Beside him, the prince watched the last of the winter snakes writhing on the ground struggling to swallow its own tail. 

The winding serpent struggled to devour itself in the cold morning light. Twisting and flailing about, hopelessly unaware of the impossibility of its task. The prince watched from his furs, his back turned to his sleeping comrades, and his horse looming in an eternal sleeplessness several feet away from their camp.

“Me too, little snake,” the prince whispered under his breath that plumed from his chapped lips as little clouds. 

The avian prince rolled over onto his back, into the bed of feathers his wings provided beneath him.  He let out a soft sigh, lifting the frost-covered blanket from his body, sitting up from the hard earth beneath him- an audible crack of his spine made him shiver.

“Good sleep,” he said flatly. The prince made it to his feet, looking down at the two sleeping bodies near him. “Bryn, Shu, get up- we overslept. We’ll have to cut through the Overgrown to make it to Regis at this point.”

The larger of the two stirred, and flopped onto his back, another crack echoed in the forest and a groan escaped the man’s chapped lips; “Oh, I’m ‘unna feel that when I sit up.”

The smaller pulled his blanket over his head, “It’s going to be so damn cold outside this blanket.” He mumbled quietly, “Just, leave me here mi’lord.”

The prince sighed, “Come on. I need you both when we cross the border.” 

The larger sat up, and grumbled while pulling his coat on. He stood on sturdy legs, and zipping his trousers, he chuckled, “Yep, c’mon Shufen,” he lifted the smaller man over his shoulder, “The little prince needs his dads to sign his permission slip.” Shufen, the smaller of the two, groaned as Brynjar tossed him over the back of a small speckled horse. 

The prince had already climbed atop his onyx shire, stating, “Hurry up, we have about three hours worth of riding to catch up on, we should’ve been halfway to Hawksbridge by now.”

“Would be nice to get my coat,” grumbled Shufen, who, in turn, was buried under said coat.

“Take it princess,” Bryn followed behind the prince on the back of his horse, to which Shufen scrambled into his coat and followed Brynjar in a trot.

The small band of warriors made headway through the southern provinces of Tor, towards the northern border of Elnir in the fleeting end of winter. The roads, often dirt or long since dilapidated tar, twist and wound like the winding bodies of serpents, periodically with lengthy stretches. At times old ruins passed the posse. There were often tall light green signs in the Overgrown- that now, in winter, had frosted over, under thick opaque ice crystals. On them were written directions to ancient ruins of the Past- once great, now decrepit.

Brynjar, a powerful Lorkan man, had a great disdain for the prickling pain in his ears forced by the hissing cold. It was the kind of relentless snowfall that plunged tiny daggers of hail into his once neatly trimmed beard. Beneath the feet of the posse, the crunching of snow and sludge under the hooves of their horses was drowned out by the bolster of song between the traveling men. The prince, Sousuke of Tor, found himself leading the jaunt.

In a brilliantly optimistic tone danced the lyrics to an old Torian drinking song, “Oh say, all the ladies are divine in Jou, their soft ruffled feathers, and their busts- I know! I think I’m enamored by their sweetened kiss- Oh, how my mother would be pissed,” Bellowed Tor with a warm smile across his handsome face.

Brynjar roared in his grumbling voice, “Oh say, all the ladies are divine in Tor, the flutter of their lashes and their words- oh lords! I think I’m enamored by their pretty hips- Oh, how my mother would be pissed!”

Rather contrary to his usual self, Shufen swayed with a quiet tandem, listening to the other two sing; upon the third stanza, Brynjar’s horse trotted to the side of Shufen, and the wolf’s playful nudge pushed against the small man’s shoulder.

“C’mon Shu, I see yer havin’ a good time,” Brynjar said blatantly, with a charismatic smile and a playful and convincing set of furrowed brows, “Those Elniran men and women are gonna wanna see your cute smiling face, you know! You’re a diplomat, not a tactician on this trip!”

Shufen was a more petit-built man with frail arms and a thin face. His expression, however, typically lingered with a disinterest that made most men fear him. His eyes always held a rather distant look to them; the boy never made eye contact; if he ever did, it was out of anger, and those eyes of his held a curtness colder than the northernmost ocean. Shufen was a strategist like no other. His long wisping black hair danced at each clop of a hoof, and his eyes stared ahead seemingly with absence, as they often appeared. Even with the slight smile pursed across his lips and the small flush in his pale cheeks, most that hadn’t known him would have assumed he was irritated, at best.

