The day had not yet broken when the Winter Wolves' camp lay at rest, like a silent body stretched out on the banks of Lago Sereno. The grey darkness of dawn cloaked everything in a dull mist, and the cold seeped through the folds of the tents and into the bones of those who slept.
Raised with almost surgical precision, the camp followed the tradition of ancient campaign armies: straight alignments, wide avenues between each row, and clearly defined zones for each function – lodging, cavalry, supply and command. Each campaign tent, made of thick, light-grey canvas, was anchored with firm stakes driven into the hard ground, and the ropes were pulled stiff, fastened with stones and iron pegs. There was no sign of improvisation. Every detail bore the mark of a rigid discipline, forged by war and by the habit of constant marching.
At the flanks of the camp stood the largest tents, belonging to the lieutenants and subordinate officers, with discreet pennants by the entrances and carefully stacked weapons. To the rear, near a small beech grove, were the quartermaster's pavilions – campaign storehouses, nearly extinguished fires, and wagons covered with tarps that held gunpowder, hardtack, and spare uniforms.
Further beyond, on a slightly elevated slope, the stakes of the makeshift corral housed the winged hussars' stallions – strong and restless animals, covered with thick blankets and light restraining chains. Some snorted, others stamped their hooves against the earth, eager for the gallop that would come with the sun.
The scent was a mixture of burnt wood, damp leather, and old smoke – the perfume of armies, recognisable on any border.
At the heart of the camp rose the command tent. It was larger and sturdier, with three central poles supporting its weight and height, forming a regal triangle among the lieutenants' tents. The fabric was thicker, a greyish blue, almost silvery, embroidered with subtle lines in white and light blue. In front, planted in the ground, stood a simple banner: a silver wolf howling over crossed sabres – the crest of the Winter Wolves.
Around the tent were signs of constant activity: fresh footprints, marks of iron-shod boots, traces of ash and wood beside a small portable brazier. But now, everyone slept – everyone except the sentries around the camp. The entrance to the captain's tent was closed with a dark leather flap, secured by two metal hooks and a thick strap. No one stood guard – it was unnecessary. There was an aura around that tent that was enough to command respect.
There, at the centre of that military organism, lay the brain that moved the muscles of the regiment – Captain Elizaveta Volkova. But for now, the tent remained still, as if waiting silently for the arrival of dawn.
The interior of Elizaveta's tent was more than a shelter: it was a sanctuary of war and memory.
The tall structure, with three central oak posts, was lined inside with bear and white wolf pelts, which muffled the cold and gave the space an almost ceremonial air. Instead of disorder, there was military order – but a personal order, marked by the years and the campaigns.
On the walls, between the folds of the canvas, hung battle trophies: a silver dagger taken from a Silvanian colonel killed in a duel; a brass signal horn with the broken insignia of an Aurelian regiment; a bear's tooth set in a leather medallion, won during a campaign near the Monti Neri. Higher up, on a dark wooden mount, rested the old cavalry sabre Elizaveta had wielded during her time in the army of Aurelia – curved blade, bone hilt, and an edge still as sharp as the day it was first kissed by blood.
By the back wall stood a campaign table, covered with detailed maps, folded letters with broken seals, inkwells and quills, and a half-finished bottle of wine. A small, closed portable altar revealed a glimpse of a metal image of a war goddess – unnamed, but with jade eyes.
And in the centre stood the bed.
It was no ordinary cot, but an improvised structure made of reinforced slats, covered with thick wool blankets, white fox furs, and dark linen sheets. Soft pillows, embroidered with blue thread, contrasted with the brutality of the rest. It was a throne disguised as a bed – a place where the commander rested, but also ruled, decided, seduced, and set the rhythm of the world around her.
From the command tent exuded warmth and silence. Outside, the morning cold of the Campi Dorati made water barrels crack, but inside, a different climate reigned – dense, warm, almost primal. The pelts spread over the floor, the thick white wolf blankets, and the folded banners in the corners created an intimate cocoon.
