The North did not smell of pine and crisp air, as the poets claimed. It smelled of wet fur, dying fires, and fear.
Vespera pulled her wool cloak tighter around her shoulders. She had been riding for six days, crossing the frozen Tundra of Oakhaven to reach the forward operating base at Iron Pass. Her joints ached from the saddle, but the Ember Blood in her veins kept the biting frost at bay. While the soldiers around her shivered, she felt only a pleasant, humming warmth beneath her skin.
She guided her horse through the outer perimeter, her eyes scanning everything. She did not like what she saw.
The palisade walls were rotting. There were gaps in the patrol rotations. Men huddled around cookfires, gambling away their rations, their weapons piled carelessly in the mud. This wasn't an army; it was a graveyard waiting to be filled.
She kept her hood low, hiding the copper hair and the recognizable scar that ran down her jawline. She wanted to see the truth of this place before she announced herself.
Suddenly, a horn blasted—a jarring, discordant sound that shattered the lethargy of the camp.
"Breach! Western Perimeter! Breach!"
The gambling soldiers scrambled, tripping over each other in the mud. Vespera didn't flinch. She simply turned her horse toward the commotion, her hand drifting to the hilt of the sword beneath her cloak.
A section of the wooden wall, weakened by rot, had collapsed. Through the gap poured a dozen Frostborn.
They were hulking nightmares—men corrupted by ice magic, their skin blue-grey, their eyes glowing with a feral white light. They wielded jagged axes made of bone and black iron.
The first line of defenders crumbled instantly. A young soldier screamed as a Frostborn axe split his shield in two.
"Hold the line!" a voice roared.
It wasn't a panicked scream. It was a command that carried the weight of thunder.
From the roof of a supply shack, a figure launched himself into the air. He didn't take the stairs; he simply jumped, landing in the mud with a heavy splash that coated his boots.
Captain Kaelen Varro.
Vespera recognized him from the reports, though the sketches didn't do him justice. He was tall, lean rather than bulky, with hair as black as a raven's wing tied back in a messy knot. He wore no helmet, and his armor was a patchwork of scavenged leather and steel.
He moved like a wolf among sheep.
Kaelen didn't use a shield. He wielded a bastard sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. He ducked under a Frostborn's swinging axe, the movement so fluid it looked like a dance step. In one motion, he hamstrung the creature, spun, and drove his sword through its throat.
Black blood sprayed across the snow.
"Push them back!" Kaelen yelled, kicking the dying creature into its packmates to create a stumbling block. "Don't let them reach the medical tents!"
He was magnificent to watch. Vespera analyzed him with the cold detachment of a general. Fast reflexes. Excellent spatial awareness. High aggression.
But then she saw it. The Flaw.
Kaelen overextended. He lunged for a kill, leaving his left flank wide open. He was trusting his speed to save him, trusting that he was faster than the enemy.
He was wrong.
A second Frostborn, hidden behind the first, swung a heavy mace. Kaelen saw it too late. He twisted, but he was off-balance.
Vespera didn't think. She didn't shout. She just acted.
She spurred her horse forward. The warhorse, trained in the old days, slammed its chest into the Frostborn just as the mace came down. The impact sent the creature flying back into the mud with the sound of cracking ribs.
Kaelen stumbled back, breathless, his eyes wide. He looked up at the rider who had just saved his life.
The remaining soldiers rallied, emboldened by the Captain's ferocity and the mysterious cavalry support. Within moments, the Frostborn were hacked down, their bodies dissolving into puddles of foul-smelling slush.
Silence returned to the camp, broken only by the groans of the wounded.
Kaelen wiped black blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. He marched toward Vespera, his chest heaving. He didn't look grateful. He looked furious.
"Who are you?" he barked, gripping his sword. "Civilians are not permitted in the combat zone. You could have gotten in my way."
Vespera sat high in her saddle, looking down at him. Up close, he was even more striking—sharp cheekbones, a day's growth of stubble, and eyes the color of storm clouds. Eyes that were currently glaring at her with arrogant disdain.
"You left your flank open," Vespera said. Her voice was calm, low, and smooth. "You fight for the kill, Captain, not for the survival. That is why you are losing this war."
Kaelen bristled. The soldiers around them stopped tending to the wounded to watch. No one spoke to Captain Varro like that.
"I don't take critiques from travelers," Kaelen sneered. "Get off that horse and identify yourself before I have you thrown in the brig for interference."
"Interference?" Vespera reached up and pulled back her hood.
The heavy fabric fell away. The winter sun caught the fire of her red hair. It illuminated the hard line of her jaw and the silver scars that traced down her neck like jewelry. The heat radiating from her body seemed to melt the snowflakes landing on her pauldrons.
Kaelen froze. His eyes dropped to the white shield strapped to her saddle—the Gold Phoenix.
The arrogance drained out of his face, replaced by a sudden, jarring shock. He took a step back, his sword tip lowering into the mud.
"You," he whispered.
"Get your men in formation, Captain Varro," Vespera said, her voice ringing out across the silent camp. "And clean this mud off my boots. We have a war to win."