The storm hadn't come yet, but the skies over Caer Elenthra were swollen with it.
Snow drifted down in brittle flakes, whispering across the battlements and piling in the corners of the abandoned garden below. Where once roses bloomed, frost now crept, curling around dead stems like veins of ice. The fountains had frozen over. Even the birds had fled.
Only the soldiers remained—figures of iron and silence, posted like statues along the walkways.
From the tall arched window of her chamber, Princess Elyra watched them. She had been standing there for hours, unmoving, her hands gripping the sill as if she could hold back time through sheer will. The horizon was blurred now—gray bleeding into gray. She had always hated the snow.
Behind her, the door opened.
She didn't turn. She didn't need to.
"We didn't want it to be like this," said a voice—her father's. King Meltas was a man carved from stone, but even stone cracks. His voice was worn at the edges, quiet in a way that made it worse.
"You say that," Elyra murmured, "but here we are."
The echo of footsteps crossed the chamber. Her mother, Queen Lysenne, stood a few paces behind, her silken robes layered with a shawl she hadn't bothered to clasp properly. The wind from the hallway tugged it slightly, and Elyra could see her mother's hand trembling.
"There's a convoy," the queen said gently. "It's waiting in the lower city. They'll leave before nightfall."
Elyra finally turned. "I'm not going."
Meltas's eyes did not flinch. "Yes, you are."
"You're sending me away like some... some pawn in exile."
"We're sending you away because we love you," Lysenne said, her voice breaking. "Because if you stay, you die. And no throne, no banner, no legacy is worth your life."
"I'm not a child," Elyra spat. "I know what's happening. You think I haven't heard the names Eisenreich whispers to the east? I've read the reports. They're not coming to parley, they're coming to burn."
"Which is why you must go." Meltas crossed his arms. "The King of Anhar has agreed to house you in Taronhall. Their walls are high and their alliances deeper than ours. You'll be safe there."
"Safe?" Elyra laughed bitterly. "Locked away behind strangers and stone, while everything I've ever known is devoured by fire and steel? I don't want safety. I want to fight."
"You are not a soldier," Metlas said.
"But I am not a coward either," she said.
Silence clamped down again, heavy and slow. Somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled—distant and hollow. Not the bells of ceremony, but the bells of retreat. She recognized the sound now. She had heard it too often.
There was a knock on the door.
A steward entered, his head bowed low. In his arms, he carried a single chest—her travel case, stitched with gold thread and the emblem of her house. It looked far too small to carry a life.
"The hour draws near, Your Highness," he said, voice tight. "The horses are ready."
Elyra didn't move.
Meltas stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. It was heavier than she remembered. "You don't have to forgive us for this," he said. "But one day, you will understand why."
Elyra met his eyes. "I already do," she said. "You're trying to protect the last thing you still can."
The words hurt more than she expected. Because they were true.
She turned without another word and walked across the room, her boots echoing against the cold stone. Her mother reached for her hand, but Elyra pulled gently away, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.
"I'll go," she said at last. "But not with smiles."
"No one asked you to," her father replied.
She paused at the door.
"…Will you be alright?" she asked quietly. "When they come?"
"We'll hold as long as we can," Meltas said. "And if we fall—"
"We'll fall standing," her mother finished.
Elyra nodded. Then left.
Snow fell in whispers, clinging to the branches of pine like dust on forgotten statues. The forest path twisted ahead, half-buried beneath pale silence.
The royal carriage moved with cautious grace, its lacquered panels catching slivers of light between the branches. Gold leaf chipped beneath the cold.
Ten riders flanked it, swords sheathed but hands never far. Their armour bore the crest of House Virelle — a white fox against crimson.
Inside, Princess Elyra sat rigid, wrapped in furs she despised, her gaze pinned to the shifting trees beyond the glass. Her breath clouded the window. She didn't wipe it away.
Seated beside her, her royal guard sat with quiet vigilance, clad in steel-grey plate tarnished at the joints and scorched along the greaves.
Her armour gleamed like forged steel, the crest of a fox proudly embossed on her chest plate, her helmet resting on her side as she glanced at the princess, her gaze sharp, narrowed with concern.
"My lady," the knight said at last, voice quiet but composed, "you look… distressed. Is everything all right?"
