Erin and Henric rode atop the horses as Callum followed closely behind—a form of light punishment Henric had decided on until they could get back to Fort Winterclaw and punish the boy properly.

The journey back wasn’t as fast as they took time to rest. But Callum’s sickly, white pallor increasingly concerned Erin. Henric didn’t say anything and seemed defiant in his order to make the boy walk, but Erin had spotted a hint of concern in his eyes when he watched him struggle.

They had only been traveling for about four hours through the snowy undergrowth—since their last rest—when Callum slipped and fell to the ground. Henric immediately threw himself off of his mount and went to the boy’s side.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Callum said weakly.

“Damn it, boy. Look at you. Hey, girl,” Henric clicked at Erin. “In the left pouch on my saddle, there are some herbs from Mira. Get them for me.”

Erin nodded and dismounted. There were only four little bags in the pouch, and they all appeared to be the same—small bags of crushed herbs, not unlike a teabag.

“This it?”

“Yeah, bring it over.”

Erin hurried over and fell to her knees beside them.

“Open your mouth, boy,” Henric said and stuffed some of the herbs in as Callum complied.

He coughed, but Henric held his mouth shut.

“Chew and swallow.”

Callum did as asked.

“Water,” Henric held out his hand, and Erin loosened her own waterskin from her belt and passed it.

“Okay, drink slowly,” Henric said, pushing the bottle to his lips.

Callum’s lids fluttered dizzily as he drank, and after a few mouthfuls, he grabbed hold of the bottle and squeezed out the remnants.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.”

“It looks like we’re going to have to rest again. Acolyte Erin, prepare the bedrolls.”

“Yes, sir.”

Callum lay facing the small fire Henric made. There were plenty of rotted tree stumps beneath the snow that could be harvested for dry wood after a little digging, and Henric carried a small bottle of lantern oil to help get it started.

Erin held her hands out, warming them by the fire, but her eyes never left Callum. He was lying with a blanket and quite close to the fire, but that hasn’t stopped his shivers.

“He’ll be alright,” Henric said, noticing her concern. “He’s a strong boy. And Mira’s a good healer.”

“I know…”

“Then stop looking at him like that. You’re an Acolyte of the Imperium, remember. A candidate for the title of Imperator. Put your faith in the God-Lord, and let your mind rest.”

“Yeah, right,” Erin forced a grimaced smile.

“Look, I get it. Talking about such things probably seems hopeless from where you’re standing, but have some pride and faith in what you stand for. I mean, for the sake of the God-Lord, look at the ferals. Offering their own daughters up to those cultists.”

“You’re right,” Erin whispered. “At least my parents always loved me.”

Henric opened his mouth to speak, but the rhythmic sounds of crunching cut him short. As Erin turned to him, he placed a finger over his lips and turned to the noise.

Crouching low, he turned and snuck up through snow-capped thickets. Spotting a thick oak, he crept up to it and pressed himself against it.

In the distance, he spotted them—figures moving through the trees. They were maybe three or four dozen yards away. His gaze narrowed as he counted their numbers.

“Twenty, twenty-five, thirty, forty,” he mouthed. There has to be at least fifty of them.

A half dozen barbarians rode on horses ahead of the group. Unlike the ferals they were familiar with, these barbarians wore studded leather and thick fur and carried weapons and shields.

These aren’t ferals. Not armed like that.

Squinting, he tried to make out the details of a banner carried by one of the barbarians.

“Some kind of hydra? No… that’s—that’s a wolf,” he muttered to himself as his eyes widened. There could be no doubt. They carried the banner of the Seven-Headed Wolf God. Cultists.

Henric turned to spot Erin tying down the horses.

This isn’t good. Why are there so many of them this far south? The stories… Was that mad bastard Atlas actually right? Is there actually truth to those crazy tales the ferals tell?

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Suddenly, all the doubt he held came crashing down, and thought that the feral’s tales and Imperator Atlas might have been right about the coming winter stormed through his emotions, and his hands began to tremble.

Dipping into his coat pocket, Henric pulled out a thin flask and unscrewed it. A little rum was something he kept in case things went south. If he was going to die out here, he might as well be drunk when it happened. But for the first time in years, he needed a mouthful to steady his nerves.

He watched as they passed and then hurried up to Erin and whispered, “Stay here and stay low.”

Without pause for her reply, Henric shuffled away.

Through the trees, he watched the line of cultists march two abreast through the snow. Many carried bows, along with axes and spears. He was nervous. They were too close to Fort Winterclaw. But even if it was a considerable size force, he wasn’t sure they would be a match for their fortifications, especially not with an Imperator supporting them.

A shudder coursed through his veins. All the strange things Atlas had done recently gave him pause to trust the man. But then again, maybe he was right.

He had heard rumors of the occasional cultist in the central Vorg forests—where Fort Winterclaw was located—but this was something else entirely.

They were meant to be rare. Fifty-odd cultists with a half dozen horsemen made no sense. Before today, Henric wasn’t convinced there were even fifty cultists alive throughout the entire Frontier. They had always seemed more like boogeymen than a real threat. Cultists were strange, evil people whose tales were told to scare kids or entertain crowds, but people rarely ever saw them, let alone knew any.

He continued to follow them until they marched out from the forest and into a clearing that was at most a couple of acres. There were a couple of feral huts that dotted the land. And their occupants came out to greet the cultists with wide arms.

