The wind over the northern plains howled like wolves mourning the moon.
Snow had not yet fallen, but the chill bit deep—dragging frostbite across the skin of the land.
Arasha rode at the front of a column of knights, the Scion Order's banners snapping in the wind behind her.
Their horses moved through the half-frozen mud of the Frost Hollow, where Duke Lionel's forces had drawn a hard line against the barbarian incursion.
Smoke still curled from burned watchtowers. Frozen bodies—both noble and savage—were already being buried beneath tarps of snow and silence.
Arasha dismounted near the command tent, her boots crunching against brittle grass. A steward saluted sharply and led her to the Duke.
Inside, Duke Lionel of the Frostfist House stood over a war map, his expression grim. His once-golden beard had gone streaked with grey, and his hand clutched the hilt of his sword even in rest.
"Commander Arasha," he said. "You're early."
"I march with speed when blood flows in rivers," Arasha replied without pause. "I came to help you end it."
The Duke grunted, but his hard eyes softened slightly at her confidence. "They're stronger than the southern rabble. Desperate. But organized. We suspect they've banded into war-clans. They keep pushing north—to our villages."
"They're starving," Arasha said, glancing over a report. "Their hunting lands failed. Their herds thinned. And their trade routes have been bled dry by brigands and frost."
Duke Lionel looked up. "You feel sorry for them?"
"I understand them," Arasha said evenly. "But understanding is not weakness. We can crush them—but it will not solve the root of their desperation. More will come."
The Duke scowled. "So what would you have us do? Feed them and hope they go away?"
"No," Arasha said, her voice edged like tempered steel. "We bind them. With food. With work. With land."
She stepped forward and unfurled a leather-bound scroll. The ink was fresh, the script precise. Duke Lionel raised a brow as she explained.
"You allow the strongest of their clans to settle in your unused northeastern plains. In exchange, they submit to your law. They build, farm, and serve in border patrol. You appoint loyal reeves—half of them from their own ranks, half your own—to oversee this integration."
Duke Lionel's brows furrowed deeper. "That's madness. They're beasts. They know only conquest."
"Beasts don't plead for bread," Arasha countered. "They're desperate men and women who've lost everything but their pride. Give them a way to keep that, and you make them yours—willingly."
At that moment, the tent's flap parted gently. Duchess Jane, Lionel's wife, entered like a gust of fresh air. Her fiery crimson hair was pinned with silver leaves, and though her eyes were tired, they warmed when they landed on Arasha.
"My lord," she said softly. "What she proposes… it may be the boldest act of warcraft we've seen in years."
Duke Lionel exhaled heavily, gaze torn between the parchment and his wife.
"If it fails—"
"Then you'll have warriors already living on your land to quell the uprising," Arasha said calmly. "But if it works, you'll gain soldiers who fight not because they fear you—but because they have something to protect."
For a long moment, the northern wind was the only sound.
Finally, the Duke looked down at the proposal again, then nodded with the weight of mountains.
"Very well. I'll try it. But you'll leave the rest to me, Commander. Go back to your hold. The north will manage its own."
Arasha gave a short bow. "As you command."
As she turned to leave, the Duchess stepped close and whispered, "Thank you. You may have just saved more lives than any sword ever could."
Arasha nodded and left towards her knights.
The wind in the north had turned gentle by the time Arasha readied her departure.
The once-frigid air now danced with whispers of spring—hope woven into breath.
Outside the Arasha's tent, her horse pawed the earth impatiently, sensing its rider's urgency. Her knights awaited her, gathered and ready to ride once more.
Outside the duke's tent, Duchess Jane stood beside the carved sigil of House Frostfist—ivy and sword interwoven banner.
Her hands rested lightly upon the swell of her belly, only just beginning to show.
"You honor us with your strength, Commander Arasha," the Duchess said softly, her face lit by torchlight and reverence. "May all the saints shield your path."
Arasha bowed low in return. "It's I who am honored, Your Grace. If I may speak freely… you should take greater care. The journey of bearing life is no less perilous than any battlefield."
The Duchess laughed lightly, the sound like distant bells. "And you, young as you are, speak with the weight of a midwife and a scholar. I promise—I'll be careful. Especially now." She gently laid her hand atop her growing child. "When the babe is born, I hope you'll visit. It would bring me comfort to see you again—more than you know."
