Chapter 14: The Frosted Veil
The sun hung low in the northern sky, a pale disc that cast long shadows across the snow blanketed expanse of the frontier. Lady Serantha Valeria Adravis, heir to the Imperium’s throne, sat poised in her private pavilion. Her gloved fingers rested lightly on the arm of a finely carved chair, her posture regal despite the bone deep cold that seeped through every layer of fabric and fur.
She was radiant in a way that defied the bleak northern light. Her skin, a deep, luminous shade of bronze, seemed to drink in the muted sunlight, warming the air around her with its quiet glow. Her features were sharp yet elegant, a proud nose, high cheekbones that caught the light, and lips full and poised as if shaped by the hand of a master sculptor. Her almond shaped eyes, dark as polished onyx, held a depth that drew one in and refused to let go, commanding respect and intrigue with the faintest glance.
Her hair, thick and coiled in cascading waves, was pulled back into a crown like braid that framed her face. Strands of gold threaded silk intertwined with the braids, catching the faint light with every subtle movement. Not a single strand fell out of place, yet the style seemed effortless, a quiet statement of perfection achieved without ostentation.
The traces of humanity’s imperfections had long since been erased by the subtle workings of magic. Her skin was unmarked by time or scar, smoother than marble, and her hands, though sheathed in gloves, were those of an empress to be, strong and elegant. Even her gaze, sharp and calculating, carried an unnatural clarity, as though she could see the threads of fate themselves weaving through the air.
She was beauty forged into power, and power tempered into something more. something untouchable. Yet, as she gazed out at the frozen expanse of the frontier, her expression betrayed none of it. Instead, it was distant, pensive, as though her thoughts were a thousand leagues away, untethered from the weight of her surroundings.
Around her, a carefully curated assembly of advisors, teachers, and confidants formed a protective circle, their presence as much a mark of her station as the Imperial guards stationed at the pavilion’s entrance. The space hummed with muted activity: chambermaids adjusting tapestries against the chill, scribes cataloging her words, and the faint murmur of spells as a battle mage reinforced the perimeter wards.
Outside, the rest of her retinue sprawled across the camp like a small city. A full cohort of Imperial Guards patrolled with precision, their black armor gleaming in the frostbitten light. Beyond them, archmage debated arcane theories with battlemages, their discussions punctuated by the occasional flash of testing spells. Even here, at the edge of the known world, the Imperium’s presence was undeniable, an indomitable bastion of power and control.
Lady Serantha’s gaze drifted toward the edge of the camp, where snow blurred the horizon into a white void. She had spent months in the North, enduring the bitter cold and the even colder stares of the Adruian nobility. The match her advisors so delicately maneuvered for her, Prince Darion Ven Atrias, hovered over every conversation, every courtesy, like a specter. It was not the first proposal she had entertained, but it was perhaps the most politically important.
“The prince is powerful,” Archmage Velthain intoned, his voice smooth as frost crusted silk. He stood to her right, his deep crimson robes untouched by the snow as though the air itself bent to accommodate him. His hood cast shadows over his sharp, lined face, but his pale blue eyes gleamed with calculating precision. “His mana reservoirs are vast, Lady Serantha. His command of earth and flame magic rivals that of many seasoned generals. A union with him would ensure an heir of unprecedented potential.”
“Potential is not certainty, Archmage,” Serantha replied, her voice calm but edged with steel. “You would have me choose Darion purely for his magic, yet power without wisdom is a dangerous thing.”
Velthain inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Wisdom can be cultivated, my lady. Power, however, is a gift.”
The others in the circle exchanged glances. Lady Meridra, Serantha’s etiquette tutor, adjusted the fall of her gown, her disapproval written in the tight set of her lips. “You have already dismissed four suitors, Your Grace,” she said gently, though there was an undercurrent of reproach in her tone. “Darion’s character may be… wanting, but the alliance he offers is invaluable.”
“And his flaws?” Serantha asked, her tone sharper now. “Would they be easier to stomach than the four others? I rejected Marik because he was a coward, Lucius because his ambition outstripped his sense, and Aldren because his cruelty was a rot at the core of his soul. Shall I now overlook Darion’s indulgences? His vanity? His…”
“Passion, my lady,” Sir Corvin interjected. The captain of her guard was a stout, broad shouldered man whose plain speech often tread close to insubordination. “A prince with ambition and appetite may yet make a fine consort. Better that than a meek husband with no fire in his veins.”