At its centre stood the commander. She had lived thirty-two days of her name, on the path to her thirty-third. She was a figure sculpted by the very rigour of winter and exuded authority. Her beautiful face, with a firm jaw and straight nose, always carried a severe trace, haunting all who met her gaze, for she wore a glass eye – pale, like a dead moon, motionless, cold. The other, an icy blue, seemed to shine with a harsh, calculating light. She had lost her left eye in a failed charge years ago, but her gaze had since become synonymous with warning and fear. Her mere presence was enough to silence soldiers and make generals hesitate – all without raising her voice.
Elizaveta slowly removed her white fur coat, letting it fall over a chair. Her body – tall and slender, marked by campaign scars – was covered only by a linen shirt, clinging to her curves with the dampness of a restless sleep. Her glass eye, fixed, and the other – that eye as blue as fractured ice – met those of her two lieutenants, as if issuing a challenge.
Gregor, bare-chested, approached first. His heavy hand slid round her waist, pulling her to him with the firmness of someone who already knew where to touch. He kissed her neck, brushing his short beard across her sensitive skin. Elizaveta let out a murmur, a low sound, almost a purr.
Dário watched from a distance. The light from the brazier drew shadows on his dark, sculpted body, where the Solterran tattoos rippled to the rhythm of his breathing. When she held out her hand to him, he came as if called by a divine voice.
The three of them were now standing together in the centre of the tent. Elizaveta stood between the two men, her shirt being slowly undone, button by button. Gregor was nibbling her earlobe and Dário was stroking her belly under the linen with his strong, warm fingers, like embers awakening the skin.
Elizaveta laughed low, a husky, excited sound, and pushed Gregor onto the furs above the bed. She sat on him confidently, her gaze fixed on Dário, who was kneeling behind her, pulling her blonde hair tenderly and nibbling her bare shoulder. His hands were already exploring her breasts, while Gregor kissed her on the chest, leaving red marks along the way.
There was sweat on their temples, muffled sighs, hoarse moans and touches that were lost between urgency and devotion. The scents of leather, heated bodies and old desires filled the air.
Gregor ran his hands down Elizaveta's thighs, making room for him, exploring her with fingers that already knew the way. She arched her back, letting out a loud moan, as Dário descended, his lips leaving a wet trail down the curve of her spine, until he disappeared between her legs. His tongue was hot, agile, knowledgeable – and Elizaveta almost lost her balance, clutching Gregor's chest, her nails digging into his flesh.
– Like that... – she whispered between her teeth.
Her breathing became more and more ragged. The pleasure came in waves and she let herself go, moaning loudly, clamping her thighs around Dário's face, who didn't stop, didn't slow down, like a thirsty animal. Gregor kissed her hungrily, squeezed her nipples, pulled her hair, as if he too was on the verge of losing himself.
When she was trembling between the two of them, she pushed Gregor away with a mischievous smile and turned round, making him lie down between the furs. She climbed onto him gracefully, fitting into him as if her body had been made for that moment.
Dário, kneeling behind her, watched – first with restrained admiration, then with growing desire. His dark skin, tanned by the campaigns in the deserts of Solterra, contrasted with the whiteness of Elizaveta's skin and her toned body. She glanced back over her shoulder and didn't need to say anything.
The invitation was in that look, in that half-smile that mixed pleasure and challenge.
Dário moved closer and his warm hands slid down her back, slowly moving up to her neck. His fingers explored her wet skin with reverence, like someone groping the outline of an old map. Elizaveta moaned low, and the sound was an order:
– Come.
Now she was between the two of them – Gregor's body beneath her, firm and warm, and behind him, Dário, embedded, his lips against the nape of her neck, his hands squeezing her hips with a hunger she could no longer hide. He entered her slowly, as if every centimetre was being savoured, and Elizaveta arched her back, panting, feeling whole.
She was being shared. And it was her decision.
The two men moved in sync, as if they had practised that silent combat. Gregor, lying down, gripped her thighs, guiding the rhythm with restrained moans. Dário, from behind, murmured loving words – promises, oaths, desires – into her ear, while digging his teeth into her shoulder and making her shudder.
