The Wolves of Winter advanced at a slow pace, the horses' hooves crushing mud mixed with already darkened blood. Bodies lay scattered like broken scarecrows – soldiers in torn uniforms, unarmed peasants, women and the elderly caught in the midst of a war that had never belonged to them. The air was heavy, putrid, laden with iron and entrails, and even the horses, accustomed to the horrors of war, snorted uneasily, rolling their eyes as they sensed the stench of recent death.
Elizaveta rode at the front, upright in the saddle, her icy expression broken only by the hard gleam in her eyes. In the distance, among corpses and shattered wagons, she spotted Lucien Darcos. She approached him without haste, as though fearing that any sudden movement might awaken the dead.
– What happened here? – she asked, her voice low, yet sharp as a well-kept blade.
Lucien raised his gaze. The man looked older than he had that very morning. There was dried blood on his uniform, and his eyes carried something worse than exhaustion – they carried revulsion.
– I always knew the Iron Dominion had no scruples – he said, with a bitter laugh that died before it could fully form. – And the High Lord Magno Ferroforte… that one never pretended to have a soul. But this… this went beyond what I expected.
Elizaveta followed his gaze. She saw youths no older than thirteen summers, crushed among broken muskets and bayonets, peasants driven forward like cattle to the slaughter.
– They sent civilians – Lucien continued, his voice now laden with restrained fury. – Deliberately. A human shield. They marched them at the front in military uniforms so we would assume they were the main force and attack them. Meanwhile, the real force stayed in the rear, waiting. Waiting to see whether the children, the elderly, and the weakest could bring us down… and only advanced when Dante killed them all with the ashes.
Silence fell between them, heavy as snow before an avalanche. Elizaveta clenched her jaw. She had taken part in many wars, had seen betrayals, but this was something else. This was not strategy; it was cruelty dressed in calculation.
– How many did we lose? – she asked, without taking her eyes off the ground.
– Almost none – Lucien replied. – A dozen, at most. Twelve rebels… perhaps fewer, perhaps more. The truth is there was barely a fight worthy of the name.
– Then where are the others? – Elizaveta asked, frowning.
– We still don't know where Dante is… nor the forces that followed him in the charge down the hill – Lucien replied hesitantly, glancing around as though afraid the very earth might be listening. – But I saw what happened to them. They were hit by the gas, the cursed Grey Protocol. Men and women fell as if they had been cursed by the gods, suffocating, trembling. They clutched at their own chests as though their hearts were being torn out from within. Unfortunately, there is no cure. If they inhaled the gas… it is already too late for them.
Elizaveta tightened her grip on the reins. She knew stories of that Ferralian poison, but had never suspected the rumours were true. Ferralia had created a weapon that did not distinguish between bravery and weakness, between soldiers and children.
– Find them – she ordered. – Now.
The Wolves moved at once, riding beyond the road, following the trail of the rebel charge, climbing and descending slopes marked by hurried footprints and isolated bodies. It did not take long to find them in a low valley, where the grass was trampled flat and the silence was almost reverent.
There was Dante. His body was hunched, kneeling on the ground, his arms wrapped tightly around Iago, like a man who refuses to let go of the last fragment of the world that still makes sense. Iago lay motionless, his face far too serene for someone in the midst of war, lips bluish with blood at the edges, eyes closed as if asleep.
The scene was beautiful in its intimacy, terrifying in its stillness, and profoundly sad. Two men shaped by war, reduced to what they had always been beneath all the bravado and shared battles: brothers-in-arms, friends, survivors who had learned to entrust their very lives to one another.
The Wolves gathered in an irregular circle, set apart from the dead, yet unable to truly distance themselves from what had happened there. The wind stirred the banners, and the silence was broken only by the weary snorting of the horses. Gregor was the first to speak. His face, hardened by years of war, now seemed carved from stone.
– And now? – he asked, looking directly at Elizaveta. – The leader of the rebellion is dead. What do we do when the one who seeks freedom dies?
Before Elizaveta could respond, Dário urged his horse a step forward. There was weariness in his eyes, but also something else – a living, almost luminous stubbornness.
– He was the leader, yes – he said firmly – but the rebellion was not his alone. Ideals do not die with the men who carry them. There are still people fighting, people waiting for this conflict to end.
– Waiting for what? More death? – Gregor retorted, snorting in disbelief.
Elizaveta raised a hand, imposing silence. When she spoke, her voice was not harsh, but it carried the weight of all the decisions that had already cost lives.
