Chapter 14: The Cold and the Guard

Faris awoke startled, as he had so many nights before. The cold air of the windowless room enveloped him, almost slicing through him. Outside, the night dominated the horizon. He had barely slept a few hours, but duty did not respect fatigue. He sat on the edge of the bed, a simple yet sturdy structure covered with a thick wool blanket that barely retained his body heat.

With a disciplined movement, he folded the blanket and carefully placed it at the foot of the bed. He had learned in the military that order and routine were fundamental for survival. Discipline first, always. He sighed and made his way to the small stone basin in the corner of the room. The water was freezing, but he needed to clear his head. He plunged his hands into the bowl and splashed the icy liquid onto his face; the cold pierced his skin like thousands of tiny needles, but he immediately felt more awake.

The reflection in the water showed a face weathered by the elements and battles: dark circles under deep brown eyes that seemed perpetually alert, despite his constant exhaustion. He ran a hand through his short hair, damp from sweat and frost, before turning to begin his preparations.

First, his armor. The padded inner lining was designed to absorb impact—a heavy piece but necessary, especially in hand-to-hand combat. As he adjusted the straps across his torso, he thought about what awaited him in the darkness outside. Over the lining, he donned the plate armor, made of polished black metal, resistant to the claws and fangs of the creatures lurking beyond the walls. It was standard imperial armor, designed to protect vital areas without significantly hindering the wearer’s movement, though Faris always found it uncomfortable.

Finally, he adjusted his helmet. It pinched his head and sometimes made him sweat more than desired, but he knew it was better to endure the discomfort than to lose his head—literally—due to laziness. He remembered the younger soldiers who had been careless, believing an attack wouldn’t occur during their watch, and how they had been found on the battlements, dismembered by a swift ambush. Better discomfort than death.

As he fastened his helmet, he thought about what lay ahead. One day, if he reached the Golden Core, he could acquire a praetorian armor, a masterpiece created by alchemists. Those armors not only offered unparalleled protection but were also enchanted to keep the body warm. No more endless nights when the cold seemed to freeze even his thoughts. But that was still a long way off—more battles, more sacrifices.

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He picked up his heavy crossbow, his old but reliable companion that he had used for over a dozen campaigns. He loaded it with one of the steel bolts, ensuring the string was well tightened. With practiced ease, he slung it over his back. Despite its size and weight, he had become accustomed to carrying it as if it were an extension of his body. Its reliability was crucial. The only advantage they had over the creatures of the north was the ability to kill them before they reached the walls, and heavy crossbows were the perfect weapon for that task.

Then, he took one last look at his bed, where his sword lay, always ready. It wasn’t his primary weapon, but if something or someone managed to get too close, he would need to use it. He placed the sword in his belt alongside a small dagger, perfect for close combat or as a last resort. Before heading out, he collected his pouch of extra bolts, neatly organized, and added a few strips of jerky—the only thing that passed for food on those long nights. He didn’t forget the flask of spiced wine; it wasn’t for pleasure but necessity. The warmth it provided was more effective than any extra layer.

He was ready.

When he finally left the room, the fortress was in complete silence, broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the distant sounds of the wind howling fiercely. The torches lining the corridors dimly illuminated his path toward the battlements. As he climbed the stone steps, he could hear the echo of his own footsteps resonating in the cold structure, as if the fortress itself acknowledged the passage of yet another soldier in its endless cycle of vigilance.

Upon reaching the top of the wall, the icy wind greeted him immediately. Faris adjusted his fur cloak and moved to the parapet. From there, he could see the wastelands stretching out in all directions—a vast expanse of whiteness interrupted only by a few shadows gliding through the fog and the drifting snowflakes.

The lit torches along the wall glimmered like tiny fireflies in the dark, casting flashes of light amid the vast night. Other soldiers were on guard as well, barely visible figures in the distance, moving back and forth, alert for any movement beyond the walls. Faris had always preferred the night over the day. While many slept, he found a strange peace in the nocturnal stillness, even knowing that the threat could arise at any moment.

The sky was dark, covered in clouds that seemed to press against the fortress as if trying to crush it. In the distance, the echo of a lone wolf broke the silence, but beyond that, there was only the constant whisper of the wind.

Faris took a deep breath. The night would be long, but he was ready. His gaze drifted to the shadows moving in the distance, knowing that even though this night was calm, something always lurked.

The guard continued.