Serantha arched a brow, her lips curving faintly. “You mistake lust for fire, Corvin. One burns bright and is spent in an instant. The other endures.”
He had the decency to incline his head, though a faint smirk betrayed his enjoyment of the debate.
“Character aside,” Velthain said, redirecting the conversation, “the union has far reaching implications. Adruian’s loyalty to the Imperium is built on fragile threads. This match would fortify the North, solidify our presence here, and provide an heir who could stand astride the frontier like a colossus. It is not merely politics, my lady. It is destiny.”
Destiny. The word hung in the air like frost, sharp and unavoidable. Serantha’s eyes flicked toward the distant horizon again, her breath fogging as she exhaled. She had heard the arguments before, layered, polished, and persuasive. But the truth was far less elegant. The Imperium valued her not just as its heir but as its instrument. Her marriage, her children, even her happiness were threads to be woven into the grander tapestry of never ending war and control.
Her fingers tightened briefly on the chair’s arm. “Darion’s character is not the only thing that concerns me,” she said, quieter now. “What of the slaves in his lands? Reports from Adruian speak of conditions harsher than those on the southern plantations. Do you truly believe such a man would share the Imperium’s vision?”
Velthain’s gaze did not falter. “The North is harsh, my lady. Its people must be harsher still. Slaves are a resource, and resources are shaped by necessity.”
“Do you shape iron by breaking it into dust?” she retorted, her voice cutting.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then, Velthain spoke again, his tone softer but no less certain. “You are the Imperium’s heir, Lady Serantha. Your union must serve the greater purpose. And purpose, as you know, is rarely kind.”
She did not reply, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. Beyond the camp, the wind stirred the snow into restless eddies, as though the land itself was uneasy.
The northern winds shifted suddenly, carrying a sound that set every nerve in the camp on edge. It was not the roar of wind or the crackle of frost, it was something deeper, primal. A guttural howl, low and resonant, that seemed to crawl through the bones of the earth and echo within the mind.
Lady Serantha’s advisors froze mid conversation. Velthain’s pale eyes snapped toward the pavilion’s edge, where the horizon blurred with restless snow. The Archmage’s hand twitched, and faint lines of red light coiled across his fingers, the air around him shimmering with latent energy.
A horn blast sounded, short and urgent. Then another. The camp erupted into chaos.
The Imperial Guards, precise even in panic, moved with clockwork efficiency. Shields were raised, lines were drawn, and weapons gleamed as they were unsheathed in unison. The guards at the pavilion’s entrance barked orders, their voices sharp as steel cutting through the rising din.
“Lady Serantha,” Sir Corvin said, his voice tight as he stepped to her side. His sword was already drawn, its edge gleaming unnaturally bright. “We need to move you….”
“Hold.” Her voice cut through the noise, calm but laced with command. She rose to her feet with measured grace, her braided hair catching the pale sunlight as though crowned with fire. “What is it?”
Before Corvin could reply, the first attack struck.
A roar like thunder split the air, and the side of the camp nearest the treeline erupted in chaos. Snow flew into the air in great gouts, mingled with shards of splintered wood and the screams of soldiers. Shapes burst from the white haze, massive, furred beasts, their eyes glowing with a baleful red light. Each moved with terrifying speed and strength, their claws raking through steel and flesh alike as if both were paper. Zoomorph warriors, their forms twisted by magic, surged forward with unnatural agility. Some bore antlers wreathed in dark light, others wielded spears tipped with jagged ice, and all radiated an aura of raw, untamed power.
The frontline of the Imperial defense crumpled beneath the onslaught. Guards were thrown aside like dolls, their shields buckling under the sheer force of the attackers. A battle mage raised his staff and unleashed a wave of fire, the orange blaze streaking toward a wolf like creature that bounded toward him. The beast was faster. It lunged through the flame, jaws snapping shut around the mage’s arm before tearing it free with a sickening crunch.
