The wind that swept across Gravenreach's frozen expanse carried the scent of pine and old frost, dry and sharp as shattered glass. Beneath the gray weight of a sunless sky, Caelan stood cloaked and still, his breath curling in pale wisps above the snow. The appointed hour had come.
A distant figure appeared on the ridgeline—hooded, riding a stag-drawn sledge that creaked faintly as it descended the slope. The trader was punctual, as always.
She dismounted before him with practiced ease, her furs dusted with frost. The same woman he had once bartered with for mundane tools and sparse winter supplies now stood before him with a quiet respect in her narrowed eyes.
"Baron Caelan," she said.
Caelan inclined his head. "You received the list?"
"I did. A thousand wolf-folk of Moon Tribe blood, and one hundred dark elves both from Kyrrhyn. You do not ask for simple stock." Her voice was measured, but not surprised.
"No," he said, with a faint smile. "This isn't about a village. It's about the idea that outlives me."
The trader lifted an eyebrow. "It will take time. The Moon Tribe is fragmented since the great purge, and dark elves will not leave Kyrrhyn without bloodshed. Even if acquired, passing through Vladaran will invite scrutiny. Border tariffs. Royal inspectors. Slave-mark reports."
"I expected that," Caelan said. He unfolded a map from inside his cloak, leather-padded and stiff from cold. He pointed to the ragged edge where Vladaran's northern coast met Gravenreach's southern border—a coast where cliffs collapsed into broken ice shelves and the sea froze half the year. "Bring them across the frozen shore. No roads. No tolls. No witnesses."
The trader frowned. "That crossing kills men in a good year."
"Then don't send men," Caelan said softly. "Send slaves built for the cold."
She studied him for a long moment. "And payment?"
"When the shipment arrives," Caelan said. "In full. In Gravenreach."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant groan of shifting ice.
Finally, the trader nodded. "Very well. But no coin, no leash. If even one link breaks, I'll sell them elsewhere."
"You won't," Caelan said, already turning. "You'll be paid more than what they're worth."
She didn't argue. She knew he meant it. And more importantly, that he could deliver.
—
The days that followed were slow.
Winter bit deeper into the bones of Gravenreach. Snowfall thickened. The sky seemed to press lower, and the wind began to howl through the dead towers again, like old voices remembering old blood.
Two days passed.
And no one came.
Caelan's notice had gone up across the outer villages, even Velmire—a public commission to hunt and trap the magical beasts prowling the Blackpine Forest that loomed at the northern edge. A call to arms disguised as civic defense. Payment promised. Prestige assured.
Yet not a single soul stepped forward.
He stood now at the gates of the old keep, cloak fastened and gloves laced, watching the horizon with narrowed eyes. Behind him, the boy who had delivered the summons fidgeted, uncertain.
Caelan said nothing. He simply stepped forward and descended the stone path alone.
—
The forest greeted him with silence.
Not peace. Not serenity. But that particular tension that clung to places forgotten by the light. The snow here lay deeper, muffling sound, and every branch wore white like the bones of giants.
Caelan trudged slowly, breath controlled, his mana low but awake beneath the skin. His senses sharpened. The Gravemaw affinity had not dulled with sleep. It whispered to him constantly now—in how pressure shifted, how his weight felt different on different ground, how the snow compressed not just beneath his boots but around him in subtle gradients.
He was becoming aware of mass like others felt heat.
A broken track appeared ahead—scattered clawmarks and a twisted trail through brush. He crouched, fingers brushing the indent. Weight distribution: three legs. Ungulate? No, too narrow. Too heavy.
Mana-borne.
He followed.
Minutes passed. Then a sudden stillness—too complete.
He inhaled.
"Down," he whispered.
Gravity shifted. A narrow field around him compressed. The snow around his feet collapsed into itself, compacted in an instant. And with that shift—something moved.
A blur to the left.
It lunged from the branches—a chimeric beast, black-maned and tusked, all muscle and frenzied eyes.
Caelan extended a hand, blood rushing through his arm.
"Fall."
The creature crashed mid-air— down into the snow as if yanked by invisible chains. It hit with a sickening crunch, flailing in confusion as its own weight betrayed it. Bones snapped. Ice cracked.
Caelan stepped forward, breath ragged, eyes burning with cold purpose.
His body was shaking.
Not from fear.
But from cost.
Each exertion drained him—not just energy, but substance. He could feel the calories evaporating, the core of his strength siphoned by unnatural demands. He could only use so much before it began taking more than it should.
He crouched beside the dying beast and watched its breath fog and fade.
The forest had not yet accepted him.
But it would.
—
That evening, far south in the snowy heart of Velmire, a small hearth flickered in an otherwise empty parlor. Mirelle stood alone before a table, a polished communication crystal clutched in her hands. Its glow pulsed—soft, then stronger—as the connection formed.
A voice, distorted but distinct, echoed from within.
"He's left the keep?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Into the forest. Alone."
There was a pause.
"Orders?"
The voice replied with a low finality.
"Begin the night he returns."
Mirelle closed her eyes.
The glow faded.
She turned to the window. Snow fell outside, soft and slow.
And her voice was colder than the frost.
"So be it."
—
Far from both snow and forest, in a richly adorned drawing room overlooking the capital's inner lake, a woman with golden hair sat before a tall arched window. Her gown shimmered in the firelight, gold-threaded and too fine for function. Her eyes, the color of molten brass, watched snow fall beyond the glass with a quiet calculation.
A servant entered and knelt swiftly.
"My lady. The message from Velmire has been confirmed. He is outside Gravenreach."
The woman didn't smile, but her eyes narrowed slightly, pleased.
"Send word to Baron Braedon. Tell him to prepare for the second clause."
The servant hesitated. "Shall I deliver it under royal seal?"
"No,"she said. "Use the seal of House Solmere. The empire doesn't move yet—but we will."
"As you command."
She turned back to the window, the reflection of flame flickering in her gaze.
"Let the cold break him. Let it remind him how hated he truly is. When the fire comes, it will burn everything he holds dear."