Several days had passed since the Imperator had left, and work had reached a fever pitch around the fort.

There seemed to be a general desire among the people to outdo themselves. The implication of the Imperator being gone and wanting to get as close to completing the tasks left behind had become seemingly infectious.

The new palisade went up far quicker than the extension despite being considerably larger. For one, it had no wall walk; instead, it was just a spiked wall of worked trunks. It had been decided to keep it simple for now so that it didn’t consume all the fort’s resources and time. Once it was up and the outposts were built, and the additional fortifications were added; they could be expanded upon and improved.

Commoners were already digging out the trench ordered by Mark, with Trayox at their lead. And several smaller groups had headed out to construct the outposts using the piles of logs left behind by Mark.

Within the fort itself, the Imperial District and the High District still had strict people controls, however, the Low District had been opened up to all. And new ferals were streaming into it every day.

However, they were expected to undergo an interrogation of sorts on entry. They searched for signs of wealth that wouldn’t be expected to be found on cultists, weapons, and any religious symbolism. Of course, when Mark made this order, he realized the likelihood that some cultists would make it inside the fort’s walls. But with that came the perception of confidence, which he knew they would need to keep attracting more people to their growing settlement.

Even the new additions to the fort seemed to have been infected by the hard work taking place. Payon, the smith, worked tirelessly, crafting the more difficult parts Mark had requested for the steam engine, while the apprentices worked on crude axeheads and nails.

Fort Winterclaw was different from what Payon had seen elsewhere in the Frontier since arriving. While it was still developing and finding its colors, there was a real sense of comradery here and even, dare he think it, hope.

The people believed in their mission, and it rubbed off on him. He worked harder and longer than he had since he was a boy and an apprentice back in the Imperium, scared his master might fire him and take another. He wasn't sure exactly why, but even though he barely knew these people, he wanted to play his part.

Jaddrick, the mason, wasn't much different, carving up the rocks needed for the mill within a couple of days. His workload was lacking, so he convinced Henric and Elowen to let him use their horses, assisted by a couple of acolytes, to collect more good rocks.

The work was exhausting and slow, but they managed to pull a dozen or so good, large rocks with the help of the horses each day, stacking them inside the Imperial District. And in the evening hours, Jaddrick positioned them into the foundations for the fort’s future keep.

Before the first outposts had even been completed, their effects started to show. The timid ferals in the surrounding wilderness seemed to stand taller and more confident. Cultist sightings were becoming less and less, and thanks to the patrols run by Mark's tribunes, there was a growing sense of security.

They had even managed to fill another wagon full of furs and set it off back to Frostwind Trader’s Post with a couple of Trumus’s men to help guard, and Acolyte Clay had been picked to trade on behalf of the fort.

The boy was skittish at the best of times, and he wasn’t the strongest or smartest, which was exactly why he was chosen. They needed everyone to put in whatever they could, so Henric had chosen him despite a brief protest. With any luck, marching around in the wilderness would toughen the boy up. And he didn’t yet trust the caravan master or his sellsword guards to trade on their behalf, believing that crowns would likely go missing if they relied on them. Clay, on the other hand, was a sworn acolyte with the God-Lord on his side. And Henric believed that regardless of how cowardly the boy might be, he would act with honor and transparency.

As with the first trip to Frostwind, Henric had ordered Clay to look for more help to hire and was more than happy for him to return with more mercenaries instead of more craftsmen if they couldn't be found. Since the Master-At-Arms trusted the ferals in combat far less than his Imperator superior, the more Imperials he had to help defend this fort, the happier he would be.

Still, despite all these gains, it was hard to gauge the loyalty of the refugees flooding the Low District. And even with their additional numbers, the entirety of the fort and its immediate surroundings only numbered a little over three hundred souls—a far cry from their adversaries.

**Imperator**

Mark might have been a stranger to these lands, but his orienteering days well and truly prepared him for following any map handed to him, and with the help of a compass had little issue keeping them on track.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Passing through forests and clearings between them, they found several abandoned feral hovels. It was evident that many had already left this region to go south.

The empty feral homes were a little eerie, but Mark saw the bright side to it. It meant that there was less chance of running into cultist spies.

There was only so much he could do with his suit before it would overheat. And if another small army of cultists tracked them down here with no fort to run to, they likely wouldn’t have much chance.

The thought of finding a means to help manage the suit’s heat had been playing on his mind for weeks now, but if being in a snowy wasteland that often fell below freezing wasn’t enough, he didn’t know what would be.

“Looks like they’re all gone,” Callum mumbled half to himself.

“You’re not getting scared, are you?” Radic taunted as they helped pull the horse-drawn wagon through the snow.

"No," Callum said. "I never said th—"

“Look, over there,” Mark said, interrupting the acolytes. “The Razor’s Back,” he added, pointing out the impressive line of jagged mountains far in the distance that split the Frontier from the Imperium.