Screams echoed across the camp as the attackers pushed deeper, their brutality relentless. Tents collapsed, flames leapt higher, and blood streaked the pristine snow in dark, steaming trails. A horn sounded again, its call ragged and desperate.
“Protect the pavilion!” Corvin roared, his shield raised as he intercepted one of the attackers. The beast, a bear-like creature with too many eyes crashed against him, its claws screeching across his shield. He twisted, driving his blade into its flank, but the creature barely flinched.
“Archmage!” Serantha called, her voice steady despite the chaos.
Velthain stepped forward, his hands weaving patterns in the air, the crimson light on his fingertips flaring into brilliance. A ripple of energy burst from his palms, arcing toward the attackers. It struck one of the wolf like creatures mid leap, sending it sprawling in a flash of searing light. A second wave of energy followed, a shockwave that drove back several of the zoomorph warriors, their twisted weapons shattering as the spell struck home.
But still they came.
“Lady Serantha, fall back now!” Corvin shouted, blocking another swipe from the relentless beast.
“No,” she said sharply, her hand rising.
Power coursed through her, an electric current that crackled at the tips of her fingers. A pale golden light began to emanate from her body, the air around her growing warmer despite the cold. Serantha swept her hand forward, and the light erupted into a barrier, a shimmering wall that encircled the pavilion and its occupants. The next wave of attackers slammed into it, their claws and weapons sparking against the golden surface.
“Archmage Velthain,” she said, her voice hard and commanding. “Secure the perimeter. I will not have this camp fall.”
Velthain’s response was immediate. His voice rose in a resonant chant, the words sharp and biting, and the snow at his feet began to melt as raw power radiated from him. Flames leapt into existence around his hands, spiraling upward like serpents. He thrust his arms forward, and the flames streaked toward the attackers, engulfing them in a blaze so intense the snow beneath them hissed and turned to steam.
The battle mages arrived in force, their spells weaving together into a devastating chorus of fire, frost, and lightning. A storm of elemental power surged through the camp, each strike precise and overwhelming. Where the zoomorphs had surged forward with feral rage, now they faltered, their movements disjointed and their howls of fury giving way to screams of pain.
Serantha stepped through the shimmering barrier, her presence a beacon of authority. Her golden aura pulsed as she extended her hand toward one of the remaining attackers, wielding a spear wreathed in frost. The spear arced toward her, but before it could strike, her light flared, shattering the weapon into shards of ice. With a flick of her wrist, the golden energy coiled around the warrior, binding him in place.
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“Yield,” she said, her voice low but resonant.
The warrior snarled, but his movements slowed, his defiance wavering under the weight of her gaze.
The skirmish ended as abruptly as it began. The remaining attackers fell back into the treeline, dragging their wounded with them. The snow covered ground was littered with bodies, both human and zoomorph—and the air was thick with the mingled scents of blood and ash.
Serantha turned to Velthain, her expression unreadable. “The North attacks grow bolder.”
The Archmage nodded, his crimson light fading but his eyes cold and calculating. “They test our resolve, my lady. Let them see what happens when they do.”
Her gaze shifted toward the horizon, where the treeline stood dark and foreboding against the pale sky. “Send scouts,” she said. “I want to know where they came from and what they hoped to achieve, most importantly, where are shamans.”
Velthain inclined his head, and the mages moved to obey.
As the camp began its grim work of tending to the wounded and fortifying defenses, Serantha stood at the center of the devastation, her golden light flickering faintly. The bloodied snow around her seemed a grim echo of the balance she sought to maintain, power and purpose, strength and control.
Hours later the grand gates of the northern citadel loomed ahead, wrought iron and dark oak etched with glyphs that shimmered faintly against the frost laden air. Snow swirled around Lady Serantha Valeria Adravis as she ascended the stone steps, her fur lined cloak trailing behind her. Her retinue followed in perfect formation guards, chambermaids, and advisors moving like pieces in an intricate game. The Archmage Velthain walked beside her, his crimson robes untouched by the snow, his expression as inscrutable as ever.