Arasha's gaze softened. "I'll try," she said, though the shadow behind her eyes suggested she knew how quickly fate's winds could change. "And when I do, I hope to see the child born into peace."
She turned toward the dirt path, the torches flickering against her dark hair and cloak.
As she strode out, she passed her knights and gave a single nod. "Deliver the aid crates. Tools, grain, medicines—Duke Lionel will need them in the coming weeks. Ensure the ledgers match."
The knight-captain saluted. "As you command, Commander."
Mounting swiftly, Arasha took one last glance at the tents, her silver eyes meeting the Duchess's from afar. A silent farewell passed between them—respect forged in frost and quiet grace.
Then she turned her horse.
"Next is the Ederwyn Expanse, on the edge of holy territory," she told Garran, who had ridden up beside her. "Reports say a great lich has awakened and defiled the ruins of Saint Virelle's Abbey. The Holy Knights request Scion support."
Sir Garran grimaced. "They wouldn't call for help unless it was worse than we feared. A lich that powerful could command legions of undead. Entire towns could vanish before sunrise."
Arasha nodded once. "Then we'll stop it before nightfall."
The horns sounded.
The Scion Order rode.
Snow fell in gentle silence, covering the northern scars. Behind them, life stirred in the Duchess's womb. Ahead, death awaited in black robes and ancient hatred.
****
The stained-glass spires of Saint Virelle's Abbey loomed jagged and broken under the dying sun.
Once a bastion of sacred silence and sanctuary, now it groaned beneath the boots of the dead.
The cobbled grounds were slick with ash, snow, and blood, and the desperate ring of steel echoed with the ragged hymns of survival.
The Holy Knights, silver-plated and golden-crossed, stood in a circle of light on the abbey's ruined altar square—backs pressed against consecrated marble, eyes wild with fatigue. Their line was thinning, wavering, splintering.
Just as despair began to root itself in their ranks—
A great horn cut through the undead wails.
From the shadowed treeline, the Scion Order thundered forth—red cloaks blazing like fire against the snow, shields gleaming with hastily etched holy sigils gathered from shrines, chapels, and whispered rituals across a dozen provinces.
"Hold the line!" Arasha's voice rang, crisp and commanding.
She rode at the vanguard, blade already unsheathed, her aura like a blade of light cleaving darkness.
The undead faltered as the blessed steel of Scion blades met their brittle bone.
Where the sigils flared, the dark enchantments faltered; where the saints' ink had touched steel, rot turned to ash.
"Advance! Circle formation!" bellowed Sir Garran, already shoulder to shoulder with a stunned paladin, parrying a hex-bound revenant.
One by one, the dead fell.
Shrieking skull-beasts wreathed in ghostflame were banished by sanctified arrows. Unseen curses cast from lich-woven mist shattered against shields layered with holy oils. And in the eye of the storm—
The Lich, robed in memories and malice, levitated above the broken altar, skeletal fingers weaving dread glyphs midair.
Its mouth moved in a forgotten tongue as it hurled waves of withering curses, snapping bones, searing skin, corrupting air itself.
But the Scions had prepared.
They had tracked down a wandering saint weeks before, one known only as the "Silent Flame."
With her reluctant blessing, the Scions' blades now shone with quiet, seething judgment.
A Scion knight took the lead, crashing into the Lich's vanguard with righteous fury. Then another. And another.
As the Lich's power began to crack, the Holy Paladin of the Abbey, bloodied but unbowed, roared:
"FOR VIRELLE!"
With a single upward arc of his blessed greatsword, he cleaved the Lich through the chest—splitting corrupted cloth and bone with divine wrath.
The Lich shrieked—a sound that froze hearts—but even as its body crumbled, its soul, glowing green and black, slithered toward the altar.
Toward a boy.
Alvin, a young priest with trembling hands and pure intent, had reached to grasp a shattered relic. He gasped as the Lich's soul shot into him, eyes going wide—
—but Arasha moved like a storm.
She cast no spell, spoke no incantation. Her blade lit with the final sigil they had etched only an hour before, a sigil drawn from the original Gospel of Saint Virelle itself.
She plunged her sword straight into the soul's path.
There was no explosion—only a pulse, as if the earth exhaled.
The Lich was unmade, its essence annihilated by faith, steel, and a young commander's relentless will.