“It’s cold,” Shufen declared with a soft sigh, sinking his neck deeper into the collar of his jacket and scarf.

“M’ tends to be, durin’ the win’er.” Brynjar said in his playful curtness.

Brynjar was the opposite of Shufen, a large Lorkan male with a rather loud and cocky attitude. His dark brown, silver-sprinkled hair curled loosely upon his head, clearly combed delicately into place each morning. His eyes were a shock of gold that glittered in the light, like rich amber when held up to the evening sun.

“Curt, Bryn,” Tor said playfully, in his warm yet somehow dominating voice. Tor was unlike the duet behind him; he took point on the back of a mighty shire who boasted a pelt blacker than night. 

Tor was no more than a shadow, a prince with wings dark as an eclipsed eve, hair like coal, and a stark black Torian general’s uniform decorated in silver metals. The only breath of color in his body was the warm tan to his skin, the deep ocean blue accents on his uniform, and the stark violet in his eyes that seemed to burn with an almost ethereal fire. His officer’s hat had been pulled over his onyx locks, and the soft leather ear covers that often rest within the cap had been pulled down over his ears. The smaller Friesians kept a slow tempo with the great shire. 

“Have you heard of the Ululo?” The prince suddenly asked the duo behind him. They responded in silence, as they often did when the prince asked them random questions. Tor sighed, recalling the duet had never quite been the brightest, “The frozen woman.”

Brynjar scoffed, as if he had been aware of the word “Ululo,” and rocked back in his saddle, “The wench that haunts the snow? ‘Course. It’s an old maid’s tale. My littermates feared ‘er like wolfsbane.”

“Do you not believe the stories, Brynjar?” Asked the prince with a raised brow and a smirk, to which the Lorkan retorted in a sharp curtness, “Not ‘n ounce.” 

The prince let out a soft chuckle, “Not ‘n ounce,” he echoed quietly.

Shufen interjected in a gentle and  subdued tone, “I don’t believe in the woman, but the phenomenon- that, I fret, milord.” Shufen’s eyes broke their focus as he turned to stare through Brynjar’s soul. “The screeching howl of the wind that is her voice, the hot kiss of her lips that sends your body ablaze while she pulls your life from your form- I think that it makes dying in the snow seem less lonely.” Shufen’s gaze shifted southward, “Being devoured by a beautiful maiden, rather than the icy wasteland- A tale that makes dying men forget the even more terrifying truth.”

Brynjar let out a groan as he gripped his reins tighter in his hands; the Friesian let out a huff as it began to trot beside the onyx steed. “Sir, permission to not be bummed out,” he’d started, only to lose wind at his prince’s sudden halt. Brynjar shook at Tor’s expression. Brynjar’s golden eyes peered into the amethyst gemstones that sat cold and stern in Tor’s gaze, straight ahead.

“There’s something wrong,” the prince said quietly.

The forest was motionless. The trio was motionless. 

Then, the sound of shrieking.

The prince pressed the heel of his boot stiffly into the shire’s side and whipped his reins; in turn, the great beast reared and let out a growling neigh, unlike any horse neither Brynjar nor Shufen had ever heard. The horse fell back to the earth like a violent whiplash, its hooves greeting the ground like the claws of a greater beast, in the neck and head curling down and its gaze forward, brutal and predatory, unlike any horse before it. The shire’s shadow twisted in an impossible way as if it were sucking the shadows of the trees and other horses into it before soaring off with the beast. For a moment, Brynar swore he’d seen a cold violet glow in its mouth and nose, but in a blink of reality, they vanished.

With a wave of his strong left arm, “Shufen!” Brynjar called, before storming after the prince’s whirlwind shire. The Friesians galloped after the monster. Tor had pulled his wings tight against his back, and his chest pressed low against the duet of horns upon his saddle. Brynjar’s Friesian overtook the beast with incredible difficulty. The lorkan, with great ferocity, called to his prince, “Back, milord, we can’t risk you getting killed.” Tor, jumping at Brynjar’s words, suddenly tensed the reins. The shire pulled to a screeching halt, rearing back at the sudden movement.