– We have already lost too much to retreat now. Blood, soldiers, time… and parts of ourselves that will never return. If we try to cross the Green League, we will be attacked. This is not a maybe, it is a certainty – her gaze swept over the group surrounding her, making sure they all heard. – And even if, by some miracle, we manage to pass through, the Kingdom of Aurelia still wants our heads. They will not forget us any time soon, and will no doubt still be hunting us to claim their reward. We, therefore, have two options: the first is to head south, along the road that leads to the Kingdom of Calentia. It will not be easy, as we will have to cross the Bosco Antico through a less frequented stretch, though no less dangerous. The second option – she said, and her voice hardened – is to finish Dante's mission. To continue harrying the Iron Dominion and do what he no longer can.
Gregor clenched his fist.
– And, by doing so, bring a new order to the kingdom – he murmured.
– Exactly – Elizaveta replied. – We would not do it for glory, nor for revenge, but because, if we do not, all of this – she gestured behind her, towards the silent battlefield – will have been for nothing.
– I don't know which plan is the most sensible – Gregor admitted. – But if you ask me, I would rather help my compatriots. Ferralia is rotten from within, and someone has to set it right.
Dário nodded at once. There was a restrained anger in his expression, but also hope, a rare combination in times of war.
– I agree. What the leaders of this kingdom have done… – he spat on the ground – is not governing; it is abusing power and creating a tyranny. A change would not only be just, but it would also make Ferralia a better kingdom – he then looked at Elizaveta. – But tell me: if we find the High Lord, what do we do with him?
– He dies… – Gregor did not hesitate. He spoke simply, as one states a law of nature. – And then… – he inclined his head slightly in Elizaveta's direction – you rule.
Elizaveta raised her gaze, cold:
– I am not the monarch of any kingdom, nor do I wish to be. I was not born for thrones, nor for crowns. To rule requires things I do not have… or do not want to have.
– I disagree – Dário said, almost indignant. – I will always disagree with that opinion of yours. You were always the right person in every bad moment. When everything went wrong, you knew what to do. When defeat seemed certain, you brought us victories. And when there were problems… – he sketched a weary smile – you never hid behind anyone. You were always the one who stepped forward.
– Perhaps, but that is not a debate for now – she turned, pointing towards the west, where the land rose into misty hills. – Before we speak of thrones or futures, we must make the present bleed. We must find where the Ferralian army went and we must discover where the High Lord is hiding. Without destroying his army and without his head, no plan moves forward, no change happens, and no hope survives.
Elizaveta and her Wolves rode on for some time, following worn trails and improvised paths, when the silence began to unravel. First there was a distant murmur, then overlapping voices, shouts, an excessive, disorderly noise – far too chaotic for a disciplined army.
Elizaveta raised her hand, ordering a halt. She brought the monocle to her good eye and leaned slightly in the saddle. In the distance she saw what seemed to be a huge bonfire taking shape. Logs piled excessively high, barrels emptied in haste, soldiers moving in nervous circles around it. There was no order in their gestures, nor calm in their faces; it was an almost desperate bustle. She lowered the monocle and turned to Gregor and Dário.
– What do you think is happening?
– It doesn't look like a camp, nor a celebration – Gregor replied, narrowing his eyes.
– Perhaps they are destroying something, or trying to purify something – Dário said cautiously. – I suggest we approach under a white flag.
– This is undoubtedly a trap – Gregor retorted, casting him a hard look.
– Even so, this will be the only way for us to know – Dário replied.
– Very well – Elizaveta said at last. – Let us approach under a white flag, but stay alert.
One of the Wolves raised the pale cloth, and a small escort moved slowly forward to accompany Elizaveta, detaching itself from the main force. As they approached, the noise became clearer: hysterical laughter, arguments, contradictory orders. What remained of the Ferralian army seemed less a force of war and more a wounded body in panic.
From the restless mass of soldiers, a single man stepped forward. He was a lieutenant, still young for the weight he carried, but already marked by several campaigns. His uniform was dishevelled, the collar torn, dark stains of smoke and dried blood streaking his coat. His face was angular, austere in its features, with an unshaven beard and sunken, reddened eyes, not only from exhaustion, but from sleepless nights. His hat was tucked under his arm, held with excessive force, as if it were the last anchor of authority he had left.
He stopped a few paces from Elizaveta and tilted his head, not in full reverence, but in a rigid, learned gesture, now emptied of ceremony.
– Who commands this army? – Elizaveta asked directly, without preamble.
The lieutenant swallowed hard before replying.
– I do, my lady – he hesitated for a brief instant. – All my superiors are dead.
Elizaveta swept the camp with her gaze: scattered soldiers, weapons abandoned on the ground, voices too loud, no formation, no sentry worthy of the name.
– Then explain this to me – she said. – Why is your army not in formation? Why are you not prepared for a counter-attack? This does not look like a military camp; it looks like a… trial..
The lieutenant drew a deep breath. When he spoke again, there was no fear left in his voice, only a late, but firm, resolve.
– Because that is exactly what is happening – he pointed towards the great bonfire, now almost complete. – We are sentencing High Lord Magno Ferroforte.
