The battlefield still reeked of blood and smoke when Duke Lionel was carried forward, half-slumped between two of his knights. His armor was caked with gore, his side heavily bandaged, but his eyes still burned with the fire of a man who refused to fall while his people stood.
"Set the wounded aside—tend to them first," he rasped to his men, pushing away the healer that tried to steady him. His gaze lifted toward Arasha and Kane, both weary but unbowed, standing amid the wreckage of monsters dissolving into frost and ash.
"Commander Arasha, Commander Kane…" His voice cracked, but he forced the words out. "…Frosthaven stands today because of you. I owe you more than gratitude."
Arasha inclined her head, still gripping her glaive like a staff to hold herself upright. "We bought survival, not victory. That swarm wasn't just random riftspawn. You saw it too—the way they moved, the way they shielded their leaders."
Kane's jaw tightened. His cloak was torn, the faint glow of lingering spells still crackling at his fingertips.
"We've only earned a pause, Lionel. The rift is still open, and until it's sealed, they'll keep coming. And next time…" He glanced toward the horizon, the icy wind tugging at his hair. "…it could be worse."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the frigid air.
Lionel lowered his head, shame pressing on him harder than his wounds. "Then… I must ask what I have no right to: do what I cannot. Seal it. End this madness before more lives are lost." His voice cracked, thick with grief. "It should be me at the forefront, not… lying half-dead while you carry my duty for me."
For a moment, silence stretched. The moans of the injured and the distant crackle of dying fires filled the void. Then Kane stepped closer, his expression steady, his tone cutting through Lionel's despair with calm steel.
"As long as there's a Frosthaven to defend, you'll have your chance, Duke. But don't confuse burden with destiny. The future of this land doesn't rest on your shoulders alone. What matters now is ensuring there is a future to fight for."
Lionel blinked, then a low, pained laugh escaped him. It hurt, but it was genuine, shaking some of the heaviness from his chest. "You speak as though you've carried that weight before, Kane. Perhaps you're right."
He straightened as best he could, blood still seeping through his bandages.
His eyes softened when he turned to Arasha. "Then go. Both of you. Seal that rift before another wave descends. I'll see to the dead and wounded, and I'll hold this city until your return."
Arasha gave a sharp nod, her grip tightening on her glaive. "We'll come back. Frosthaven will not face this alone."
Kane adjusted his gloves, already preparing the spells needed for their passage. "The sooner we strike, the better. Every moment we wait, they adapt further."
Lionel watched as the two commanders turned toward the northern wilds, where the rift's malignant glow still pulsed faintly against the night sky.
Despite the blood on the snow, despite the weight pressing against his heart, he smiled faintly.
"May the gods keep you both," he murmured as they departed. "And may this cursed rift fall before your strength."
The wind howled louder, carrying their silhouettes into the frozen dark, toward the heart of the calamity waiting in the north.
The cold bit sharper the closer they rode toward the rift. The pale light of its wound in the sky shimmered over the frozen tundra, a malignant aurora spilling shadows across the snow.
Arasha's breaths had grown heavier, her fingers trembling around the shaft of her glaive.
Kane noticed. Without a word, he reached into his satchel and drew out a small vial of violet-gold liquid, its glow faint yet warm against the frozen dark. "Drink," he said firmly, holding it out to her.
Arasha arched a brow, her lips pressed into a grim line. "You'll need it more."
"I have another." He produced a second vial, uncorking it with his teeth before downing it in one swallow. The rejuvenation burned in his veins, chasing fatigue from his limbs. "If you fall, we both fail. Take it."
Her gaze lingered on him for only a heartbeat before she uncorked hers and swallowed. The sharp taste struck her throat, but almost instantly her muscles loosened, her lungs filled fuller, her grip steadied.
"Better," she muttered, rolling her shoulders before turning her eyes back to the malignant glow. "Time to get to the core of it."
They advanced together, weapons at the ready.
The rift pulsed as though it sensed their approach. The air thickened, pressing down on their lungs with each step.
Lesser riftspawn—twisted beasts with jagged limbs and shrieking maws—poured from the periphery, desperate to keep them at bay.
"Cut through them!" Kane yelled, his voice carrying over the shrieks.
Arasha surged forward, glaive flashing in arcs of steel. She cleaved through three with a single sweep, frost and black ichor spraying across the snow.
Kane's hands blazed with glyphs, the ground erupting beneath the monsters as waves of force sent them sprawling, bones snapping under the weight of his spells.
They pushed through, blood and fire painting the ice, until at last the base of the rift loomed before them—a spiraling tear in reality, bleeding light and shadow in equal measure.
But something stopped them cold.
A barrier shimmered over the rift like a translucent shell, humming with malignant energy. Each pulse pushed them back, the sheer pressure bending their knees.
Arasha pressed her lips, planting her glaive in the ground to keep herself upright. "Damn it—what is this?"
Kane's jaw clenched, sweat beading on his brow. "A barrier… deliberately made. They've fortified it."