The prince’s brows furrowed, but he’d followed the Lorkan’s orders. The horse whined, and the ground beneath its powerful hooves dug up, a deep brown soil ripped from the earth over the crusted inner-woodland snow. The lorkan, with great precision, had the smaller horse step to the side. 

The Friesian blocked the shire’s path, to which the prince’s stern gaze shot daggers before he recomposed and sighed, “You’re right. Dismount. We’re going on foot.”

The prince hopped off his shire and rested his palm on his armored stallion with a soft, “Remain, unless I call.” The loyal steed snorted and drew its head up in what could mistakenly be seen as a nod. Brynjar and Shufen stepped down from their Friesians and onto the forest floor. 

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The frost of the fallen leaves cracked and crumbled beneath their feet. The ground was hard from the winter cold. 

“Is this really the time to interfere, my lord?” Shufen timidly inquired while he readjusted his saddle. Brynjar motioned Shufen to silence, but Tor responded anyway.

“It’s unwise to let a potentially international crime go uninvestigated,” the prince retorted flatly, “I’m taking point.” He stated, walking towards the cry and deeper into the forest.

The duet was silenced in response to the prince’s sternness but followed behind loyally. The frosted forest floor crunched underfoot, and the silence became suffocating. The prince walked confidently, and the duo behind him quaked in paranoia. The prince balled his fist in the air beside his head, keeping his eyes glued in front of him. The trio stopped. He flicked his fingers at a cart, whose wood was barely visible over the slight incline of the forest floor.

“A trap?” Shufen pondered questioningly; Tor glanced at his friend, whose eyebrows were furrowed hard with deep concern. Tor’s mouth formed a hard line as his gaze accessed the overturned cart that peeked over the hill’s crest critically.

“An ambush,” The prince stated curtly. Shufen glanced at his prince; a fleeting expression of terror haunted the tiny human’s otherwise calm features. Tor continued, “It wasn’t intended for anyone approaching from the north, it seems,” the prince gestured his hand, and Shufen glanced into the clearing. There were two crimson-drenched speckled gray horses and an overthrown cart. There, nearby, two men lay and not much further than that, a woman with tattered garments. Shufen’s blood ran cold as he looked over the scene. He saw children. Three children were lying in the scarlet snow. He knew that the two men had been killed long before, as their blood had already crusted, but the rest of the crimson was stark and still steaming in the winter air.

Tor moved in a brisk walk towards the clearing, but as he did, he heard the motions of a unit making headway towards them. He flicked his hand behind him, signaling the other two to hide. He ducked behind a tree and shot a look at Brynjar, who’d fallen swiftly to his knees. Brynjar brought himself low to the ground and curled under a twisting root. 

The unit that was approaching halted as they entered the clearing. Tor could make out three- no, there were five figures. The two largest of the group restrained one between two of them. The restrained figure let out a shriek that made Shufen cringe. It was the voice they’d heard before. 

The restrained woman barked, “There’s a damn reason villagers are fleeing to the north, you boot licking imperialists!” Tor watched her thrash in the arms of the large elven paladins, “You kill our men, rape our women, and pull our children from their homes for your camps! The gods are squirming at the thought of your degeneracy.”

“Squirming?” one of the paladins spat amusedly, “When you’re about to die, you think that the gods give a damn about you? Rodents like you can pray all you want, but even Eris enjoys the hunt. All those petty gods favor the strong; you know that as well as I do.”

The woman cried out as she was thrown to the ground, her body made a thud against the dirt, and the frozen snow cracked underneath her weight. Tor’s expression hardened as the elven soldiers loomed over her. “Because we hunt, we get to eat. Isn’t that right?”

The other two elven men smiled at one another in malicious agreement.

 The prince heard the fabric of the hostage’s gown tear; he glanced at the other corpses and realized what was about to happen- before he could even glance back at her, he heard her sharp cry, and then the squeamish sound of her struggling gargled voice. It was an appalling sound, like that of worms writhing in wet peat. Shufen muffled his mouth, his eyes glued to the woman and the soldiers.

