In the meadow of Sone, they said Arenia could never be taught.

In the bank of Himel, they said the throne would never be hers.

In the valleys of Montanya, they said Norsia could never be cleansed.

Now, they feared us naught.

Across the cold air of Mother Sileland, our prayers whispered, and our cries echoed.

I, Crown Lady Emilia Beortcild, led our Lady's host, driving these Norsian devils from holy Sileland. No more shall my folk cower from their heathenish raids and debauchery. Yet, with victuals dwindling, our host waned with hunger. Woe was us, for some knaves might rise, thirsting and fighting for a scrap of meat and a spoonful of honey. Our ranks of knights-errant have dwindled, their bodies laid to rest in a blood-soaked pit, a grim tribute of the fearsome might of those fiendish hordes.

Flaky dunes stretched beneath us on the west bank of the Montanyan, far from Sarne. Cold sand pelted our heads, and the Montanyan gurgled no more. Howling south winds threatened half my men, chilling them near yield. Still, others pressed north, seeking justice from the Silerreich and the folk of this northwestern shire. Mittel-Winter's first day gnawed at us. Fire offered no warmth, and thirst gnawed for furred scarves. Setting sights on elusive white bears, they sought pelts and meat—both craft supplies and a winter's feast.

Their words held no tremor of fear. They had pledged their all, a shield against our enemies, unwavering until their final gasp. Now, facing the hulking Norsians, they erupted in a torrent of taunts and battle cries. Fear, a chilling serpent, slithered towards them, but their resolve remained unbroken.

Unyielding, their spirits mirrored the cold steel of their blades. The Banekin’s laughter would soon choke, his minions sent packing one by one. We marched, resolute, bathed in Gidden's light. Though our prayers may echo in a song of blood, sweat, and tears, victory would be ours!

Our northward march, driven by righteous fury, brought us face-to-face with the chilling remnants of these wretched fiends. The frigid expanse of white dunes stretched before us, heavy breaths the only sound in the oppressive silence. No whispered curses nor pale moons could deter us. We had endured such hardship to burn their homes in retaliation, a flicker of the hell that scorched our own. Our fury would be a deafening roar in their ears, silencing forever their reign of terror.

With grim resolve, our wight ferdmen tightened their grip on blades and spears, forming an impenetrable wall as they charged forward. From behind, our skilled streelbearers unleashed a storm of arrows, piercing the ranks of those pitiful beings armed with crude axes and flimsy shields. Drycrafty mages wove a web of fire, engulfing the enemy. None who dared resist our wrath would escape.

“Should every mage in this rich not spend years fostering their bent, this day hast brought upon them no sickerness that such undertaking would be done at a braid,” laughed Sir Menac.

Their hulking forms were all they possessed, mere beasts compared to the fire of our minds. Hunger and thirst gnawed at my men, yet their spirits burned brighter. These fiends feasted on northern sheep, but for their own folk, they held only scorn. We fought for a cause, not for scraps.

"Onward, my gallant men!" exclaimed Sir Murda. "Show no leeth unto them, and free our folk from the depths of lither pit that once ensnared their souls."

"Pray, sire, is there aught deserving of our boon?" afrained one of his men.

“Fret not!” he berated. “Thou must be granted with a piece of lamb after we behold them no more, but a bloody stiff.”

Praise the Lady! These once-sinful men are now righteous warriors, guided by both strength and wisdom. No more the stain of my father's followers, those lichetters who defiled the enemy's wives and cast them aside like refuse.

Hours bled into one another as the Norsians braided their retreat. From the churning battlefield emerged our stalwart host, their battle cries echoing with victory. Our very presence instilled terror in the fiends' hearts. They knew the wrath born from lives unjustly taken would soon be theirs. With measured resolve, I raised my gleaming blade, a beacon of our unwavering purpose. I pointed it towards their flagging strength, beckoning them onward. Their retreat traced a path back to their wretched dens.

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Yet, a sudden sight upon the highlands snagged our gaze, fracturing our mighty host. My household mages, compelled by some unknown urge, chose to head there.

