Frosthaven was not only immersed in snow, but also in blood and chaos.
The once-quiet northern walls shook beneath colossal blows, the ancient stones groaning as though they too shared the agony of their defenders. Rift-spawn had always been grotesque, bestial things—minds long since lost to madness.
But these… these were different.
Figures emerged from the aurora-torn sky: tall, sinewed creatures shaped like men but twisted, wrong in every angle. Their armor shimmered as though woven from living frost, their eyes burned with an intelligence colder than the blizzard winds.
They advanced in disciplined ranks, wielding weapons that thrummed with rift energy, cutting through steel and flesh as though both were parchment.
"Hold the gates!" Duke Lionel roared, his voice carrying above the shrieks and clash of steel.
His frost-rimed greatsword swung in relentless arcs, severing limbs and splitting helms, each strike a desperate promise to the land he swore to protect. The monsters bled molten ice, their wounds hissing against the stones as though the earth itself recoiled from them.
Men fell around him, torn apart by blades of rift-forged malice. Others rose, their eyes hard, only to be struck down in turn. And still, none turned from the fight.
The Duke's presence—unyielding, indomitable—anchored them, his iron will stronger than any shield.
From behind the battered shield wall, Lionel barked his order.
"You—squad to me! Protect the couriers! They ride for the alliance with what we've seen. Their words must reach Arasha and the king, even if my body does not!"
A dozen stepped forward without hesitation, faces set like stone, grim and resolute. They knew what he asked of them: to leave their lord, to abandon their brothers, and to carve a path through death itself.
But they obeyed, because Lionel had never once asked of them what he himself would not give.
The Duke and his knights threw themselves into the breach, blades flashing, shields shattering beneath the rift-things' fury. Bolts of lightning ripped the walls, turning stone to vapor, yet Lionel lifted his frost-forged shield and took the brunt, his body convulsing with the force.
His teeth ground together, blood spilling from split lips, but he did not fall.
"Go!" he thundered, his voice ragged but unbroken. "Ride until your horses die beneath you if you must—but deliver the truth!"
The couriers spurred their mounts, bursting free through the breach as Lionel and his guard formed an unbreakable wall behind them. Not one creature slipped past.
Not while his men yet drew breath.
When the last rider cleared the gates, silence settled in Lionel's heart. He turned then, shoulders squared, eyes blazing with the certainty of a man who had already chosen his death. Around him, his knights tightened their grip on sword and shield.
No word passed between them—they did not need it. Their lord had chosen to stand, and so would they.
Lionel pressed a gauntleted hand against Frosthaven's battered wall, whispering as if the stones themselves were kin.
"No calamity shall breach you. Not while I draw breath."
His men echoed him, voices hoarse but fierce:
"Not while we draw breath!"
And with that, they hurled themselves back into the maelstrom, their blades singing like a storm, their loyalty burning brighter than any hope of survival. Death loomed over them, but they did not falter—for what they held dear was worth the price of their lives.
****
Within the keep, the Duchess clutched the curtains of the high window, knuckles white against the velvet folds. Her eyes strained into the snow-veiled horizon, searching for any sign of her husband.
Lanterns flickered along the walls below, but beyond them—only the restless glow of corrupted auroras. She prayed he was already on his way home, though dread whispered otherwise.
Her arms tightened around the small, writhing child at her side. Levi, only two years old, whimpered fitfully, his tiny body shuddering as the twisted crest of fate glowed faintly upon his skin, curling like branded fire. The same cruel mark that had scarred Arasha's youth now marred her son.
At her side, Lucian tugged gently at her gown. The boy's face, pale in the candlelight, bore none of Levi's innocent softness.
At barely nine, he had learned to hold his chin firm and his back straight, mirroring the father who might never return.
Yet beneath that brittle strength, his eyes betrayed the storm of fear he fought to cage.
"Mother…" His voice was steady, though small. "Let me take him. Levi will be calmer if I play with him. We'll be safe. Butler Rowan and the maids will stay with us."
The Duchess's breath caught. She wanted to refuse—wanted to keep both her sons in her arms, as if love alone could shield them from the evil clawing at Frosthaven's gates.
But Lucian's gaze—so like Lionel's, unflinching even as shadows loomed—held her still.
For a moment, he seemed older than he was. Too old.
She pressed a trembling kiss to Levi's silver hair, then carefully placed the boy into Lucian's waiting arms. "Very well. Take him, my brave one. Keep him close."
Lucian nodded, tightening his grip around his little brother as though he could carry away both the weight of the child and the burden of her fears.
Levi whimpered, but when Lucian whispered a soft promise—"It's all right, I've got you"—the toddler's cries quieted, soothed more by his brother's steady heart than words.
The servants closed ranks around them like silent sentinels. Butler Rowan placed a hand on Lucian's shoulder as they walked, not guiding but steadying, a quiet reassurance passed without a word.
Two maids exchanged a worried glance yet smiled faintly for the children's sake, hiding their trembling hands within folded aprons. Even the youngest page, no older than Lucian, puffed his chest and marched stiffly beside them, as if by mimicking courage he might lend it.
Lucian bore it all in silence. He straightened his back, clutching Levi close as if daring the world to test his promise.
He would be the man of the house—because someone had to be, even if his knees wanted to buckle with fear at the thought that his father might never come back.
When the door closed behind them, silence swallowed the chamber.
The Duchess turned sharply, her trembling hands fumbling for the sigil-stone hidden in her drawer—the very one Arasha had pressed into her palm months ago when Levi's crest first appeared.
At her touch, the stone flared to life, heat searing through her dread.
"Commander Arasha," she whispered, voice breaking.
The reply came at once, fierce and steady, the sound of galloping hooves thundering faintly behind it.
"I hear you. I am already riding north. Lionel will not die. Frosthaven will not fall while I still draw breath."
Tears spilled freely down the Duchess's cheeks, but her lips curved in fragile relief. That promise—that voice unshaken by fear—was enough to steady her heart.
"Thank you," she breathed, clutching the sigil close. "Please… keep him safe."
As the connection dimmed, she turned once more to the window. No messenger had yet returned. The night sky still burned with fractured auroras, each ripple of light a wound across heaven itself.
Yet her heart was lighter, not because the danger had lessened, but because she was no longer alone in bearing it.
Somewhere within the keep, she knew Lucian was sitting with his little brother, whispering stories of brave knights and gentle winters to lull him to rest.
The boy was afraid—of course he was—but he bore that fear in silence, shouldering more than any child should, so that his mother might breathe.
And that, more than anything, made her pray all the harder that Lionel would come home to see what their son had already become.