The cultists began to spread out and create a perimeter around them as the leaders on horseback dismounted and spoke to the local ferals.

He couldn’t make out what any of them were saying, but he could see them nodding, pointing, and then embracing in hugs.

As they spread out, some of the cultists began removing their packs and setting up a rudimental camp. Fires followed, and the horses were hitched.

A couple of the horsemen then began barking orders, and several cultists, using a combination of tools and their hands, began digging lines in the snow around them.

Trenches? Henric’s brow curled as he watched.

Others took their axes and began to cut down small trees and wittle down their edges into spikes. Once a group of the cultists had dug one of their trenches a few feet into the snow, they took the timber spikes and shoved them into the trench.

Spiked trenches. They’re building fortifications… It's not just any fortifications; they’re building a siege camp. These cultists intend to attack Fort Winterclaw!

Up until recently, Fort Winterclaw had been just another little outpost of the Imperium. Meaningless. But now that the Imperator was working with ferals… no it wasn’t just working with them, Henric realized. He was providing them security. Undermining the control and fear these cultists held over this land and its people.

This wasn’t a coincidence. They were coming for Imperator Atlas. They were coming for this upstart who intruded on their plans.

This isn’t good; Henric shook his head as he crept back into the shadow of the forest. He needed to get back. As soon as possible.

**Elowen**

Dober’s sighs filled the air as Elowen called out stock counts. It would be faster if they swapped places, but he needed to get faster at writing—especially since Mira had sounded uncharacteristically pessimistic about his likelihood of walking again without a cane last she checked his wounds.

She had her rosy curls tied back and clear glasses hanging off of the bridge of her nose as she inspected the wagons.

They had hauled two wagons of iron ore alone into the storehouse. Ore was one thing, but the acolytes were struggling to work it. They were barely apprentices, having been recruited as acolytes far before finishing their apprenticeships, and keeping up with Fort Winterclaw’s demand for worked iron was just too much.

They’re not going to like this; she thought as she got done counting up the raw iron.

Sighing, Elowen turned to a wagon filled with sacks of rigar bark. Her eyes danced across them, and her hands pierced into the gaps to count the bags buried beneath the ones on top. “Sixteen bags of rigar bark,” she called out and moved to the next wagon.

The next wagon had a variety of different items, and she removed them and weighed them separately. “Twelve pounds of mushrooms,” she added and pulled the sack off of the scales and grabbed a bundle of rabbit furs. Running her finger across the bundle, she flicked through it, counting them in seconds. “Twenty-two rabbit pelts.”

“Hold up a damn minute, would ye?” Dober sighed as he stretched his fingers.

“Keep up, farmer boy.”

“Easy for you to say, bookworm. But some of us have better things to do than sticking our noses in parchment all day.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have gone and gotten yourself injured then, should you?”

“Why you,” Dober gritted his teeth and snorted. “Aren’t you meant to be nice to injured people or something?”

“Bah, priests and star maidens, maybe. But out here, everyone's got to prove their worth,” she said, flicking through one of her ledgers. “And you’re failing. Just look here: Dober of Tibbits Way. Consumes one and one-half rations daily. Work rate—poor. Medical needs—high. Risk of untimely demise—high,” she said, matter-of-factly as she narrowed her glare on Dober.

“Wait, what’s all that? You keepin’ notes on me?”

“I keep notes on everyone. How else am I supposed to rate your value to the fort?”

“You’re not?” Dober shook. “Like, is that even one of your duties?”

“Not officially,” Elowen shrugged. “But since the Imperator doesn’t seem to mind…”

“He’s seen that,” Dober said, pointing at the ledger held tightly to Elowen’s chest. “And he’s okay with it?”

“Of course he has. He was quite intrigued as well. He’s big on efficiency,” Elowen stuck out her tongue. “He gets it.”

“Gets what? That’s as creepy as the Dead Gods, and you know it! You know what? You’re creepy. Can’t believe I thought you were cu–”

“I’m what?” Elowen’s brow perked.

“You’re nothing. Forget I said anything!”

“Fine, whatever. But don’t call me creepy, mister. Mr. I don’t carry my weight around here.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!”

“I think you’ll find it is. It says so right here,” she said, opening the ledger and pressing down on the page with her index.

“I mean, my injuries and all that. I bet I was high on your list beforehand. I’ve always been a hard worker. That’s what we men of Tibbits Way are: hard workers. It’s in our blood.”

“Is that so.”

“It is,” Dober glared.

“Okay, then prove it. Your hands aren’t injured. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to scribble a few barely legible notes—If you’re a hard-working man from Tibbits Way, as you claim. And stop complaining. It’s hurting my ears.”

“B–but…” Dober trailed off. “Fine then. If that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll show you,” he added, rolling up his sleeves.

“I hope you do. Carrying both of our weights is more than I signed up for. And who knows, if you don’t, I might have to talk to the Imperator about lowering your rations.” Elowen smirked.

“Hey! I get the same rations as everyone else. It’s not my fault if others leave food on their plates. Better than it going to waste.”

“We’ve got chickens now, thanks to the ferals,” Elowen mused. “I’m sure I can find a more useful home for those scraps than your oversized belly.”

“Hey, that’s just mean now.”

“Sorry, but I’m nice to resources that prove themselves.”

“I’m a resource now?” Dober muttered as he went back to his ledger.