Her skin was sweating. The heat was unbearable and sacred. The smell of leather, of heated wood, of the salt of bodies was mixed with an ancient perfume. Elizaveta lost herself in that whirlwind of sensations – the weight of their bodies, the damp sound of their movements, their intertwined sighs, their hands alternating between firmness and affection.
She turned round, in an agile and unexpected gesture, and pushed Dário to the ground with a lascivious smile. She mounted him with one fluid movement, her hips rolling like a warrior goddess in ecstasy, as she pulled Gregor to her by the nape of his neck. She tasted him with ferocity, feeling them both around her, surrendered to her.
The pleasure grew like a fast march, like a drum beating louder and louder. When the climax came, it was like a banner being raised on the battlefield – with force, with pride, with triumph. She screamed – a hoarse, liberating sound, as the bodies of the two men surrendered with her, one on each side, in the same instant of pure abandon.
The three of them collapsed onto the furs, entwined. They breathed like soldiers after a hard-won victory. Sweat trickled down their temples, and their fingers still searched for one another in a lingering caresses. Elizaveta smiled, eyes closed, her heart pounding like a galloping horse.
– My wolves... – she murmured.
And her wolves fell asleep, pressed against her, as if the world outside had ceased to exist.
The command tent lay under the weight of a warm silence, broken only by the slow breathing of three entwined bodies. Elizaveta, lying in the centre, felt the weight of Gregor's arm across her chest and Dário's hand resting on the curve of her hip. Her skin still trembled with heat, with surrender, with the delicious stupor that followed pleasure. Her blue eye, half-open, fixed on the ceiling of the tent as if she could hold back time.
For a few fleeting moments, the world was nothing more than that nest of sweaty bodies, shared sighs, and the scent of leather, sex, and burned wood.
– We could die like this – murmured Gregor, his voice hoarse against her neck.
– But there's still much to kill before that – replied Elizaveta, almost smiling.
It was then that the sound of heavy footsteps approached the tent's entrance. A hurried murmur, the scrape of a sabre against its scabbard.
– Captain! – called a firm voice from the other side of the canvas. – Permission to enter. It's urgent.
Elizaveta rose from between the two lieutenants, still naked but without shame. She pulled the blanket up to her waist and fixed her gaze on the entrance.
– Enter, Sergeant.
The flap was hastily lifted, and Sergeant Ulrik appeared, tall, muddy up to the knees, chest heaving.
– We've detected movement on the Southern road, Captain. Aurelian infantry column with light artillery. They're heading north. Looks like they intend to encircle us.
Silence fell immediately. Elizaveta leaned forward, her ice-cold eyes cutting through the air like blades.
– Distance?
– Their vanguard was about five kilometres away. They'll reach the bend of Lago Sereno in less than two hours.
She looked at Gregor and Dário, who were already rising and dressing with the precision of seasoned soldiers.
– Ulrik, wake the Wolves. Prepare the horses. We break camp in fifteen minutes. I want all the cargo ready before the sun reaches the ridge peak. Bring only what's essential. Light artillery and muskets at the rear. We'll strike their flank before they reach Lagoverde.
– Yes, Captain.
Ulrik struck his fist to his chest and vanished in a gust of cold air.
Gregor was fastening his belt over a still-crumpled shirt. Dário cleaned his sabre with a dark cloth, his eyes already focused on the hard reality ahead.
Elizaveta, now standing, donned her white fur coat with movements both elegant and firm. She fastened her belt, adjusted her sabre at her hip, and finally put on her helmet – an ornate piece, adorned with icy-blue plumes that shimmered in the breeze entering the tent.
– Let's show them how the Wolves hunt! – she said, with her commander voice.
The sun was already scorching the sky in tones of gold and white when the first soldiers began to rise from their sweat-soaked blankets. The heat inside the tents was suffocating, saturated with the scent of leather, hay, and bodies. The air was heavy, windless, and the humidity clung to clothes before they were even fully fastened.
To the dry beat of alarm drums, the mercenary camp of the Winter Wolves woke with the swiftness of a pack scenting danger.
The regiment was more than a mere company of horsemen – it was a legend in motion, cloaked in steel, wind, and silence.