The citadel itself was a fortress of ice and shadow, its walls carved from the gray stone of the mountains. Towers jutted skyward like jagged teeth, and banners bearing the sigil of the Adruian kingdom snapped in the frigid wind. Though the attack had been repelled, the atmosphere inside the fortress was no less tense. Soldiers moved hurriedly, their faces pale and drawn, while servants scurried through the halls, heads bowed and steps quickened.
Serantha’s dark eyes swept over her surroundings as they entered the main hall, her gaze lingering on the rows of slaves pressed into service along the walls. Their uniforms were thin, their faces gaunt, their hands raw from scrubbing the stone floors. She caught sight of a boy no older than ten, carrying a load of firewood twice his size. His steps faltered, and he stumbled, the wood spilling across the floor with a deafening crash.
The nearest overseer, a man with a whip coiled at his side, descended on the boy like a hawk. Without a word, the lash struck, the sound cracking through the air like a curse. The boy cried out, his voice small and broken, and scrambled to gather the wood.
“Enough,” Serantha said, her voice cutting through the hall like a blade.
The overseer froze, his hand mid-swing. He turned, his expression a mixture of confusion and fear as he registered her presence. “M-my lady,” he stammered, bowing low. “The boy, he’s clumsy. I was merely…”
“Enough,” she repeated, her tone sharper now. She stepped forward, her presence commanding. “He is a child, not an ox. See that he receives food and rest before resuming his duties.”
The overseer’s face paled further. “As you command, Lady Serantha.”
The boy’s wide, tear-filled eyes met hers for a fleeting moment before he lowered his gaze, clutching the scattered firewood to his chest as though it were his only shield. Serantha turned away, her jaw tight as she continued toward the citadel’s inner chambers. Behind her, Velthain’s expression betrayed nothing, though his faint hum of approval was almost imperceptible.
The corridors grew warmer as they ascended, the air heavy with the mingling scents of wine, perfumed oils, and the faint tang of smoldering hearths. Serantha’s displeasure deepened with every step. She had expected to find Prince Darion Ven Atrias in the war room, poring over maps and discussing the attack with his generals. Instead, word had reached her that he was in his private chambers, recovering from what was delicately referred to as a “late night.”
The hallway leading to his quarters was lavishly adorned, the walls lined with tapestries depicting scenes of Adruian victories. Candles burned in sconces shaped like talons, their light casting flickering shadows that seemed to mock the grandeur of the space.
As Serantha approached the doors to Darion’s chambers, she heard muffled voices and laughter from within. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she gestured for her guards to remain at the entrance. Only Velthain and her steward followed as she pushed the heavy doors open without announcement.
The scene that greeted her was a portrait of decadence.
Prince Darion lay sprawled across a bed draped in silken sheets, his red hair mussed and his golden skin flushed from drink. Beside him, a low ranking noblewoman lounged, her gown disheveled and her laughter tinged with drunken mirth. The remnants of a feast littered the room, goblets overturned, half eaten platters of meat and fruit scattered across a nearby table.
Darion blinked blearily at the intrusion, his hand fumbling for a goblet that wasn’t there. “Ah, Serantha,” he slurred, his voice thick with sleep and wine. “To what do I owe the… pleasure?”
The noblewoman giggled, attempting to adjust her gown with some semblance of decorum. Serantha’s gaze cut to her briefly, cold and sharp, before settling on Darion.
“Pleasure?” Serantha’s voice was calm, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. “The camp was attacked mere hours ago. Soldiers died holding the barricades. And you…” her gaze swept over the room with barely veiled disgust “are here, drunk and oblivious.”
Darion sat up, attempting to smooth his rumpled tunic. “An unfortunate event,” he said, his tone dismissive. “But nothing my forces couldn’t handle. Why, I’m sure the mighty Imperatrix’s heir had no trouble dispatching a few feral beasts.”
Her anger simmered beneath the surface, carefully restrained. “You command these forces, Darion. Their lives are your responsibility.”
“And I have provided them with leadership,” he said, spreading his arms as if to encompass the mess around him. “My men know their roles. They fought well, I’m sure.”
“They fought because they had no choice,” Serantha said, her voice lowering dangerously. “While their commander wallowed in excess.”
Velthain cleared his throat softly, a subtle warning that carried layers of meaning. Serantha ignored him, her golden eyes locked on Darion’s.
