Arthur stood at the crest of the forest ridge, eyes narrowed as the wind rustled through the blackened pines. The faint crunch of snow and frost underfoot was drowned out by the distant groan of the advancing White Walkers. Shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting and coiling like living things between the skeletal trees.
He turned to his lieutenants, their faces tense, muscles coiled like springs. "Prepare yourselves," he said, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made every man straighten, every hand grip steel. "We are going to fight on two fronts. One against the dead… and one against the living who do not know what they have unleashed."
A murmur rose among the men. One of his lieutenants, a young and brash individual, stepped forward. "Sir, forgive me, but… the other front? Shouldn't we—"
Otto Hightower, standing a step behind him, cut him off with a sharp glance. "Why do you hesitate, sir commander? Heed his warning."
Arthur's eyes flicked to Otto, acknowledging the wisdom in his voice. Then back to the men. "Feel it," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Something is coming… something older than any of us, older than the wars, older than the blood we bleed into the soil."
Otto frowned, hand on the hilt of his sword. "Is it the walkers, sir? Or some living army?"
Arthur shook his head slowly. "Neither. Something… between. Something that senses power. Something that knows the Children of the Forest once called kin."
The men exchanged uneasy glances. Otto stepped closer. "Commander, we cannot fight what we cannot see. We must make a plan—"
Arthur's hand shot up, silencing him instantly. "Plan?" he said, voice low and dangerous. "There is no plan for what comes. There is only action, and there is only survival. Gather the vanguard, double the sentries at the southern edge. Prepare traps along the ridge. We fight not to win, but to hold. And if the living cross into us, let them feel the forest itself rise against them."
One of the lieutenants swallowed hard. "Sir, with respect, this… this is madness. The walkers will reach the edge of the village by dawn if we do not move."
Arthur's gaze hardened, eyes flashing in the pale moonlight. "Madness? No. This is foresight. The North may have opened its gates, but we hold the forest. And as long as we hold, there will be hope. Send messengers. Let those who dwell beyond these trees know that tonight, no foot shall pass without paying for it in steel and fire."
Meanwhile, miles away, a raven flapped its wings furiously over the snowy expanse, carrying a message from the northern gate. "Request fulfilled, my lord," the rider whispered into the icy wind, sending the bird aloft. "It is now up to you that they do not reach the towns or villages from here onward."
Far below, Daemon marched with his column of Dragon Knights, armor gleaming even in the shadowed moonlight, eyes fixed on the black horizon. This time, Caraxes was absent; the dragons stayed in their stables, silent and restless. The ground shook faintly under the marching column, and men whispered among themselves of fire and blood yet to come.
Back in the forest, Arthur's lips curved into a grim smile. He lifted a hand, and Otto caught the movement instantly. "Sir?" he asked.
"Do you feel it?" Arthur said, voice barely above the rustling leaves. "Something comes for us. Not just the walkers, not just the northmen… something that smells fear, and thrives on it. Prepare the men. Every arrow, every blade, every whisper of the forest counts tonight."
Otto's jaw tightened. "Then we fight on two fronts, sir. Against the dead, and against what walks in shadow. But… what if it is more than we can hold?"
Arthur's eyes gleamed, blue in the night, cold and sharp as frost. "Then we make them remember why they feared the black forest. This night… they will learn that rebellion and death both answer to me. Rally the men. Let the forest rise. And if the children themselves whisper… we will answer."
The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint cries of wolves—or were they men?—mixing with the eerie moans of the undead. Arthur's grip tightened on his sword. "To your positions," he said, voice like steel. "Tonight, the forest bleeds, and so shall they."
Otto straightened, speaking to the men in Arthur's stead. "Double the sentries! Watch every ridge! Hold the lines no matter what comes!"
A lieutenant turned to Arthur, voice trembling. "Sir… how do we hold against both? The walkers… and the living?"