His hands moved with frantic precision, tracing sigils in the air, counter-runes to dismantle the spellwork woven into the barrier.
The barrier resisted, screaming in resonance. The pressure doubled, a crushing weight that forced both Kane and Arasha to their knees, teeth grinding as though the tundra itself meant to bury them alive.
For a moment, it seemed they'd break.
But Kane roared, shattering his own spell circle into shards of light, which in turn pierced the rift's barrier like blades.
The shell fractured, broke—and in that instant the pressure redoubled again, slamming into them so violently their vision blurred.
Arasha gritted her teeth, forcing herself upright, planting her feet.
She shouted, "Do it, Kane!"
"On it!" His arms trembled as he channeled, the ground around him cracking under the strain. Glyph after glyph bloomed from his hands, weaving together into a net of arcane chains.
Slowly, agonizingly, they constricted around the rift, stitching the wound shut. The tear writhed, fighting against the binding, but Kane's voice—low, guttural with power—anchored the spell.
Arasha's glaive struck down any riftspawn that dared charge during the process, her body screaming with exhaustion but refusing to falter.
Finally—finally—the rift gave one last keening shriek before collapsing inward, the malignant light imploding into nothingness. The silence that followed was deafening.
Kane sagged forward, bracing on his knees, sweat dripping into the snow. Arasha exhaled a ragged breath, her chest heaving, her weapon lowering at last. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Kane broke the silence, his voice hoarse but edged with grim relief. "It's done."
Arasha tilted her head back toward the dark sky, now clear of the wound, and let out a long sigh. "One less curse on this land."
They shared a weary glance, silent understanding passing between them.
Then, step by slow step, they turned back toward Frosthaven, their bodies battered but their will unbroken.
For now, the north could breathe.
****
Frosthaven loomed tall against the fading aurora of the sealed rift. Snow whipped through the air, carrying with it the cries of relief and mourning from the fortress within.
When Kane and Arasha rode in, their horses lathered with frost and sweat, the courtyard erupted into shouts—half in celebration, half in grief.
Survivors bowed their heads as the pair passed, reverence and exhaustion etched into their faces.
Inside the keep, warmth struck them like a wave. The vast hall had been turned into a field infirmary, with cots hastily lined along the stone walls, healers moving from man to man.
The iron scent of blood clung to the air.
At the center of it all sat Duke Lionel, pale and heavily bandaged, leaning against a carved chair dragged in from his chamber. And beside him—her gown marked with blood and ash, her delicate hands stained with salves and bandages—the Duchess knelt, tending her husband with fierce determination.
Arasha paused at the sight; she knew the Duchess wasn't the one to sit down and wait. Arasha smiled at the strong-willed Duchess.
The Duchess looked up, as if pulled by an invisible thread. For a moment, her face remained unreadable. Then she rose, skirts rustling, and without hesitation rushed across the hall.
"Arasha!" Her voice cracked, and she threw her arms around the battle-worn woman. Her embrace was firm, desperate, as though she might lose her grip and Arasha would vanish like a dream. "Thank you… you kept your promise. You came. You saved him."
Arasha stiffened for half a heartbeat, caught off guard by the strength of the hold. Slowly, gently, she laid a hand against the Duchess's shoulder and eased her back.
A tired smile curved her lips. "I, too, am glad," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of battlefield dust, "glad that I was able to keep it."
The Duchess studied her weary face, then her own tightened features softened into a smile, fragile but real. "Then rest, Arasha. Please. You've done enough for a lifetime tonight."
Arasha's lips quirked with faint humor. She inclined her head but said nothing more, only watching as the Duchess turned and returned swiftly to Lionel's side, resuming her care as though she had never left.
Kane exhaled through his nose, expecting Arasha to finally give in to exhaustion. But as he followed her with his eyes, he found her slipping away from the Duke's chamber—straight into the makeshift infirmary.
She was already speaking with her soldiers, handing out what remained of their supplies, kneeling to check the wounded, passing food into trembling hands.
Kane pinched the bridge of his nose. "There she goes again…" he muttered. With a resigned shake of his head, he strode after her, weaving through the cots.
When she stooped to bind a soldier's wound with steady hands, Kane was already kneeling opposite, finishing the knot she had half-tied.
When she tried to lift a crate of supplies, he took it from her arms without a word. When she turned to dismiss him with a glance, he only raised a brow and set himself firmly at her side.
"Don't think you're escaping this, Arasha," he said dryly, though his tone was warm beneath the sharpness. "If you won't let anyone else care for you, then I'll make sure you get your share whether you like it or not."
Arasha shot him a sidelong look, the corner of her mouth twitching faintly despite her fatigue. She didn't argue.
Instead, she passed another loaf of bread into a wounded soldier's hands and moved on, Kane trailing like a shadow—her unwilling assistant, determined to make sure that for once, someone watched over her.
In the long night that followed, the fortress of Frosthaven stood battered but unbroken, its people clinging to hope because of two figures who refused to rest until every last life they could save was safe.