We crossed Lake Montanya, landing on the shores where those reeking fiends dwelled and held our hapless folk captive. The journey stretched for days, our food supplies dwindling. Yet, our men pushed on, the end drawing near. Scaling the highlands, we trod cautiously until a cliff granted us a commanding view. There, our mages stood firm at the edge, some raising our banners—a bright golden sun at its heart—letting its cloth dance in the icy wind. Our eyes feasted upon it.

Lady Drea, my sworn sister and keenest mind among them, approached and nodded. Her gaze seemed to thirst for a glimpse of our coming fate. Suddenly, a ball of fire streaked across the sky, a signal from our swift scouts and a herald of our vengeance. With a resolute flourish, I drew my sword and imbued it with fire, raising it high. The mages, in unison, began a powerful chant, weaving their magic in a quickened braid.

"May the Lady bless upon our dought and might, for we shall shend the very roots of their evil. Insanda,” I purred, praying to Gidden our worthwhile win, then cried amain. “Fire!!”

The mages finished their chant, a fiery star erupting from the peak and streaking towards the enemy's lowland home. It struck true, engulfing their abode in a blazing inferno. The sight feasted our eyes and ignited cheers. Twenty years of suffering and hardship were finally at an end.

Leading my host deeper into the wasted land, a grim scene unfolded. Their once-proud houses lay in smouldering ruins, devoured by the ravenous flames of war. Amidst the devastation, we encountered a household of survivors—a pitiful band of captives, ragged and gaunt, their bodies wracked with despair. Moved by their plight, I ordered my men to share our remaining vittles and prepared a nourishing soup to restore them. However, with winter's grip tightening, it seemed only wise to scavenge whatever edible stores remained among the ruins.

Sir Jegard, one of the veteran hartows who served at the time of my father’s wield, approached me on horseback and said, “I took a glance at some grave pits here, and by the heavens, they were gutted like a bloody butchered pig.”

“Worse… there was a muddle,” one of his underlings said, “a huge muddle of charred corpses laid from the riverbank to the grounds beneath the frosty cliffs.”

I clicked my tongue and anqueathed, “'How fiendish they were. Should they bir to be perished, their wives and children be taught with tidy worths and seemliness.”

“Well thought, Thy Highness… yet unmatched by the worst of the lichetters.”

“What dost thou mean by it?”

“Shouldst thou ever find such a man of worth doing evil whilst knowing they were as they are, beasts match no beyond them. Devil’s thingers, worshipers of evil who were deft at hiding upon their own shadows, I must say.”

“Oh… like those vile men?” I scoffed and chuckled. “Be burned and shamed before the eyes of sitheship, they were.”

“Burnings… before the eyes of sitheship,” he shared a scoff. “Truly a ‘thewfast’ act of faith.”

A sliver of scorn in his voice scraped at my ears, a nettling barb. Though grudgingly spoken, his words held truth. Yet, his ideals mirrored those of weak lords, blind to the bottomless pit of evil that festered in our enemies' hearts. They believed an ancient act of atonement could cleanse a greater wickedness, ignoring the truth that our cruellest winters would have no qualms about slaughtering innocent men, women, and children... or even twisting them into playthings for their own gruesome pleasure.

“Well, what can we do with these women and children of Norsia, Thy Highness?” asked Sir Jegard.

"Yield them to hather, yet with gentle care," I anqueathed. "Let us not sow the seeds of their trey, lest they turn withermood like a pack of fiendish hounds. Be wiser to nourish them with wholesome and tender fare blive. Should they seek grith, stretch to them the boons that might remould them into proper folk of the motherland."

“As Thou bid.”

Having driven them out, we seized their crops and livestock, then set sail for our homeland. There, we offered the wives and children the Lady's blessings and guidance, ensuring the torment no longer shadowed their spirits. Holy beacons were kindled within them, to be cherished and upheld, so they would never again fall prey to the savagery that festered only in Northerners' hearts.

Alas, a band among them still clung to their fiendish ways. They craved nothing but a chance to emulate their fathers' brutality, who had once yoked our southern folk. Though a flicker of reason sparked in their minds, it always led to the same grim outcome—savagery and thievery. It sickened me.

How true are they to these ways? I pondered, my hand tightening on my blade's hilt, ready to quell their treachery.