Formed of renegades, forgotten veterans and disillusioned idealists, the group had become feared in every war they took part in. Known for their iron discipline, surgical brutality, and fanatical loyalty to their commander, the Wolves represented both the end of hope for their enemies and the final flash of salvation for allies in despair.
Most hailed from the Kingdom of Aurelia, but there were men from the western deserts of Solterra, from the fjords of Ventora, and even some deserters from Ferralia and Silvania – all with pasts they preferred to leave buried.
Now, they were known by what they wore – a sight that chilled even the most battle-hardened veterans.
Each Wolf rode a heavy warhorse, broad of hoof and chest, ideal for any clash. The horses' legs were wrapped in grey cloth, with light armour on the manes, and the mounts seemed as much a part of the unit as the riders themselves.
They wore pale blue hussar-style coats, with tight sleeves, high collars, and fastenings of silver cords. Over their shoulders, they bore wolf-fur epaulettes – trophies from past hunts or winter battles. Their trousers were thick and grey, tucked into black boots that reached the knee.
Over this, they wore polished metal cuirasses, reflective as mirrors, often decorated with small personal engravings – a flower, a lost name, a tribal symbol. On their backs, wing-like structures rose with every charge – artificial feathers of light wood and hardened leather, painted white, black, or red, fastened by crossed straps over the shoulders. The wings shifted as they trotted and sliced the air with a near-supernatural hiss when they charged.
Their helmets varied from man to man, woman to woman, but were always closed, with ornate visors and sharp edges. Nearly all bore plumes or trailing manes.
Their war-names echoed through the rolls of vanquished armies: "Black Wolf", "Broken Tooth", "Thin Ice", "Silence", among others – but all were known by the same title among enemies: "The Captain's Spectres."
The tents were ripped from the ground with haste, pegs torn loose by force. Horses neighed under the already blazing heat, while blacksmiths hurried to adjust shoes or repair loose stirrups. Men and women ran with canteens, muskets, powder satchels on their shoulders, boots kicking up golden dust that clung to sweaty skin like flour.
The camp buzzed with clipped orders and precise movements. One group was dismantling the light artillery – small cast-iron cannons whose wheels were already hot to the touch. Another lined up the horses in long rows, hooves striking the scorched earth nervously. The hussars wore their light-blue coats and cuirasses, their chests baking beneath the summer sun.
Elizaveta rode past on horseback, surveying everything with a steady gaze, her sabre at her side, the skin of her neck gleaming beneath the white collar. Her lieutenants followed close behind, already mounted and armed, uniforms clinging to their bodies, faces serious and alert.
To her left rode Gregor Malhov, observing the Wolves from atop his stallion.
A thirty-three-year-old man. Tall, well-built, with broad shoulders and arms like iron beams, his body bore the signs of a youth spent between Ferralian mines, anvils, and battlefields. His skin was pallid, sickly white, as if untouched by sunlight since childhood, and his eyes – grey as rusted steel – scanned the world with silent scepticism.
Once a sergeant in Ferralia's mechanical battalions, he deserted after he had crushed a mutiny in cold blood. Elizaveta had been his saviour, rescuing him from a prison camp, and since then, he had served her with wordless loyalty. In battle, he wielded a Ferralian cavalry axe – a monstrous weapon, handled with brutal precision.
To her right rode Dário Solvani, three years younger than Elizaveta, polishing his golden sabre – a legacy from his father, slain in a duel of honour.
Dário was everything Gregor was not: warmth, colour, and charisma. With an equally imposing stature, his body was muscular and agile, like that of a dancer armed for war. His bronzed skin gleamed in the sun like polished brass, and his eyes, of a dark amber colour, sparkled constantly – with both disdain and a hunger for combat.
Born in the smoking hills of Solterra, he was the son of an imperial officer and a renowned courtesan. Educated at the academies of Arenosa, he had a sharp tongue, a quick fist, and natural elegance. He always wore fine leather gloves and a silk scarf at his neck – even on the march.
A born duellist, a ruthless strategist, and a seducer of words and silences – among other things. Wanted in Solterra for allegedly seducing the wife and both daughters of a nobleman, – on the same night, according to tavern gossip – he had been found wandering by Elizaveta at the edge of a trail.