Elyra didn't turn. She blinked slowly, as if her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
"Yes," she murmured. "Everything is perfectly fine.
The knight hesitated. "Forgive me, but you do not wear it well."
There was a pause.
Elyra sighed. "That's because I don't believe it."
Her voice was soft, but the words struck clean.
"I was told I would visit the summer estates. That I would study peacekeeping at Virelle. Now, I'm being sent to a kingdom I've never seen. And for what?" Her voice didn't rise, but it sharpened. "Because the war has finally reached our borders?"
The knight tilted her head, eyes searching Elyra's face. "Because the court believes you'll be safer there. Away from the fighting. From Eisenreich."
Elyra scoffed faintly. "You don't believe that either."
"I believe," the knight replied carefully, "that what we want and what we must do often stand at odds. But I do believe in the wisdom of protecting what matters."
"Does hiding me behind foreign walls count as wisdom?"
"No," the knight admitted. "But it is survival."
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the clatter of hooves and the creak of wood.
The escort moved steadily along the snow-choked trail—two lines of mounted guards in fur-lined armor, flanking the carriage with bows ready and shields strapped across their backs. The horses snorted in the cold, leaving clouds of breath behind them. At the rear, two covered carts carried provisions and spare weaponry. Snow continued to fall, softly, like the world was holding its breath.
Then -
A sudden, sharp whistle tore through the air.
It wasn't wind. It wasn't natural.
The knight's hand went to her sword instantly. "Down!" she barked.
KRA-KOOM.
The path ahead exploded in a spray of fire, ice, and twisted metal. The lead horses shrieked and reared—then vanished into the blast. One of the guards was flung sideways, his armour wrenched apart mid-air, crashing into the trees with a sickening snap.
The shockwave slammed against the carriage, rattling its frame. Elyra ducked instinctively, eyes wide.
"AMBUSH!" someone shouted—distant and panicked.
Then came the second blast.
BOOM.
The rear supply cart erupted behind them, a tower of flame clawing into the sky. Debris shot forward, hammering the trees and slicing into the escort ranks. A wheel spun loose and bounced past them, trailing smoke.
The knight unsheathed her sword, voice calm but firm: "Stay behind me."
"No," Elyra said, breath trembling. "What is happening?"
Her answer came before the knight could speak.
BOOM.
The ground buckled.
A third shell struck the path beside them, detonating in a spray of dirt and fire. The blast struck the side of the royal carriage, hurling it sideways. The wood screamed. Axles shattered. The entire frame twisted and buckled as it crashed onto its side, skidding through the snow before coming to a shuddering halt in a bed of broken branches.
Silence followed—but it was the wrong kind. The thick, humming silence of ears ringing, of lungs knocked empty.
Smoke poured through the shattered windows. Screams echoed distantly. Horses bolted. Metal clanged.
Inside the tipped carriage, the knight shielded Elyra with her body, one arm braced against the wall to keep them from being crushed. Snow poured in through the broken side, coating the floor like ash.
Elyra gasped, her lungs dragging in burned air, her hair tangled across her face.
Outside, another sound rose through the woods—mechanical, dreadful. Not galloping.
The forest had fallen silent, save for the soft crackle of scorched timber and the whimper of wind weaving through broken branches. Smoke curled from the shattered remains of the convoy, staining the snow in ghostly grey tendrils.
Then came the sound—heavy, deep, a rumble like distant thunder on iron tracks.
From the woodline, trees snapped, snow fell in thick clumps, and something massive rolled forth—slow, relentless, as if the world itself made way.
A war machine emerged from the pines.
Clad in dull, slate-grey steel, its turret creaked left to right, scanning for breath or movement. The long barrel jutted ahead like a silent accusation. Its armour bore the wear of harsh winters and harsher wars—scorched plates, welded patches—but on its flank, untouched and defiant, the black Iron Cross stood out clear.
This was no ordinary vehicle.
It was the reaper of convoys and men alike.
As it groaned to a halt, shapes began to appear from behind it—a wall of grey-cloaked soldiers emerging from the veil of exhaust and shadow. Rifles slung, formation perfect. Reiksoldaten.
They moved like phantoms—methodical, silent, precise. Not a word passed between them. They spread out through the wreckage, boots crunching soot-laced snow.