Alvin collapsed backward, unharmed but gasping.
Arasha stepped back, her eyes cool, surveying the remnants of the battlefield. "Status," she called out.
"We've secured the grounds," Garran confirmed, breath heavy. "No more reanimation. Holy seals are holding."
Arasha nodded once, sheathing her blade. Then she turned to Alvin.
"Thank you… for saving me," Alvin managed, his voice shaking, cheeks red from exhaustion and something else.
Arasha only nodded. "Tend to the wounded. Let the Abbey grieve."
She turned away, rallying her knights with a crisp gesture. "Spread out. Assist where needed."
Behind her, Alvin stared, cheeks flushed, dumbfounded by the girl who had saved him.
The Holy Paladin, towering and amused, clapped a hand on Alvin's shoulder.
"Well, my boy," he grinned, "you've just met your first war maiden, and you're smitten already, eh?"
Alvin blushed deeper.
The Abbey was cleansed. Light returned, flickering through the remaining glass above.
And Arasha, ever onward, walked across the shattered sanctum—toward the next shadow waiting to be struck down.
****
The Abbey of Saint Virelle, once filled with the groans of dying men and the clatter of blades, now pulsed with a gentle quietude.
The scent of incense had returned to its halls, mingling with the sharp tinge of herbal salves and the faint aroma of barley porridge wafting from the kitchens.
Though the scars of battle still marred its walls, peace had reclaimed its domain.
For the next seven days, the Scion Order remained within its sanctified grounds.
With Arasha's approval, the holy brothers and sisters of the Abbey offered them rest, food, and medical aid without hesitation.
The knights—usually stoic and reserved—accepted the kindness with quiet gratitude.
Arasha made certain each of her knights received the attention they needed.
She personally walked among the wounded, inspecting each wrapped arm, stitched gash, and bruised rib.
She shared small, rare smiles and asked after their dreams.
She reviewed the defensive perimeters with Garran twice daily, and despite the respite, never once let her guard fall in front of them.
But when the sun had dipped behind the high abbey walls, painting the sky in the colors of blood and honey, she finally allowed herself to ask—
"May I have a room?" she murmured to a nun adjusting votive candles near the hall.
The sister blinked up at her, momentarily startled, then smiled kindly. "Of course, Commander. It may be small, but it's clean and quiet."
"That's more than enough," Arasha replied softly.
The nun led her down a stone corridor veined with ivy and humming with evening prayer.
At its end was a small door, the wood slightly worn. Inside was a cot, a washbasin, and a narrow arched window. Nothing else.
Arasha bowed lightly to the nun. "Thank you."
Once the door shut behind her and the steps of the sister had faded, Arasha's composure broke.
She sank to her knees, her sword sliding softly to the floor beside her.
Her breath trembled. Both hands rose to cover her face.
"All alive…" she whispered, voice shaking. "All of them… They're all alive…"
Tears did not fall—but only just.
Her shoulders trembled once, then again, and she tilted her face upward, as if looking through the ceiling, beyond the stone, into the sky above.
"You're doing fine," she said aloud to herself. "You've done well. It's… fine."
But her voice cracked.
She took one long, slow breath. Then another. The quiet of the room was thick, holding her fragility like a mother might cradle a child.
Unbeknownst to her—
A shadow had paused outside her window.
Alvin, robes slightly too large for his growing frame, had been making his way through the hallway with a tray of folded cloth and prayer beads when he'd heard her voice—soft, almost broken, not like the girl who led soldiers.
He had not meant to eavesdrop. But her words rooted him in place.
"All alive…"
He clutched the tray tighter, until the wooden edge dug into his fingers.
His heart thundered with something he didn't yet understand—but it burned warm and heavy.
She had seemed so unwavering. So sure. So composed.
But here she was—tired. Human. Alone.
And still, she carried all of them forward.
His gaze dropped to the holy scripts tucked beneath his robes. Words of duty. Sacrifice. Love in silence and steel.
He pressed the cloth and wood to his chest.
"I'll grow stronger," he whispered. "I'll be someone worthy to walk beside her…"
Resolve etched itself in his bones.
Alvin would become a Paladin.
Not for fame.
Not for rank.
But because he had glimpsed the weight that Arasha bore—and he would help carry it.
Even if she never asked.
Even if she never looked back to see him there.
The vow echoed within him, quiet and absolute.