Many distrusted him – rightly so, especially if they were married or had daughters – but the Captain had always entrusted him with the most difficult missions.
There were no shouts, only the quickening rhythm of a force that knew what it was doing.
At the rear, mules carried ammunition, tripods, water barrels and bandages already damp from morning dew. Further ahead, some soldiers splashed water on their faces, trying to wake themselves from the sticky heat that clouded their minds.
The Winter Wolves, even sweaty, dust-covered, and armoured, moved with pure grace – like dancers of war.
And in the distance, under the shimmering heat that blurred the landscape, the first shapes began to rise – the Aurelian column advancing along the southern road.
The pack was preparing to hunt.
And the hunt would be bloody.
The first sound was the muffled trot of hooves on the dew-soaked soil of dawn. The fog, thick and damp like curdled milk, covered the southern hills of the Royal Road. The Winter Wolves advanced in silence, as they always did. Their coats rippled in the wind like cold water from a glacial river, and the wings on their backs fluttered lightly with each gallop.
Elizaveta rode at the front. Her gaze did not waver. The reins of her black stallion were damp with dew, and the curved sabre at her waist beat against its scabbard with the cadence of a war drum.
On the northern slopes, Gregor commanded the left flank. His deep, guttural voice guided the men with military precision. Dário led the right flank. Both awaited the signal – and that signal would be Elizaveta's feigned retreat.
Down below, entrenched in a depression of the terrain, the Aurelian soldiers were preparing to hold their ground. Around twelve hundred men against six hundred Wolves – infantry in well-formed lines, emerald-green uniforms with golden trim, immaculate white trousers and shining black leather boots. Their bicornes, adorned with golden plumes fluttering in the breeze, gave them an almost ceremonial appearance. The artillery, about a hundred men, wore dark green coats with grey trousers, their caps bearing a polished bronze insignia – a blazing sun above two crossed cannons.
When the bugles sounded, Elizaveta gave the order: advance. First slowly, then faster. The short lances were raised, flintlock muskets and pistols prepared. It looked like a direct charge... until, less than a hundred metres away, facing a line of soldiers with weapons at the ready and bayonets pointed at her and her Wolves, she pulled the reins and turned her horse to the left.
– Retreat! – Elizaveta shouted.
The three hundred Wolves at the centre did the same, diving into calculated chaos.
The Aurelian soldiers believed the retreat. They shouted, cheered, advanced – and at that moment, Gregor and Dário tightened the noose. Like the claws of a predator closing in on its prey, the flanks attacked. Galloping horses, wings beating, lances piercing. Dário led his unit of one hundred and fifty horsemen in a spiralling descent on the right flank, sabres cutting through the air, felling men with each blow like trees under the axe.
The roar of artillery tore through the sky. Cannons spat fire and metal, shredding flesh and breaking bones. A horse was hurled into the air like a straw doll, blood and entrails scattering. But the Wolves did not stop.
Elizaveta turned again. Her hussars fired their flintlock pistols at almost point-blank range, her good eye fixed on the Aurelian officer shouting orders in vain. The man fell silently, his mouth open in a final, choked cry. And then the Wolves at the centre launched their final charge. The fog parted like a veil before them. Short sabres gleamed, men and women screamed – some in rage, others in fear.
The sound of battle was deafening: the clashing of swords, the thunder of gunpowder, the moans of the dying. The stench of blood, powder, sweat and mud mixed into a bitter vapour. An Aurelian soldier, with half his face burned, fell to his knees, hands trembling. Another, missing an arm, cried out for his mother before fainting.
The Aurelian lines broke. First they hesitated, then fled – but the Wolves showed no mercy. Those who tried to escape through the rear met Gregor's steel. Those who turned to resist fell under Dário's onslaught. At the centre, Elizaveta fought with the precision of a lethal predator: each blow of hers was an end; each command, a sentence.
In less than an hour, the field was won.
Crows circled the still-smoking bodies. Wounded men groaned in pools of bloodied mud. The Wolves, breathless, began to slow. One, blood-soaked to the knees, murmured a prayer. Another, still mounted, wept softly.