“Do not mistake me for one of your fawning courtiers,” she said, her words cutting through the drunken haze like a whip. “The Imperium sent me to ensure this frontier does not fall. If you cannot rise to meet that responsibility, then step aside. Others can and will.”
Darion’s expression flickered, part embarrassment, part irritation, but he masked it with a forced smile. “Your concern is noted, my lady,” he said, his tone smoother now. “I shall see to it that my troops are ready for the next skirmish. You have my word.”
Serantha studied him for a long moment before turning on her heel. “See that you do,” she said coldly. “The north frontier is no place for weakness.”
As she left the room, the door closing sharply behind her, Velthain’s voice came low and quiet beside her. “You should not antagonize him so openly, my lady.”
“He is unworthy of command,” Serantha said flatly. “And unworthy of the Imperium.”
Velthain’s expression remained unreadable, but his gaze flicked toward the door they had left behind. “Unworthy he may be. But politics, as you well know, rarely concerns itself with worth.”
Back in her part of Citadel the warmth of the brazier cast flickering light across the carved wooden panels of Lady Serantha’s chamber. The air carried the faint scent of lavender, a small luxury amidst the bleak austerity of the citadel. Despite the comfort the room offered, Serantha sat rigid on the edge of her bed, her back straight, her dark eyes fixed on the fire. The flicker of flames mirrored the turbulence in her heart.
Her closest handmaiden, Yseline, stood nearby, her hands folded before her. Yseline was a wisp of a girl, her sharp features softened by youth, though her brown eyes held a quiet wisdom beyond her years. She had served Serantha for over a decade, a constant presence through triumphs and failures alike. If anyone could be trusted with the thoughts that plagued Serantha’s mind, it was her.
“I’ll leave once the scouts return,” Serantha said at last, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady but low, as though the admission itself might carry unwanted weight. “There is nothing more for me here.”
Yseline hesitated, her gaze flicking over her mistress’s profile. “And Prince Darion?”
“Darion can rot in this frozen wasteland,” Serantha replied bitterly, her tone sharper than intended. She caught herself, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. “No… it doesn’t matter. He is irrelevant now. I will return to the capital and let my mother arrange whatever match she deems best.”
The handmaiden’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’re certain, my lady? You’ve always been so… selective.”
Serantha let out a mirthless laugh, her expression hardening. “Selective? No, Yseline. I’ve been practical. And for what? Every suitor has been worse than the last. Lust, cowardice, cruelty, Darion is merely a new flavor of disappointment. If this is what the Imperium offers, then let them take my choice from me.”
Yseline stepped closer, her voice quieter now. “You deserve more than this, Serantha.”
The use of her name, unadorned by title, was rare but not unwelcome. Serantha glanced at Yseline, her gaze softening. “Do I? What I deserve has never mattered. I was born to serve the Imperium, to ensure its strength endures. If that means bearing an heir and binding myself to a man I loathe, so be it.”
“You speak as though your duty is your cage.”
“Because it is.” The words came out sharper than intended, and Serantha’s expression faltered. “But it is also my purpose. Without it… I don’t know who I am.”
Yseline lowered her head slightly, though the faintest trace of defiance lingered in her voice. “You’re more than a duty, my lady. At least to me.”
For a moment, the two women simply looked at each other, the distance between them both vast and infinitesimal. Serantha reached out, her gloved hand brushing Yseline’s arm. “You are the only one I trust, Yseline. And that is both a comfort and a burden.”
“It needn’t be,” Yseline said softly, though she didn’t elaborate.
Serantha looked back at the fire, her expression unreadable. “Once I bear the heir, I’ll sever ties with whoever my match is. It will be clean, efficient. My duty will be fulfilled, and I’ll have nothing more to do with this… charade.”
Yseline didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I hope you find peace in that decision, my lady.”
Serantha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t expect peace. Only resolution.”
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The scouts moved quietly through the frostbitten wilderness, their breaths forming faint plumes in the cold night air. The dense forest swallowed sound, their muffled steps vanishing beneath the canopy of skeletal branches. Snow drifted lazily, illuminated by a pale moon, its light doing little to dispel the oppressive darkness of the northern frontier.