The image seared into his brain, the woman’s open mouth wrapped around the blade that was pushed through her throat- bubbling scarlet fluid overflowed from the sides of her mouth, and her tears mixed within it. The blood struggled to pulse out of the back of her neck; her flesh sealed around the silver sword. Her body jerked and writhed for a moment; as the elven man forced himself upon her, she fell limp as her mind gave up.

 Tor saw the soft yellow fluid pushing through Shufen’s thin fingers as he vomited into his palm. Unlike Shufen and the prince, Brynjar burst into the clearing and roared, pulling his greatsword from its sheath. 

“You make me sick,” Brynjar said sternly, opposed to how he usually spoke. The soldiers hadn’t moved from their positions, around and within the woman’s corpse; they looked at it like vicious salivating dogs. Shufen coughed and spat, desperate to escape the sick flavor of bile that reeked in his mouth and nose, before shakily murmuring a spell in Thur, repeating it in weak, shaking breaths. Tor watched his partners work in tandem as a great pale wolf loomed behind Brynjar. The soldiers stood up. The one who had killed the woman fixed his belt, then snickered as he flicked his free hand, a soft illumination pulsed in the veins of all the corpses who stirred in their untimely rest.

Brynjar snarled, “You’re begging to be dragged to Morrak- you sick fuck.” The large Lorkan male lunged at the elf, who stared at him from his abhorrent position between the woman’s legs, to which another behind him flicked his fingers, and a whirlwind ripped through Brynjar’s beautiful canvas uniform. Brynjar felt the searing pain pull through his arm, feeling the strength of his tendons give way as they were torn by the lashing magic. He let out a roar, his sharp teeth exposed and an animalistic gaze accompanied by deep snarling pants.

“The first one was dead before I even got to enter her,” The elf chuckled, “But, it was better- I got to hear the kids cry.”

Brynjar grit his teeth, gripping his arm, swallowing hard as he kept himself from vomiting, “That’s disgusting,” He lifted his sword again, and the wisp of the white wolf veered towards the elves, two elves behind the first crushed their hands together and spoke in tandem.

“Morras lupin,” The elves’ magic crushed the wolf in the air, and Shufen coughed blood as the air around had contorted the familiar’s body. Shufen looked out towards Brynjar, who seemed confident he was going to perish, yet he was determined to avenge the families that lay mutilated before him. 

Tor gripped his chest, swallowing hard before hardening his expression. The prince made it to his feet, but as he did so, the sound of horses roared just beyond the trees. The elves turned their attention from the bleeding Brynjar, whose wounded hand held his zweihander limply, and his other hand had gripped the handle firmly until his knuckles whitened. A stark white warhorse snorted and neighed as it reared its large mass before the elves, and a smaller horse neared beside it in near silence in comparison. Shufen and Brynjar eyed the horses, but Tor’s eyes locked on the form stepping from beside it.

The woman on the back of the smaller horse raised her hand and spoke inaudibly; then, as if the light itself aimed to smite them, the clearing shone brightly. The woman stood in front of the posse, and before the horse’s front hooves had even hit the ground, the elves’ bodies were scorched. The woman’s eyes came into view as the light died; Tor’s met them. The duo stared at one another for a moment before she closed her gaze and spoke quietly to the man upon the other horse.

Tor hoisted Shufen over his shoulder before slowly making his way to Brynjar, who sat dumbfounded, staring at the woman, the horse, and the man atop the horse. 

“Can you stand?” Tor asked flatly, to which Brynjar looked up at him.

“I’m shakin’, but yeah, I can walk,” Tor could see the terror under his features, “Think the arm’s fucked though, make my sword nothin’ but useless.”

“Sir,” Shufen added shakily, “We don’t know if we can trust those two-”

Tor said bluntly, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Shufen’s brows furrowed, as he was more than keenly aware that his prince was more strategically prudent than to simply trust using such an excuse. The tactician sighed and and motioned to be set down, his attention turned to Brynjar, “Let me see what I can do to help that wound.”

 Tor set Shufen down who stumbled a little on his shking legs before dropping down beside the Lorkan. Tor motioned his horse, “Nokt,” and the horse made its way to him, a shadowy rope leading the two Friesians behind it. Tor hoisted Shufen atop the Friesian, and Brynjar loft himself atop the great onyx shire.