Gregor and Dário exchanged a quick glance.
– He will be found guilty – the lieutenant continued – of crimes against the kingdom and against his own population. Murder, genocide, the deliberate use of civilians as a weapon of war – his voice hardened – and of actively and consciously unbalancing Ferralia towards ruin.
Elizaveta remained still, her expression unreadable.
– And you decided this on your own? – she asked.
– No – he replied – we all decided. Soldiers, surviving officers, even some civilians who followed us – he tightened his grip on the hat between his fingers. – He ruled in our name, but today… he will answer for his crimes.
Elizaveta exchanged a brief look with Gregor and Dário. There were no words between them, only the silent understanding that they were witnessing history being made before their very eyes. Then she turned back to the lieutenant.
– Why did you do this? Why did you dare to turn against your High Lord now?
The lieutenant straightened himself. For the first time since he had approached, his voice no longer trembled.
– Because we saw Ferrumia die before our eyes – he said. – We saw men, women and children thrown onto the front line as shields, simply so that the army might survive – he paused, his eyes gleaming with restrained fury. – No oath survives that.
The murmur of the camp seemed to diminish, as if the soldiers themselves wished to hear what was being said.
– After this day – the lieutenant continued – all the officers who remained made the same decision: we rebelled, not out of ambition, but out of shame – he drew a deep breath. – And, in the end… we realised that Dante Ferroso was right in his actions.
The name was spoken with respect, almost with guilt.
– He always spoke of the rot coming from the top, of the great families, of how they abuse the common people while hiding behind titles and banners. We laughed at him, called him a traitor… today we know he was merely an honest man. Magno Ferroforte was captured, judged by us and found guilty of crimes against the kingdom, against its population… and of active genocide against all who dared to disagree with him – he pointed to the great funeral pyre. – That is for him. According to the doctrine preached by the Cult of the Eternal Sun, fire is the final justice. The flames will attempt to purify him of all sins… before death.
– We have a common enemy – Elizaveta said, turning her gaze away from the pyre and back to the lieutenant. Her voice was calm, but laden with intent. – Ferralia bled at the hands of the same man who pursued Dante and tried to crush the rebellion. I ask you this directly: can your soldiers and the rebels make a truce?
The lieutenant did not answer at once. He looked around, at the exhausted soldiers, at the faces marked by horror and guilt, at the pyre awaiting its condemned man. When he spoke again, he did so with a clarity that no longer required higher authority.
– Yes – he said at last. – We can, and we must – he squared his shoulders. – The truce is accepted, and more than that… I invite you, and Dante's rebels, to be witnesses to the execution of High Lord Magno Ferroforte, so that no one may say this was done in secret and so that the kingdom may know that even its own soldiers judged him unworthy.
– I accept – Elizaveta replied to the invitation, remaining still for a moment. Then she turned to her Wolves. – Send messengers. Bring Lucien Darcos and the surviving rebels. They will want to be here for this.
The Wolves of Winter moved without hesitation, mounting their horses and departing as swiftly as the cold that gave them their name.
Some time later, the Wolves, Dante's rebels and the remnants of the Ferralian army formed an irregular circle, silent, heavy with expectation. There were no cries of triumph, no chants, only the nervous crackle of the fire yet to be lit and the wind.
The High Lord walked – or, more accurately, was dragged – between two soldiers. He no longer resembled the man who ruled Ferralia with an iron fist. His body was hunched, his face gaunt, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime. Even so, something indomitable burned in his eyes: pure hatred, distilled by a lifetime of unchecked power.
They bound him to the pyre with thick ropes, tightened around his chest, arms and legs. The wood creaked under the weight, as if protesting the burden imposed upon it.
Magno lifted his head and laughed. It was a hoarse, broken laugh, yet laden with contempt.
– Do you think this ends here? – he shouted, spitting blood and saliva. – Do you think my death will save you?
The soldiers approached with lit torches.
– You will pay for this – he continued, his voice gaining strength as his end drew nearer. – Every one of you! Your children will inherit the war. Your lands will know famine. May the kingdom you seek to save drown in your blood!
The torches touched the wood of the pyre and the flames rose swiftly, ravenous, licking at the resin-soaked logs. The heat spread like a living wave.
And Magno began to scream. It was not a brief cry, but a prolonged one, laden with fury and terror. He thrashed against the ropes, his skin cracking, the smell of burning flesh mingling with the thick smoke that rose to the heavens.
– May the Eternal Sun abandon you! – he bellowed, his voice already distorted by pain. – May your names be forgotten! May your dreams burn with me!
The fire enveloped his face, and his words became gargles. Then, only animalistic sounds. His body arched one final time, and then lay still, consumed by the purifying flames.
Silence fell heavily when it was over, and the pyre continued to burn, reducing the former lord of Ferralia to ash and broken bones.