Arthur's eyes scanned the shadowed treeline, listening to the whispering leaves as if they spoke secrets. "Because," he said, voice low, deadly, "we are the forest. We do not fear the living. We do not fear the dead. And we will not fear what hides between. Move out."
And as the forest seemed to shiver under his command, the first faint shimmer of white began to creep through the trees, cold as death and relentless as time itself.
The classrooms of the Royal Academy were buzzing with the low murmur of nobles and commoners alike, quills scratching across parchment, ink drying, and the faint scent of burning candles lingering in the air. Professor Veyron, a stern man with silver-streaked hair and a permanent frown, paced slowly before the students, lecturing on the principles of arcane defense and battlefield tactics. His voice was methodical, but today, it struggled to compete with the quiet tension in the air, a tension that only thickened as Ash—or rather, Arthur—sat near the front, his eyes distant, almost glowing faintly with thought.
Aisha, sitting at his side, nudged him gently. "Sire… I mean, Ash… you wandered off again. I presume it was another emergency this time?"
Arthur's gaze flicked toward her, an amused glint in his golden-red eyes. "Well… yes," he admitted casually, as if the most terrifying events of the north were only minor distractions.
Aisha leaned closer, her eyebrows knitting. "Emergency? Ash… do you ever tell anyone where you go? Or is this just… a private club of disasters that only you get invited to?"
Arthur smirked, leaning back in his chair. "You presume I owe an explanation for every movement, Lyra?"
Aisha's lips pressed into a line, not convinced. "Lyra? That's what I'm calling you now? Fine. But even so… Am I just for show to you, Ash? I mean… I thought you recruited me because you valued my skills, because I could protect you. And now… You go off by yourself, flying around the north, dragons and dead armies and chaos, and I'm supposed to sit here with a quill?"
Arthur chuckled lowly, the sound almost a growl. "You're not for show, Lyra. Never for show. But there are… things even I cannot disclose. Some dangers cannot be shared; some burdens are mine alone to bear."
Aisha leaned closer, lowering her voice, sharp but concerned. "That's convenient. You're back here, safe in your academy, and yet my head tells me you've just gone and faced what… giants, undead, maybe worse? All by yourself?"
Arthur's eyes softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened again. "Lyra… you scrutinize me like I'm a fool or a child. You were recruited to protect me, yes—but also to learn. Observation is part of your duty. Don't mistake my silence for neglect. My absence was necessary."
Aisha crossed her arms, refusing to back down. "Necessary for whom, Ash? You? Or the empire? You never tell me. And yes, I watch you. I've been at your side for weeks now, and every time you vanish, I see danger clawing for you like it's been waiting a century."
Arthur tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. "Lyra, listen. What I face… is not just a matter of courage or strength. Forces are gathering in the north that even the 34th Legion could not hold alone. If I faltered, if I hesitated, entire kingdoms could fall. That's why I went."
Aisha shook her head, frustrated but also unable to hide the spark of admiration in her eyes. "You can say all that, Ash… but that doesn't mean I'm blind. You still don't tell me where exactly you go, what exactly you do, or why you leave me behind every time something 'important' arises. Do you trust me? Or is it all… calculated?"
Arthur leaned forward, resting both hands on the desk, his smirk turning sly. "Calculated? Perhaps. But there is a reason, Lyra. Some things are… delicate. Secrets, even for those closest. If the wrong person knew my true path, the consequences would be catastrophic. And I cannot risk that—not for anyone."
Aisha's frown softened, though her voice still carried the weight of her question. "So… what? I'm just supposed to follow orders, watch, and hope nothing bad happens while you run off playing hero?"
Arthur's eyes glinted dangerously. "You are more than orders, Lyra. You are my shield, my witness, my companion in ways no one else can be. You learn, you watch, you act… but some things are mine to bear. Some fires must be walked alone."
She exhaled sharply, a mixture of exasperation and understanding. "And what about the dragon, Ash? The north… the dead… the giants? I see the aftermath, the smoke, the stories whispered even here in the academy. Why do you always go where the real danger is? Do you even think of anyone else?"