The prince made way to the other figures, to which the woman watched, and spoke quietly. “Please step away,” said the woman in a quiet tone from atop her horse. The second figure, which Tor paid no mind to before, had dismounted and stood almost eye to eye with the onyx feathered prince before speaking.

“Pardon her; she can be rather shy,” said the elf benignly. “I am Zephyr Blakemore, former prince of Elnir.”

Tor nodded, “Of course, I know who you are, Prince Zephyr; we’ve met before. However,” The Onyx winged prince tilted his head, raising a brow to the elf, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean by Former.”

The woman dismounted and stepped towards Tor, who stared upon her features. Her amber eyes were clear to the prince as he listened to the quiet tone of her voice. “We heard that woman cry while out on patrol,” She said flat and gentle. “Why arey you entering Elnir in its current state?” Her tone subdued; almost as Shufen’s, yet still harboring a softness that Shufen seemed incapable of.

“Diplomacy,” the avian prince .

She let out a quiet sigh, almost wistfully, “Diplomacy with Adon.” Zephyr shot her a look that Tor didn’t entirely understand. She sighed again and looked the prince in the eye, “Getting into Regis with as small of a group as you have would be unlikely,” She looked up at Tor with her sad amber eyes, “After what I saw today, I doubt your group would make it much farther than Hawksbridge, if you avoid the main roads you might get lucky.”

She turned to Zephyr, “We need to reevaluate the secondary paths for the refugees, Veris’ troops are a bloodthirsty bunch. Maybe we should funnel through the Sunbleached City-”

The elf shook his head, “We’ll discuss this at the fort.”

Shufen had trotted over, seemingly regaining some capabilities, “Prince Tor’s far stronger than the two of us combined,” He growled, “he could flatten an army if he had wanted to, but my lord is a diplomat. He doesn’t favor the battlefield. He doesn’t believe in warfare.” The woman looked at Shufen, then to Tor with a slight frown.

The woman spoke softly, “A pacifist; I take it? I once thought that words could resolve all conflicts, once.” Tor hadn’t noticed the soft smile that his lips formed looking at her. She stood her ground before him, staring Tor in the eyes for longer than either of them likely wanted to stare, but Tor couldn’t bring himself to look away from those eyes that speared their way through him. “I’m afraid Adon isn’t the one in control of Regis, let alone Elnir.”

Zephyr chuckled and rested his hand upon her shoulder, looking up at Tor knowingly, “I think you’ll come to find we’ll greatly underestimate this onyx feathered avian.”

“Don’t speak to him with such-” Brynjar grit his teeth, only to be silenced by Tor’s slightly raised hand and turn of his head; Tor stared at the elf, their eyes met. Blakemore’s soft blue stones seemed to harbor a carefree and benign attitude as a gentle, knowing smile curled over his lips.

The ash-blonde prince spoke in Thur, the King’s tongue, to the Avian prince, “Kras esse alis imla.” 

At that, Tor’s muscles tightened, and his eyes narrowed at the former prince’s words. Zephyr tapped Mina’s arm, and she simply nodded. Blakemore steered his warhorse back towards the south, then took his final coy look at the prince and chuckled. 

Tor stared at the blonde, almost ivory, white hair of the former elven prince as he started into Elnir. The woman took a little longer, drew her horse’s reins up, and let out a sigh. “Good luck to you,” she said, looking the onyx winged prince in the eyes. The prince stared back; amber on amethysts. Her empathetic gaze closed as she stirred her horse to follow the Elniran prince. Tor stroked the fur of his onyx stallion, still staring off into the south for a minute or two after the prince sped off.

“I don’t know enough of the king’s tongue to understand what he said,” said Shufen. 

Brynjar scoffed, “Me and you both, eh? Glad I’m not the only one.”

“Let’s hurry back to Aves,” The prince said flatly. Shufen and Brynjar looked at one another puzzledly, then each let out a soft sigh, opting not to press further. Tor mounted his steed, with Brynjar climbing up behind him. Brynjar held his prince’s belt firmly with his one hand. Shufen lagged, with the second Friesian tethered behind him. 

The posse started on their way back north, where the snow grew thicker, and the wind grew colder. In their wake, on the forest floor, an onyx feather was left behind them.