The wind screamed across the white wilderness.
Snow fell in thick, merciless sheets—burying tracks, swallowing sound, erasing all signs of life.
Through the storm staggered a lone soldier, his chestplate marked with the sigil of Duke Veynar's men. His breaths came ragged, vapor spilling from his lips as he struggled to keep his footing against the biting cold.
His boots sank deep into the drifts. He looked back—eyes wide, heart pounding.
Something was following him.
He broke into a sprint, lungs burning, armor clattering with each desperate step. But the snow pulled at his legs like hands of the dead. He stumbled—fell face-first into the frost. Gasping, he rolled over, eyes darting through the swirling white.
And then he saw it.
His face twisted in horror.
"Mercy… please—"
A flash of steel cut through his plea.
A massive blade, black as obsidian, pierced through his chestplate as though it were paper. Blood splattered against the snow. The blade rose—lifting him clean off the ground—before it tore upward, slicing from breast to skull.
The soldier fell in two, lifeless eyes staring skyward.
The snow beneath him turned crimson.
The figure who killed him stood silently. Their armor was dark as the abyss, every plate shaped and scarred like it had been forged from night itself. No face was visible beneath the helm—only the faint reflection of blood in the falling snow.
Without a word, the figure stepped forward, their heavy boots crushing the corpse beneath. A trail of red followed behind as they dragged the enormous blade through the snow, heading toward the direction the man had fled from.
Each step echoed with dreadful purpose.
Far from that frozen massacre, the Imperial banners fluttered in the gale.
Captain Rhun stood atop a rise of snow, his fur cloak whipping behind him. His eyes scanned the endless white expanse—the jagged line of mountains in the distance and the black veins of the forest curling through the frost.
"Captain Rhun!"
A soldier hurried up the slope, saluting. "Team B reports from the northeast, sir. No sightings. No tracks. Nothing but snow."
Rhun gave a short nod. "Dismissed."
The soldier bowed and retreated, boots crunching against the ice.
Rhun stood in silence a moment longer, his breath misting the air. Then, from his satchel, he drew a small stone figurine carved in the shape of a bird. The little sculpture was worn smooth by years of use.
"We need to finish this quickly…" he muttered under his breath.
With one firm squeeze, the stone cracked. The fragments fell from his hand, revealing a glowing orb of light that rose into the air before shifting—feathers of radiance unfolding into the form of a magnificent bird made of pure light.
Rhun closed his eyes, pressing two fingers to the glowing bird before dragging them across his eyelids. When he opened them again, his pupils shimmered faintly—linked to the creature above.
"Go," he whispered.
The lightbird soared skyward, wings slicing through the snowstorm.
Rhun's sight followed—no longer his own, but that of the bird's. He saw what it saw: miles of desolate white, trees frozen in silence, mountains that loomed like sleeping beasts.
Nothing.
Just snow and death.
He was about to recall the spell when—movement.
Through the bird's eyes, he spotted something. A settlement—small, hidden deep within the forest. As the bird drew closer, Rhun saw figures: men, women, children.
Northerners.
His eyes snapped open, disbelief hardening into suspicion.
"What are they doing there…?"
Years ago, after the war in the Far North, Emperor Regulus had decreed that no northern folk were to remain beyond the wall. They had been resettled under Duke Veynar's governance—bound by oath and law to live within imperial territory, not outside it.
For a settlement to exist out there, beyond the emperor's reach… meant one thing.
Defiance.
Or worse—something driving them back into the forbidden snow.
Rhun lowered his hand, his expression grim.
He turned to his men.
"Form up," he ordered, voice cold as the wind. "We move at once."
The horns sounded.
The banners stirred.
And somewhere beyond the storm, something stirred with them.
The northern winds howled like wolves beyond the wall, carrying with them the sting of snow and silence. Through that veil of white, a streak of light tore across the frozen sky — Rhun's bird of light.
The radiant bird soared over the colossal battlements of the outer wall, its glow reflected in the soldiers' astonished eyes as they tracked its flight.
It passed above their heads, wings of light scattering faint embers through the frost, until it reached the towering keep at the heart of the northern stronghold — Duke Veynar's Castle.
It darted toward a high window, landing softly on the sill of a dimly lit chamber.
Inside, Lord Tristan looked up from his desk, the quill pausing mid-word. A faint glow painted the frost-streaked glass, and when he stood, the bird of light tilted its head toward him.
Renholt, seated nearby with a pile of reports, stared wide-eyed.
"My lord… by the gods—did you summon that thing?"
Tristan extended an arm; the creature fluttered to his wrist, its warmth spilling faintly through his sleeve. "No," he said calmly, his voice low.
"It was sent. This one came from Captain Rhun. His report, no doubt. But the creature itself—" he paused, gazing at the bird's ethereal wings.
"—has a far older history."
Renholt stepped closer, his expression both curious and uneasy.
"Older history, my lord?"
He walked toward the fireplace, the lightbird resting against the shifting orange glow. The flames cast lines of shadow across his face as he spoke.
"This," he began, "is called a Gliswing."
Renholt frowned. "Gliswing? I've heard that name only in old chronicles…"
Tristan nodded, eyes fixed on the fire.