Then the hatch opened.
A hiss. A clang.
He stepped out.
Oberstleutnant John Reinhardt.
His boots struck the ground with weight and purpose. His long black coat billowed behind him, lapels sharp. His chest bore medals and steel, the gleam of the Iron Cross, but it was his face—his eyes—that froze the air around him.
Or rather, his eye.
His right eye was sharp, dark, and cold as obsidian.
His left... was hidden beneath a stark white bandage, wrapped tightly across the socket. It looked clean, deliberate—too deliberate. Most assumed a burn, a wound, some disfigurement earned in fire. But no one asked. No one dared.
Behind him, the tank exhaled steam like a beast fed by coal and vengeance.
A sergeant approached. "The convoy is finished. Some are still breathing, barely."
John's gaze didn't flinch. His voice was calm.
"End it."
The sergeant hesitated only briefly. "Jawohl, Oberstleutnant."
The order passed through the line in a breath.
Rifles were raised.
Cracks echoed between the trees. The wounded fell still. Then, a second round—each body confirmed. No risks. No survivors.
Smoke drifted in slow coils through the broken snow, blurring the wreckage into shadowy silhouettes. The world had gone quiet—too quiet—save for the low groan of twisted metal and the crunch of boots drawing nearer.
Behind a collapsed carriage, Elyra crouched, her breath held tight in her throat. Her hands trembled as she pressed herself against the cold timber, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape first.
Next to her, slumped against the wreckage, was her knight—her ever-watchful guardian.
Blood darkened the edges of her tarnished armor, but she still clung to her sword, jaw clenched, teeth red. The crest of the fox on her chestplate was cracked but defiant.
The knight didn't look at Elyra.
She didn't need to.
Instead, she whispered—soft, urgent, meant only for her.
"Run, my lady... go. Now."
Elyra's throat tightened. Her eyes widened, lips parting to protest—but the knight was already moving.
She staggered to her feet, sword drawn, and stepped into the open with shaky resolve. Her armor groaned with every movement, but she stood tall.
One soldier turned.
The knight lunged.
Steel flashed.
A shout.
Then—gunfire.
One, two, three cracks.
The knight jerked as the bullets struck her back and shoulder. Her sword fell with a dull clang as she crumpled into the snow, limbs slack, her body still.
Elyra covered her mouth, eyes wide.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She ran.
Boots sinking into the snow, she ducked behind the next tree, then another, then another, her cloak trailing behind like a shadow. She didn't look back. She couldn't.
One soldier stepped toward the corpse, kicking the sword away.
John turned slowly toward the forest line.
He said nothing. The wind pulled at his coat.
"Our business is done here," he turned to face the sergeant, his voice low but decisive "do what you see fit, sergeant. Loot them, burn them, we leave in 10 minutes."
The sergeant saluted crisply, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his field cap.
"Jawohl, Oberstleutnant."
John turned away, the faint crunch of boots behind him as the Reiksoldaten fanned out—methodical, silent. They moved through the ruined escort like vultures in uniform, checking bodies, overturning crates, stripping what was usable, torching what wasn't. Flames licked at the shattered carriages, smoke rising into the frost-bitten air.
John paused.
His right eye narrowed.
There—a shift in the treeline. Not movement, exactly, but disturbance. A shape too subtle for any animal, too intentional. He had walked battlefields long enough to hear what silence tried to hide.
A boot-print in the snow, not yet softened. Small. Light.
Not one of his.
He turned back toward the sergeant, who had just finished ordering a fireteam to torch the last wagon.
"Sergeant," John said, calm but firm, "we have one unaccounted for. Someone fled. Into the woods."
The sergeant stiffened.
"Track them," John said. "Bring back their body."
"Jawohl," the sergeant replied.
He motioned to four of his men—each armed, grim, and quick to obey. They slipped into the forest like wolves scenting blood, weapons raised, boots crunching through snow and ash.
John stood beside his tank, one gloved hand resting on the still-warm steel of the armor plating.
His expression didn't change. His bandaged left eye faced the forest, the pale cloth stained faintly with smoke and frost.
The wind picked up.
Snow began to fall again—slow, cold, and quiet.
And somewhere deep within the trees, the last survivor ran.
Alone.
Hunted.