The weather had been poor and foggy for weeks but cleared as if on purpose a few hours ago, allowing them to see the mountains almost a hundred miles away.

Between them and the Razor’s Back was a blanket of undulating hills, much of which still had green vegetation piercing through the patchy snow. Compared to elsewhere in the Frontier, the foothills looked positively inviting and even quaint. If not for the poison toxins that shrouded the land.

“It looks kind of nice, don’t you think?” Callum said.

“If you like dying of poison, maybe,” Radic mocked.

“I see what you mean, Callum. It’s quite pretty. It gives me a sense of serenity—deceptively so.”

Mark’s eyes caught a cloud of purplish fumes drifting up from a tiny valley between two hills, almost as if it were alive.

What the… I’ve never seen anything quite like that.

Radic backstepped at the sight.

“It’s fine, Radic,” Callum said. “The clouds never leave the foothills. Nothing to worry about until we get closer,” he added, pointing out a clear line between the dense, snow-covered land of the Frontier and the grass-speckled snow of the foothills.

“Come on,” Mark waved. “Let's make for that path through the hills there. Judging by the clouds, we should be safe.”

They could see several clouds of toxins moving over the land from here, each looking to be roughly an acre or two in size. The path Mark had pointed out looked relatively easy to walk, cutting between a couple of the hills, with the toxic clouds gradually moving away from it.

Another thirty-odd minutes passed before they reached the edge of the foothills, and it gave Mark a chance to study their movement further. Unfortunately, and somewhat predictively, they moved more erratically than expected.

The clouds weren’t exactly fast and could easily outrun on horseback or even at a consistent jog; however, the untamed terrain could easily pose issues, and the deeper they traveled, the harder it would be to escape. After all, clouds don’t feel fatigued.

Luckily, the often direction-changing clouds didn’t turn toward his chosen path, and Mark urged them onward.

At the edges of the foothills, the party met barren grasslands mostly covered in snow, but as they moved further in, the vegetation covering the land grew denser. They found trees with suspiciously purple apples, curled rows of thorny bushes sprouting flowers, and even pumpkin-looking vegetables along the ground, ominously red and marked by white dots as if they had an identity crisis with a wild mushroom.

This place is like something out of a fairytale. If it wasn’t for those roaming toxic clouds, it’d be beautiful. Far better than the frozen waste of the Frontier.

But it didn’t take long for them to be reminded why this land was so precarious, coming across skeletal corpses caught in thorny bushes or sitting against tree trunks with notes in their hands.

Mark made his way to one of the skeletons as the party traveled past and carefully removed the crumbling note held in its bony hands.

“It’s a goodbye message to his family, with a will attached,” Mark soberly said. “He injured his leg and couldn’t keep up with his group. They left him here with a flask of rum.”

“Imperator?” Callum said as the two acolytes drove the wagon along the partially trodden path, their agitated gazes shifting around their surroundings.

“Sorry, coming,” Mark said, turning back to them. “Let's keep moving. We don’t need to take any risks,” he waved them on, and the two boys pulled on the reins, leading the horses deeper.

There were many hours ahead of them, and they wouldn’t be able to rest in this land. They would need to find the throne ship and escape before danger reached them. And every wasted minute increased the inherit risks of being here.

As they walked along a narrow ledge flanked by thorny vines, the mage heart at the center of Mark’s suit thumped with power. His brow rose as he looked down, pulling his overcoat apart to reveal the lightly glowing source of power. It felt something.

Mark glanced down at his map again. He was confident in his skills, and to his estimate, they were still several miles off.

Could it be reacting to this throne ship?

What could this artifact be that it drew forth such a reaction from his suit so far away? Mark wondered.

“Onward,” he shouted. “I can feel our target. It's near!!”

The boys nodded and pulled on the horses, who grew increasingly stubbornly rooted with every step they marched deeper into the foothills.

“Imperator, but do you mind me asking, what exactly are we here for?” Callum said.

Mark had told them they were going on a vitally important mission that could mean the difference between surviving the winter and not, but he hadn’t told anyone besides Henric—under oath of secrecy—what they were actually looking for.

“He’s actually right, Imperator,” Radic said. “We’ve come this far. We ought to know why.”

“Fair enough,” Mark nodded. “We’ve come in search of an artifact that can secure our survival. We’ve come looking for a throne ship.”

The boy’s eyes widened at word of the majestic vessels that were treasured within the Imperium. The mage cores that powered them were some of the greatest treasures among all of the great Imperium's wealth and guarded jealously.

Usually, throne ships were only employed by legates, princes, and the emperor himself. Both a power and wealth symbol, the admired ships came with a multitude of utilities and firepower. And even the acolytes knew the implications of Fort Winterclaw having one at its disposal.

The fire of hope could be seen sparking in their eyes as Mark’s distant gaze defiantly pointed toward their goal.