Arthur's gaze turned inward for a moment, shadowed by memories of scorched land, broken soldiers, and the roar of wings that had shaken the clouds. "Every step I take is for the empire… and yes, for those I care for. But even I cannot protect everything at once. That is the burden of blood, Lyra. My blood, my family's, my destiny. It demands sacrifice."
Aisha leaned back, studying him silently. Finally, she spoke, softer now, almost a whisper. "Just… don't let that burden blind you, Ash. Don't let it make you… forget me, or forget what matters beyond the battles and the crowns."
Arthur's smirk softened, and he glanced down, briefly letting the mask of arrogance slip. "I would never forget, Lyra. You are… my anchor in all of this. Always."
She nodded slowly, letting herself believe him—for now. "Good. Because if anything ever happens to you… I swear, Ash…"
He tilted his head with a laugh that was both playful and dangerous. "You'll do what? Lyra… don't think you have the luxury of acting recklessly. But I like that spark. Never lose it."
The bell rang, drawing the class's attention back to mundane matters. Professor Veyron cleared his throat, unaware of the drama just shared in whispers between the two at the front of the room. But Arthur's mind was elsewhere, calculating, planning, thinking of the dragon in the northern skies, the army of the dead, and the storm of fate that waited beyond the walls of the academy.
As the lessons droned on, Arthur's fingers drummed lightly on the desk. His golden-red eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Somewhere, beyond the snowed mountains, the dragon waited. And so did the coming war.
"Soon," he whispered under his breath, "soon everything will fall into place."
Aisha noticed, leaning just slightly closer, almost afraid to speak, yet unable to contain herself. "Ash… tell me, when it all begins… will I be at your side, or will I be left to chase your shadow again?"
Arthur's smirk returned, sharp and predatory. "You, Lyra… will be at my side. Always. But some shadows… must be walked alone. Remember that."
Arthur's pale eyes scanned the shadowed treeline, the cries of the rebellion mingling with the distant echo of hammers, arrows, and the first skirmishes breaking out in the outer villages. The fire of revolt had spread like wildfire, consuming fear, but not yet fully consuming the forces of the Hollow King.
If you're really alive, Hollow King… Arthur thought, teeth gritted, a cold rage coursing through him. I will carve that heart of yours out once again. And yet… I sense a different power from you now. A shadow in your will I did not feel before. I will make sure that you never rise again.
He could hear the faint, eerie creak of the Northern Watch's approach—a distant roar that carried the promise of armored men, the clang of steel, and the hiss of dragons stirring somewhere beyond the horizon. Arthur's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He swung it lightly, whispering under his breath in the Children of the Forest tongue:
"Varyanth ulu-fae, myneth karis ulthar."(Come forth, the fire of the forest awakens… I will not falter.)
Maya, riding close at his side, caught the muttered words. Her voice was low but urgent. "Commander, I feel it too. Something moves in the shadows… more than just the Northern Watch. There's a presence… older than steel, older than the forest."
Arthur nodded, the faint glimmer of a smile tugging at his lips. "Let them come. Let them see what rises when hope is set aflame. The Hollow King may wield terror, but he cannot command the fire of those who have nothing left to fear."
Far to the north, atop a jagged ridge overlooking the outskirts of the Black Forest, Daemon Broguth rode like a storm incarnate. His golden cloak whipped in the wind, dark clouds swirling overhead. Around him, the Dragon Knights rode in perfect formation, their black armor glinting in the pale moonlight. Caraxes, massive and terrifying even when tethered, let out a low, rumbling growl from the high ground.
"Dragon Knights!" Daemon's voice cut through the roar of the wind, sharp and commanding. "Unleash your power! Rapid advance towards the forest! Move fast, strike harder! Let no tree, no shadow, no rebel hide from the wrath we bring tonight!"
