kneel."
A tense silence followed.
Vara smirked.
"Good. Frostmere doesn't deal with kneelers."
Her gaze landed on Mazen.
"And you must be the Black Tear."
Mazen gave a tight nod.
"Mark Arkios."
"We've heard the songs. Some claim you bleed fire. Others say you'll burn this world before you bow."
"Depends who's asking," Mazen replied, fire sparking at his palm just enough to make a point.
Vara's smile was thin and dangerous.
"Good. Maybe you'll amuse me before the cold takes you."
The gates opened wider, and the delegation passed through into the shadow of the mountain.
And the cold wasn't the only thing watching them.
Night fell fast in Frostmere, the cold sharpening into a knife-edge darkness. Torches flickered against stone walls slick with old ice.
The visiting camps of Emberfall and the Howling Pact had settled outside the main hold, uneasy fires lighting small circles of warmth. The Frostmere guards patrolled higher along the walls, their pale cloaks blending with snow and shadow.
But one figure didn't belong.
A tall, lean soldier in Frostmere colors moved silently through the darkness — too silent. The patrols barely noticed her passing.
It wasn't a soldier.
It was Serak.
And tonight wasn't for blood sport. It was for division.
She found her mark near the southern cliffline — a Frostmere scout, young, alone, relieving himself behind a jagged stone.
He didn't even turn in time.
A flicker of steel. A soft choke.
Serak wiped the blood from her twin daggers on his cloak.
No mess. No sound.
She pulled a scrap of Emberfall's insignia — stolen earlier from a tent — and pinned it to the corpse's belt.
A final glance over her shoulder.
Satisfied.
Then she vanished into the dark.
By dawn, when the body was found, the false evidence would spread through the Frostmere ranks like wildfire.
And the alliance would fracture at its weakest seam.
The war council chamber in Frostmere wasn't built for warmth. Stone walls lined with ancient weapons. Icicles hanging like glass daggers. A long table scarred by countless old wars.
On one side — Ishra, Shadow of the North, Khan Duren, Mazen, and a few wary Emberfall captains.
On the other — Vara Snowveil, stone-faced and lethal in the lamplight, flanked by Gorik Stonejaw and several ice-clad chieftains.
Tension hung thicker than smoke.
"We agreed to these talks out of caution, not trust," Vara opened, her voice cold steel.
"Frostmere bends to no rebellion. If we choose a side, it will be for our survival — not your ideals."
Ishra leaned forward, flame-orange hair catching the light.
"Your survival's already in jeopardy. Rhys III's warbands have taken Northglen and the Iron Pass. Frostmere's next whether you fight or not."
A sharp exchange of glances among the Frostmere warleaders.
"We have walls," Gorik growled.
"And you'll have a graveyard if you wait," Shadow added flatly.
Vara's gaze slid to Mazen.
"What do you say, Black Tear? Why should Frostmere bleed for your war?"
Mazen didn't blink.
"Because Rhys III isn't building a kingdom. He's building a tomb. You stay out of this, and by the time you realize it, it won't be Frostmere you're defending — it'll be the last shard of a dead world."
The room went still.
Before anyone could answer, a scout burst through the doors.
Pale. Breath ragged.
"One of ours… dead. Behind the south ridge." He held up the bloodied Emberfall insignia.
The council exploded into shouted accusations.
Vara shot to her feet, eyes blazing.
"I knew you couldn't be trusted!"
Ishra cursed under her breath.
Mazen's hand clenched, flame licking at his palm.
Shadow spoke first.
"No one moves. Not until we find out who planted that."
But the damage was done.
And somewhere in the dark, Serak smiled.
The council chamber's tension bled into the cold night as Mazen stepped away, the sharp wind cutting through his cloak. He needed space — away from accusations, blades, and politics.
Khan Duren followed at a measured pace, his steps nearly soundless despite his massive frame.
They stopped at the edge of the cliff path, the endless dark of the Frostmere range stretching before them.
"You felt it, didn't you?" Duren said, his voice low and steady.
Mazen didn't pretend otherwise.
"Yeah. And it's worse every night we stay in this cursed land."
Duren exhaled, visible in the cold.
"It's not the land. It's the balance between realms. The cracks aren't just old legends. They're real — and when that barrier weakens, it stirs the things buried beneath us. Elemental beasts, old blood magic, and worse."
He glanced at Mazen, green eyes sharp.
"And every time you use that darkness in you… you feed it."
Mazen scowled.
"I didn't ask for this power. I didn't make those cracks."
"No, but you inherited what your father spent his life containing," Duren countered, folding his arms.
"And whether you like it or not, you're connected to this realm now. The Shadow Mind recognizes its own."
Mazen looked away.
"So what's your point?"
Duren's tone softened, though it lost none of its weight.
"The beasts near the Great Temple have begun moving. Hunters reported fire where none should be, ash where there should be ice. If the realm weakens too fast, those monsters won't just escape — they'll destroy what little holds this land together."
A long pause.
"And if Rhys III gets to the Shadow Mind first, no one survives what comes next."
Mazen clenched his jaw, the fire under his skin flickering in restless answer.
"Then we don't let that happen."
Duren gave a grim, approving nod.
"Good. Because you're the one who'll have to lead them through it, whether you want to or not."
A horn blast echoed over the cliffs — a scout's alarm.
And like always, there was no time left.
The scout's alarm still echoed across the cliffs when Mazen stormed back into the Emberfall camp perimeter.
Wind howled against the tents. The fires burned low.
And of course — she was there.
Nermin.
Leaning against a post, her cloak drawn tight, eyes sharp and unreadable in the torchlight.
"You're good at slipping away when things get ugly, Arkios," she said dryly.
Mazen didn't stop moving.
"Better than standing around waiting for the ice to fall."
She pushed off the post, falling into step beside him.
Neither spoke for a stretch.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she muttered.
"Just a monster in waiting."
She arched a brow.
"Your own reflection?"
A flicker of a grin, despite himself.
"Maybe. And yours isn't much better, Nermin."
She tensed — not at the insult, but at the way he said her name.
It felt… familiar.
And she hated that.
"Careful, Arkios," she said, voice lower now.
"You're starting to sound like a man who gives a damn."
He stopped.
Turned to her. The firelight caught his eyes — and for half a breath, it wasn't Mark Arkios she saw.
It was someone else. Someone long gone.
And it scared the hell out of her.
Before she could speak, Lira's voice called from the shadows.
"You two lovebirds done brooding, or should I leave you alone to stare dramatically at the snow some more?"
Nermin rolled her eyes, breaking the moment.
"Go throw yourself off a ridge, Lira."
Mazen's grin sharpened.
"She's got a point though."
And without waiting for a reply, he headed toward the council tent.
Nermin watched him go, her stomach twisting.
Why the hell do you feel like home?
But she left the question in the cold.