The morning air bit at my cheeks as we rode out of Myzea, the city’s towering walls shrinking behind us with each passing mile. The chill of the Northern Empire was relentless, a sharp contrast to the sweltering heat of the Aserai desert.
I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders, the thick wool doing little to stave off the icy wind that swept across the open plains. For the first time in years, I found myself longing for the dry, scorching sands of the south. At least there, the sun was a constant companion, not this bitter, unyielding cold that seeped into your bones.
Our caravan moved steadily, the creak of wagon wheels and the rhythmic clop of hooves against the ground filling the air. The grain shipment we had taken on was a lucrative contract, one that would take us northeast to a castle recently ravaged by Sturgian raiders. The pay was good—good enough to justify the detour and the risk of venturing closer to Sturgian territory. Sora had argued that avoiding Syronea was worth the extra mile, and I agreed. The Hidden Hand’s reach was long, and I had no desire to test it again so soon.
The landscape around us was bleak but hauntingly beautiful. Dusted fields stretched endlessly, broken only by the occasional copse of skeletal trees or the faint outline of a distant farmstead. The sky was a pale grey, heavy with the promise of snow. The scent of pine and frost clung to the air, and the silence of the wilderness was broken only by the occasional cry of a distant bird or the rustle of wind through the trees. It was a land of stark contrasts—peaceful yet unforgiving, serene yet fraught with danger.
As we travelled, I struck up a conversation with the man assigned to oversee the grain shipment. His name was Gregor, a grizzled veteran with a thick beard and a voice like gravel. He had been working these supply routes for years and knew the struggles of the Northern Empire better than most.
“The Sturgians hit us hard,” Gregor said, his breath visible in the cold air. “Burned half the villages along the northern coast. Took everything they could carry and left the rest in ashes. The senate’s been scrambling to allocate funds for rebuilding, but it’s never enough.”
I nodded, my gaze fixed on the horizon. “Where do the funds come from? Taxes?”
Gregor let out a bitter laugh. “Taxes, donations—though good luck finding anyone willing to part with their coin these days. The Northern Empire is not like the others. We don’t have the wealth of the Southern Empire or the military might of the Western Empire. We’re just trying to survive.”
His words painted a grim picture. The Northern Empire was a fragile state, caught between the ambitions of its neighbours and the constant threat of invasion. The peace agreements with the Southern and Western Empires had bought some respite, but they came at a cost—an annual ransom that drained the empire’s already limited resources. And yet, despite its vulnerabilities, the Northern Empire endured, relying on its militia of part-time farmers and warriors to defend its borders.
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“Why not raise a standing army?” I asked, curious. “It would make defending against the Sturgians easier.”
Gregor shook his head. “Too expensive. The Senate prefers to keep costs low. Besides, the militia’s done well enough so far. They know the land, and they fight like hell to protect their homes.”
As the hours turned into days, Gregor shared more about the empire’s struggles—the Khuzait skirmishes in the east, the Battanian raids in the west, and the constant threat of Sturgian incursions. The war between the Battanians and the Western Empire had, at least, secured the Western front for now, but it was a fragile peace. The Northern Empire was a land under siege, and its people were resilient but weary.
We reached the castle after travelling for one more day, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. The fortress loomed ahead, its stone walls scarred by recent battles. The gates creaked open as we approached, and a group of soldiers emerged to greet us. Their faces were grim, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. It was clear that the Sturgian raids had taken their toll.
We unloaded the grain in silence. As I watched the soldiers carry the sacks into the castle. I thought to myself This was a land on the brink, its people clinging to survival in the face of overwhelming odds. And yet, there was a quiet strength here, a determination to endure no matter the cost perhaps it was because they believed in this form of government where they felt they had the powers although it wasn’t the case.
That night, as we camped outside the castle walls, Sora joined me by the fire in the camp, her sharp eyes scanning the darkness beyond the camp. “What’s on your mind?” she asked, her voice soft but probing.
“Just thinking about the road ahead,” I replied, staring into the flames. “We will be moving through the lands of Khuzait and I have heard Eleftheroi doesn’t like them that much”
Sora pointed “So you are worried about Ruslan? I think he can cope with that I don’t think anyone can” As she was about to complete her sentence we saw Nathanos at the entrance of the camp with a sense of urgency.
I asked what had happened, and he told me that the castle’s commander was requesting my presence—it was urgent. Without hesitation, I threw on my jacket and made my way into the castle, Nathanos following close behind. The air inside was heavy with the scent of burning torches and the faint tang of iron, a reminder of the fortress’s martial purpose.
We were greeted by Lord Nicasor, the commander of the fortress, a man whose stern demeanour was matched only by the sharpness of his eyes. He wasted no time in explaining the situation. “We have both an opportunity and a problem,” he began, his voice low and measured.
He went on to detail how their patrols had been sent to assess the damage in nearby villages, intending to determine when the displaced peasants could safely return to their homes. However, during their reconnaissance, the patrols had stumbled upon a Sturgian raiding party. This was unexpected—the Sturgians were believed to have already withdrawn from the region.
“It’s likely a small group that was left behind,” Lord Nicasor speculated. “Perhaps they were separated from the main force during their plundering of the coastal areas. Maybe they lost their ships or were abandoned by their comrades. But that’s not all.”
His expression darkened as he delivered the next piece of news. The scouting party had spotted the banners of the Isyaroving clan, a clear indication that this was no ordinary raiding party. It was Fafen’s group—Fafen, the Lord of Sibir.