A lieutenant, tense and wary, spoke up, his voice cracking under the weight of fear and obedience. "Sire… the forest is dense. If we advance too fast, the rebels will ambush us. And the fire… the fire they've set—"
Daemon raised a hand, golden eyes blazing like molten steel. "Do not speak of caution. Caution is for those afraid of death. We do not fear death. We are the storm, the shadow, the end they never expected. Let them try to hide, let them try to flee. There is nowhere in that cursed forest that can keep them from me tonight."
Another knight, younger, anxious, asked, "Sire… if we encounter—if we encounter the commander, the red-gold-eyed boy himself, what then? He commands loyalty like a king among peasants, and—"
Daemon's laugh cut through the tension, dark and throaty, almost cruel. "Then let him come. Let him see what it means to face a dragon-knight without mercy. Every rebel, every traitor, every coward who dares to raise a hand against the crown… You will burn them. I will make the Black Forest remember this night not as a place of refuge, but as a graveyard for the foolish."
The Dragon Knights shifted, raising their weapons, the hiss of steel and faint crack of spells mingling with the roar of Caraxes. "On my command, fire and shadow shall descend! The forest will burn, and the boy hiding in its heart will learn that even hope can be scorched!"
Back in the Black Forest, Arthur paused on a ridge, listening. The fire of the rebellion had ignited the inner villages; flames reflected in his pale eyes like twin suns. "Prepare for a two-front war, Maya. Our enemies approach in ways they cannot even imagine."
Otto Hightower, riding beside him, frowned, uneasy. "Sir… the northern column—Daemon's men—they're not like the others. They ride like predators. What is our plan if they strike at us head-on?"
Arthur's gaze did not waver from the horizon. "Let them strike. Let them think they can crush us. The fire of the people, the fury of the forest… it is not mine alone to wield. It is theirs. Every swing of their blades, every arrow loosed in my name, will become a weapon of reckoning."
A lieutenant whispered, voice trembling. "Commander… the Hollow King… I feel his presence, even from here. It is… unnatural. He does not tire, he does not hesitate…"
Arthur's lips curled into a dangerous smile. "He will tire. He will hesitate. For every moment he stands against the will of those who rise, he bleeds. And when he finally faces me… when I meet his eyes… he will understand what it truly means to oppose the fire that cannot be extinguished."
Behind them, the rebels raised their banners, torchlight dancing across their determined faces. The Black Forest, dense and shadowed, seemed to pulse with anticipation, as if it too held its breath for the coming clash.
Arthur whispered again, under his breath, a single vow carried in the ancient tongue of the Children of the Forest:
"Varyanth… tythar ulfen… nythar karis ulthar…"(I will face the shadow, I will cut its heart out, and the forest shall witness the dawn of justice.)
And with that, the first skirmishes began. The rebels surged forward like a tide of fire, arrows loosed into the approaching shadows, while deep in the north, Daemon's column of Dragon Knights prepared to descend upon the Black Forest.
The stage was set.
The fire of rebellion and the wrath of the crown were about to collide, and neither side would walk away unscathed.
In the far reaches beyond the northern walls, where the wind cut like sharpened glass through the skeletal trees, a solitary hut glimmered faintly with a warm, flickering light. Within its cramped, shadowed walls, a woman sat perched on a low wooden stool. Her hair, long and white as fresh snow, tumbled over her shoulders in stark contrast to her eyes, which glowed like smoldering embers. Her face was pale and smooth, porcelain-like, yet carried an intensity that seemed almost alive.
She held an ancient tome in her hands, its leather cover worn and etched with strange, curling sigils. Her lips moved as she whispered, each word deliberate, each syllable a knife of intent.
"What will you do, Arthur boy?" she murmured, her voice low but sharp enough to cut the shadows themselves. "What will it be, this madness that drives you to undo my work? To undo my creation?"
Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, the candlelight catching the glint of her fiery gaze. "Do you think your armies, your rebellion, your fire… can stand against what I have wrought? I will make you suffer. Oh yes… suffer as we suffered. I will hunt you, Arthur, across every shadow, every mile of forest, every breath of this cursed air. Your last heartbeat will be mine to savor."
She slammed the tome closed, the sound echoing sharply through the hut, as if the walls themselves flinched. "I watched my people fall… my children scattered and destroyed. And now, you dare march into forests, command dragons, command men, and think yourself safe? Foolish boy. Foolish, arrogant boy."
Her fingers traced invisible symbols in the air, the motion hypnotic, sinister. "The world thought it could forget us. That the blood of our line could be erased. But here you are, playing at defiance, as though the lessons of centuries do not apply. You… will learn the cost. Every fortress you take, every blade you lift, every breath you claim… it will all crumble beneath the weight of what I have left behind."
A low, dark laugh escaped her lips, curling and twisting like smoke. "You think your fire is the brightest? You think it can burn the shadows from this world? No. You burn, boy, but I am the ash that remains. You will find me waiting, even where you think no eyes can see, no ears can hear. I will find you, Arthur. And when I do…You will curse the day you were born."
She closed her eyes briefly, whispering under her breath to the shadows themselves, "We are patient, Arthur. Patient and eternal. You cannot escape the debt you owe to history… to us."
Her head tilted, as if listening to a sound beyond the walls of the hut, her eyes flickering with the reflection of the candle. "Yes… The boy believes himself unstoppable. He believes he can command dragons, raise armies, ignite rebellion, and defy fate itself. Let him think that. Let him march. I will wait. And when he falters, when the weight of his audacity breaks him… I will be there. I will be the whisper in his ear, the shadow in his path, the frost in his veins."
Her voice softened slightly, almost a lullaby to no one but herself. "And when it is done, when he kneels and the world crumbles around him, he will understand. Every creation has a purpose. Every mistake… a consequence. And he, Arthur boy… will bear it all."
She leaned back, her eyes glowing red as she whispered one final curse into the night, her words curling around the room like smoke and ice:
"Your fire may burn, your armies may march, but the shadow of the maker waits… always. Waiting."
The hut fell silent, but the air itself seemed to hum with unspent power. Outside, the wind howled through the northern trees, carrying her words into the darkness where the forests stretched endlessly. Somewhere, far off, a fire burned. And soon, that fire would meet hers.
From beyond the great gates, in the endless expanse of the black forest, the mist stirred unnaturally. Branches cracked, though no beast prowled there. The trees whispered as though remembering old horrors. Then, slowly, a figure stepped forth from the pallid haze.
He was tall, his frame lean but corded with an unnatural strength. His skin was pale—deathly pale, like bleached bone under moonlight—and his eyes blazed with a cold, unnatural blue that pierced through the dark. The faintest smile curved his lips, a smile that carried no warmth, only the chill of mockery.
The man wore armor of blackened leather, ancient and cracked, yet unyielding, as though it had weathered centuries untouched by time. Strange markings, not of men but of something older, were etched along its edges. As he stopped before the wall, his gaze ran along the stones, slow and deliberate, like one reacquainting himself with an old friend—or an old enemy.
He placed a hand against the frozen stone, tilted his head, and let out a laugh, low and rasping. The sound was unsettling, like wind dragging over a crypt.
And then, in the forbidden tongue of dragons—a tongue that only the blood of royal lines dared whisper—he spoke:
"Zhaqar velith… drakharis anokh…"("It has been long… since I last walked this land…")
His voice carried like thunder muffled in fog, resonating against the stones.
His gaze lingered on the south, past the forest, past the mist, as though he could see Arthur himself through the miles. His voice turned into a cruel whisper, heavy with promise:
"I am coming for you."
The words slithered in dragon tongue, but in that moment, it was as though the earth itself understood.
Behind him, faint outlines stirred in the fog—tall, pale shapes moving silently, their eyes gleaming blue, their weapons forged of cold that killed light itself.