Borderlands of the Nascent Duchy.
Draped in rugged beast pelts, Augustus stood atop a hill on the open plains, his eyes scanning the towering walls in the distance.
Though the flurry of snow and drifting wind veiled the outlines of the fortress, as the Grand General of the Nascent Duchy, he knew that wall intimately.
It marked the frontier of the Macedonian Kingdom, the agricultural neighbor of the Nascent Duchy—and one of the primary targets for the army of one hundred thousand soldiers standing behind him.
This year, winter had descended with a vengeance. The cold was cruel, the wind sharper than ever.
For the Duchy—a nomadic nation surviving on the move—surviving such a harsh winter would not be easy. In truth, they had but one path to survival.
They had to strike.
Strike the Macedonian Kingdom.
Strike swiftly and without mercy.
They would seize food and resources from their sedentary neighbor. It was the only way to make it through this deadly season.
And the hundred thousand warriors behind Augustus—grim, silent, and hungry—were the Duchy's only hope.
The hope of millions now rested upon their shoulders.
If they failed to capture enough grain and supplies, if this raid fell short, there would be no surviving the cold. No warmth. No life.
They had no choice.
They waited only for the moment the Macedonian Kingdom would descend into their end-of-year revelries.
Then they would strike—like wolves in the dark.
At that moment, a muffled clap of thunder echoed across the sky, tearing through the darkness like a crack in the firmament.
The silhouette of Augustus stood unmoved beneath the flash, and behind him, an ocean of cavalry loomed like a black tide, surging with silent menace.
Their eyes glinted with a feral green light—like wolves that had caught the scent of blood.
Each man clutched a curved blade as if it had grown into the flesh of their palm.
The atmosphere thickened with the cold, invisible tension of impending slaughter.
Macedonian Kingdom.
King Arnaud IV sat upon his golden throne, hosting a grand banquet for his ministers and nobles.
Below him, seated in ornate robes and glittering jewelry, were the many princes of the realm, gathered from across the kingdom. Their faces brimmed with laughter and cheer, the warm glow of festival lights flickering across their jubilant expressions.
But farther down the line, where the seats of court ministers lay, the mood was less celebratory. The kingdom's key officials wore smiles tinged with unease, their eyes frequently drifting—some openly, others furtively—toward the Third Prince.
Since the day he had returned to the capital, the Third Prince had become the subject of much whispered loyalty. Courtiers and generals alike sent him tributes—some in secret, some overt.
After all, he held military command. He wielded great prestige across the kingdom. Many considered him the most suitable successor to the throne.
And every noble with even the faintest hope of influence wanted to be part of that future.
In this atmosphere, heavy with anticipation and silent calculations, no one noticed the expression of the Fifth Prince.
Seated several spots down from the Third Prince, his face remained indifferent, unmoved by the celebrations.
His eyes were fixed on his brother, cold and unreadable.
The Third Prince stood tall now. But had he forgotten?
The higher one climbs, the colder the air becomes.
And once the fall begins, it is swift—and merciless.
The Third Prince commanded the northern border forces—his reputation built on years of fending off raids from the Nascent Duchy. His legacy and power were rooted in the defense of that border.
But if the fortress fell…
If the border broke…
Then all his prestige, all the glory he had amassed, would crumble to dust.
And the Fifth Prince… could already see the flames, the ruins, the corpses.
At that moment…
Northern Frontier — Evaheim Fortress
Snowflakes continued to swirl relentlessly from the sky. The land, from horizon to horizon, was shrouded in a blinding white. The wind bit through flesh and armor alike.
"Damn this weather—it just keeps getting colder!"
A sentry on the walls hunched over, his body trembling. He blew warm breath onto his frostbitten hands, stomping his feet in place to fight off the creeping numbness. But the cold seeped into every crevice—relentless, inescapable. Even the breath he held between his palms turned to biting ice in seconds.
"Here, have a swig of rum. It'll warm your bones."
His companion pulled out a leather flask from his coat, offering it with a grin.
"We're not supposed to bring alcohol on duty," the sentry muttered, but his eyes lit up anyway. He grabbed the flask, popped the cork, and tilted it back without hesitation.
The liquor hit his throat like fire, spreading warmth through his chest and limbs. His frozen core began to thaw, if only slightly.
"Now that's the good stuff," he murmured, eyes narrowing with delight.
But just as the words left his lips—whizz!
A sharp hiss cut through the air.
His eyes widened. He barely had time to gasp before an arrow tore through his throat, shattering bone and ripping through flesh. Blood burst in a violent spray as he collapsed with a dull thud.
The soldier who had offered the rum had no time to react. His face twisted—not in grief, but in shock—as he opened his mouth to shout:
"Attack! We're under atta—"
Another arrow flew, piercing straight through his brow. The warm rum he had shared now mingled with his blood as he too dropped to the ground.
And with his final cry, chaos erupted atop the walls.
Alarm bells clanged. Footsteps thundered. Shouts echoed from tower to tower as soldiers scrambled to their posts.
They turned their gazes to the horizon, squinting past the swirling snow and faint moonlight.
There—along the edge of the sky—they saw it.
A vast, black tide rolling across the land.
The sound of hooves shook the earth. The wind carried the scent of blood.
The Nascent Duchy had come.
One glance was all it took. They knew that cavalry—knew it too well.
"But they always attack in autumn or spring," one soldier cried. "Why in the dead of winter?"
"No idea. We had an understanding, unspoken perhaps, but… this time, they've made their move without warning. It's too sudden!"
Panic surged through the defenders.
And worse still, most of the troops were gone.
When the Third Prince returned to the capital, he had taken much of the garrison with him—letting them reunite with family and rest during the festival season.
Now, only a third of the usual forces remained in Evaheim.
Facing down a surprise assault from over one hundred thousand enemy cavalry, they stood no chance.
Despair crept in.
The Nascent Duchy was known for its brutal, efficient raids.
Even with a full garrison, defending against such a force would have been a grueling task.
Now?
Now, it was nearly impossible.
But there was no time to falter. No time to tremble.
Officers snapped orders, their voices rising above the din.
Veteran soldiers rushed to their positions. Armor was strapped on in haste, bows drawn.
"Archers! FIRE!"
With a mighty roar, arrows darkened the sky—raining down like a black stormcloud upon the advancing enemy.
But just as the volley approached, mages within the Nascent army raised their staves and began to chant.
Whirlwinds howled across the battlefield.
Gusts of wind tore through the air, scattering the arrows like dried leaves. The deadly storm was diverted, rendered harmless.
Not even a dent in the enemy lines.
And then the earth itself moved.
Geographers among the Duchy's classed soldiers unfurled their maps, fingers dancing across symbols and runes.
Arcane tremors rippled outward, as if invisible giants had placed their hands upon the land.
The ground surged—rising and falling in waves.
New slopes rose like drawn bows, curving up toward the city walls, creating natural ramps of solid earth.
The cavalry charged.
Straight toward the fortress towers.
And so the siege began.