"You should have. It was first created long ago, during the reign of Emperor Regulus Kazimir de Albunus—when his ambition was transforming a kingdom into an empire and his conquest was drenched in blood."
He paused again, the fire dancing across his face.
"There were many who sought to end his reign. Kingdoms plotted his death, assassins hid behind banners of peace… and yet none ever succeeded. Do you know why?"
Renholt shook his head slowly.
Tristan's voice deepened, the faintest trace of sorrow behind it.
"Because of a single woman — Catalina Duavan. The Maiden Knight. Back when I was merely a squire, I stood in that throne room and saw her present seven sculptures of stone birds to the Emperor. She said they were his answer for traitors."
Renholt frowned slightly, uncertain. "Seven… stone birds for traitors?"
"Yes." Tristan continued, " Then, with a wave of her hand…"
He raised his palm slowly, recalling the sight. "They cracked open. Light poured out, and they flew."
"At the time," Tristan continued quietly.
"I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."
"But when I went to war under her banner, I learned what beauty costs. Those same lights fell from the sky, burning every enemy that dared hide from the Emperor's will. When a Gliswing shines above you, it means death is already watching."
Renholt's hand trembled slightly as he set down his quill.
"That… that wasn't written in any record. None of it. We were taught that Regulus crushed rebellion through strategy — not sorcery."
"No one spoke of it back then." Tristan said quietly.
"Those who witnessed it either perished in the war or swore silence to the throne. But that is how Emperor Regulus erased betrayal from his empire. From that day onward, no one dared plot against him again."
He turned sharply, throwing the Gliswing into the hearth.
The flames roared, swelling bright and violent—then twisted, forming an image the distant northern settlement, faint shapes of huts and smoke flickering within the fire's reflection.
Renholt stood from his chair, unable to believe his eyes.
"By the gods…" he muttered.
"Captain Rhun's report," Tristan said, watching the scene unfold in the flames. "The Gliswing carries what it sees. We use them now for scouting, for messages—nothing more."
Renholt looked from the fire to Tristan.
"You mean… you can't command it as she did?"
Tristan's expression darkened. "No one can. Only she ever could. And perhaps it's better that way."
"Beautiful things," he murmured, almost to himself, "can be terrifying."
Within the blaze, a vision took form — Captain Rhun's point of view, the snowy wilderness unfolding in shimmering motion. They could see the settlement: rough huts, smoke trails, figures wrapped in furs.
Renholt spoke first, breath misting.
"These are… Northerners. A settlement this far north shouldn't even exist, my lord. Those people were already relocated beyond the passes years ago."
Tristan watched the flickering image silently.
"Relocated, yes," he said. "But relocation isn't the same as belonging. You can move people's homes, Renholt, but not their hearts."
Renholt frowned, crossing his arms. "Still, it's reckless. That area's barely within the Duke's jurisdiction—snow plains, no trade routes, no protection from the blizzards. Who would choose to return there unless they had reason?"
"Refuge," Tristan murmured. "Or pride."
The advisor hesitated, then spoke carefully. "If they've reclaimed old ground without the Duke's sanction, the Council could call it an act of rebellion. And rebellion—no matter how small—demands a response."
"It's not uncommon," Tristan said finally.
"Thousands were displaced after the Northern War. Not all bent the knee to Duke Veynar's governance. Some refuse to live under the rule of the house that burned their homeland."
Renholt folded his arms, the firelight reflecting in his eyes.
"That is a dangerous sentiment. If left alone, they could become a rallying spark for something worse."
Tristan nodded slightly.
"Perhaps. But not yet. For now, they are survivors — not soldiers. I'll send a word to Captain Rhun to observe. No contact, no interference."
Renholt hesitated before saying softly, "Do you think the Duke knew? That these people were still out there?"
The fire hissed faintly. Tristan didn't answer right away. His hand hovered over the mantle, tracing a faint crack in the stone as if it were a thought.
"Perhaps," he said at last. "Or perhaps he's the reason they returned."
Renholt paused then said.
"You think Duke Veynar—"
"I think," Tristan cut in, his tone steady but cold, "we need to move fast and find the duke."
Renholt blinked, confused. "My lord?"
Tristan extended his hand toward the ashes in the hearth. The remnants of the Gliswing stirred — faint sparks rising like embers taking breath again. The air shimmered, and from the dying fire, the Gliswing reformed: a small, luminous bird of flame and light, its wings whispering warmth against the cold.
Renholt stepped back slightly, eyes wide. "You're sending it again…?"
Tristan nodded. "Captain Rhun is waiting for my message. The Gliswing remembers its flight."
The bird perched briefly on Tristan's arm. He whispered something — a few curt words, nearly inaudible beneath the crackle of fire.
Then, as if answering his command, the Gliswing spread its radiant wings and burst out through the open window, scattering snow and light into the night.
Renholt watched in silence, his face caught between awe and unease. "If only messages could be that swift for the rest of us," he muttered faintly.
Tristan turned away from the window, the faint glow still reflecting in his eyes.
"Speed is mercy in the north," he replied. "The slower the word, the colder the grave."
Renholt said nothing, but his pen hung in midair — as if writing felt meaningless after what he'd just witnessed.
Outside, the bird soared into the storm, leaving a streak of golden light that vanished among the stars.