Captain Eryk raised his hand, signaling for a halt. The group froze, their disciplined movements a testament to their training. Ahead, the forest opened into a wide valley, and in that expanse lay the reason for their unease.
The Zoomorphs were gathered.
It was an army, vast and horrifying, stretching across the valley like a tide of living nightmares. Bikovci stood at the front, colossal, horned behemoths whose breaths rose in clouds of steam. Their thick hides gleamed faintly in the moonlight, and their massive frames quaked the ground as they shifted.
Behind them, Licantha prowled in eerie silence, their sleek forms weaving through the ranks. Glowing eyes dotted the dark, and their growls formed an ominous undercurrent, a sound that crawled into the bones of the watchers.
Further back, the air shimmered with unnatural light. The shamans stood atop crude platforms, their ceremonial garb fluttering in a wind that carried no scent. Bone staffs adorned with glowing stones pulsed faintly, casting eerie shadows. Around them, the air was alive, distorted and heavy with magic, a suffocating presence that seemed to ripple outward, emboldening the army.
In the center of it all was a figure that defied comprehension.
The Shaman stood taller than the rest, its form obscured by a shifting cloak of sinew and hide, etched with pulsating runes that burned an unnatural green. Its head was crowned with horns twisted like jagged spires, and its eyes were pits of pale light, devoid of warmth or mercy. It radiated power, a presence that made the world feel thinner, stretched too tight.
Eryk gestured sharply, motioning his men to retreat. They began to move, careful and deliberate, their breaths shallow as if even that might draw attention.
But it wasn’t enough.
A shadow peeled away from the edge of the valley, moving with impossible speed. One scout gasped, spinning toward the shape, but there was no time. A Licantha lunged from the dark, its fangs catching the man’s throat. The scout crumpled silently, his blood steaming against the snow.
“Run!” Eryk hissed, his voice sharp but quiet. The remaining scouts bolted, their discipline breaking under the weight of terror.
The forest erupted in chaos.
Licantha howled, their cries piercing and unnatural, driving fear like a dagger into the fleeing men. Shapes flickered through the shadows, blurs of movement too fast and too precise. Another scout fell, his scream cut short as claws raked through his back.
Eryk didn’t look back. He surged forward, his breath a ragged gasp as the ground seemed to churn beneath his feet. The snow grew heavier, deeper, and every step felt like wading through a tide that wanted to pull him under.
Then came the sound.
A low hum rose behind him, not a sound but a vibration, a presence that made his teeth ache and his thoughts stumble. He glanced over his shoulder and saw it.
The Shaman stood at the edge of the trees, its staff raised high. Tendrils of green light coiled outward, snaking through the forest like living things. They latched onto the fleeing scouts one by one, wrapping around their limbs, their throats, their very souls.
Eryk’s heart pounded as he watched the magic take hold. His comrades convulsed, their bodies writhing as though trying to escape from within. Their screams turned guttural, breaking into inhuman growls. Flesh split and twisted, bones cracked, and in moments, they were no longer men.
They rose on all fours, their forms mangled but imbued with unnatural strength. Eyes that had once been human now glowed with pale green light, their mouths curling into snarls that no longer belonged to them. Thralls.
Eryk’s stomach twisted as the newly made abominations turned their heads toward him. He forced himself to look away, his legs burning as he pushed forward, desperation driving him through the dark.
Ahead, a break in the trees, an escape.
He didn’t hesitate, throwing himself toward the opening. The sounds of pursuit—the howls, the growls, the thunderous footfalls of Bikovci, grew fainter, swallowed by the night.
Eryk stumbled into the open, collapsing into the snow. His chest heaved, his body shaking with exhaustion and terror. For a moment, the world was silent save for the sound of his ragged breathing.
Then he saw it.
High above, silhouetted against the moonlight, the Shaman stood on a ridge, its glowing eyes fixed on him. Despite the distance, he felt its gaze pierce through him, as if it had reached into his mind and found something it didn’t like.
A faint whisper echoed in the air, carried on a wind that didn’t exist. Words he couldn’t understand but which filled him with an overwhelming sense of dread.
Eryk scrambled to his feet and ran, the image of the Shaman burned into his mind. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
The horror would follow.