Elizaveta looked to the horizon. The fog was lifting. Beside her, Gregor wiped clean his axe. Dário ran a cloth over his face. Both unharmed. Both alive.
– Victory – Elizaveta murmured, but her tone was cold as ice.
The battle was over. Its purpose, unknown.
The field was now silent, wrapped in a thinning mist that was beginning to fade, the weather returning to what it had been when they broke camp: scorching, merciless.
The bodies had been removed, the weapons gathered, and the Wolves of Winter regrouped in silence, eyes fixed on their leaders.
By a beech tree, Elizaveta stood with her fur coat stained by the blood of others. Gregor and Dário sat on a fallen log, cleaning boots and blades with routine gestures, their gaze lost in the motion.
– It made no sense... – Gregor murmured, frowning. – Those men came at us as if looking for us. But why? We have no contract with Aurelia or its enemies... and we're not in hostile territory. That's already the second group to attack us without provocation this week. We were lucky the first time they charged us, since we were ready.
– Maybe it's paranoia – Dário suggested, though doubt darkened his eyes. – But they had maps. And their formation... it was an ambush, Eliza.
Before the Captain could respond, one of the scouts approached in haste. His face was pale and sweaty, and in his bloodied hands he carried a folded sheet, sealed with a broken royal crest of Aurelia.
– Captain... we found this on the body of an artillery officer. I'd say it's official.
Elizaveta took the sheet carefully and unfolded it where the wax seal had once held it shut. She read silently. Her one living eye slid over the elegant handwriting, her brow arching with glacial slowness. Then she looked at Gregor and Dário, and handed them the letter without a word.
Dário read aloud:
′Royal Order – Confidential
In the name of His Majesty, King Alaric IV of Aurelia, Chosen of Solarius, Protector of the East, it is hereby decreed:
That Captain Elizaveta Volkova, former officer of the Aurelian cavalry, traitor to the Crown, and her lieutenants, Gregor Malhov and Dário Solvani, are to be considered hostile to the Realm.
It has been confirmed, by reliable sources, that they collaborate with the Green League of Silvania, acting as vanguard and reconnaissance for Silvanian forces who have crossed the border marked by the Flumen Aureum.
They are to be captured alive, if possible – but neutralised by any means should they prove resistant.
This order is to be carried out with urgency and discretion.
Given at the Royal Palace of Aureliana, 7th day of the month of Calorium, in the Year of the Sun King 1780.
Signed: Count Radamiro of Avarra, Minister of War of Aurelia.′
The silence that followed was thick as black smoke. The wind whispered through the twisted trees. Elizaveta clenched the letter with iron fingers.
– This... this is absurd! – Gregor said at last. – There is no war between Aurelia and Silvania. And we... we've never acted on the League's orders. We worked with them, yes, but only once, and for fair pay.
– And that was months ago – Dário added, disbelief in his tone. – What in tarnation is going on?"
Elizaveta stepped forward. Her voice was low but cutting, like a blade dipped in ice.
– There is movement in the North. Aurelian soldiers in borderlands. Squadrons sent without banners. And now... we are considered traitors. Something is being hidden.
She turned to her two lieutenants.
– If we're being hunted for collaborating with Silvania... then perhaps it's time to act like we're guilty.
Gregor and Dário looked at each other, perplexed, then turned their gaze to her.
– You want to go to Silvania? – the Solterran asked, raising an eyebrow.
– I want to warn the druids – Elizaveta replied, firmly. – I want them to know that something stirs in the South, in the shadows. And I want answers.
She raised her chin and addressed the Wolves gathered around her.
– If Aurelia wants war with Silvania, then let them know that we, the Wolves of Winter, will not be pawns on their board. Mount up. Before nightfall, I want us across the border. We ride for the Bosco Antico. The city of Boscoluna should receive us well, and the druids there will know what to do.
Gregor gave a half-smile.
– And if they're waiting for us in Riberaguarda as well, at the Silvanian border?
– Then – Elizaveta said, mounting her stallion in one agile leap, – it will be the dawn of the next bloodbath.