The chill of early winter crept into the capital of Chronus. The morning mist rolled down the cobblestone streets, curling around spires and chimneys, giving the kingdom an air of quiet foreboding. Merchants grumbled about the biting cold, guards tightened their cloaks, and nobles muttered in irritation at the weather's disrespect for their comfort.
But within the grand courtyard of the Holy Knight barracks, the air was alive with a different kind of energy. Horses stamped restlessly, their breath steaming in the crisp morning. Squires rushed about, fastening saddlebags, securing armor, and carrying crates filled with provisions. The courtyard echoed with the clang of steel, the creak of leather, and Rowan's voice—loud, exasperated, and thoroughly unamused.
"Why in the name of the gods is this coat so heavy?" Rowan groaned, tugging fur-lined sleeves that made him look less like a knight and more like a bear cub stuffed into his father's armor. He staggered two steps and flopped dramatically against a crate. "I'm telling you, if the cold doesn't kill me, this coat will."
Selene, already seated on her horse with perfect posture, rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't freeze in place. Her long black hair spilled over her cloak like a raven's wing, the silver clasp at her throat gleaming. "It's called preparation, Rowan. Try it sometime."
"Preparation? This is execution," Rowan shot back, flailing as he tried to pull himself upright. His boot slipped, and he toppled backward into a snow pile, disappearing with a muffled yelp.
The squires chuckled. Even a few knights smirked.
From the stable doors came Alaric, humming cheerfully as though they weren't about to march into the dangerous northern frontier. His golden hair was tied loosely at the back, his armor gleamed, and his cloak was thrown around his shoulders with dramatic flair. He carried a sack slung over one arm that bulged suspiciously.
"Commander, is that… food?" one knight asked hesitantly.
Alaric grinned, tossing the sack onto a wagon. The impact released the smell of roasted meats and fresh bread. "What? You think I'm marching into freezing wilderness without snacks? Please. A true knight never fights on an empty stomach."
Rowan's head popped out of the snow like a startled rabbit. "That's the only smart thing I've heard all morning."
Selene pinched the bridge of her nose. "We're supposed to be traveling light. That's not a sack of provisions. That's a feast."
"Exactly," Alaric said, his grin widening. "Morale is important. And besides—" He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "—between us, the King's cooks are dreadful at seasoning. This way, we'll survive the journey and our taste buds."
A ripple of laughter passed through the knights, easing some of the tension. Even Icarus, who had been quietly inspecting his horse, allowed the faintest smile. His silver hair gleamed in the morning sun, his silver eyes calm yet piercing.
Rowan finally hauled himself out of the snow, his fur coat hanging crookedly. He shuffled over to Icarus with a shiver. "You know, Moonborn, I'm starting to think you have it easy. You just stand there looking all shiny and ethereal while the rest of us suffer frostbite."
Icarus mounted his horse with fluid grace, the movement effortless. "You complain too much, Rowan."
"It's a survival tactic," Rowan countered. "If I complain enough, maybe the cold will get bored and leave me alone."
Selene muttered, "If only we had that luxury."
The group finished assembling. A total of twenty knights would accompany them—handpicked by Alaric for loyalty and competence. The journey would be dangerous, after all. The northern wilds were infamous for claiming the lives of even seasoned warriors.
Alaric strode to the front, raising a hand. The chatter died instantly.
"Alright, listen up!" His voice rang with authority, even when laced with humor. "We're heading north on a mission that the nobles think is either pointless or suicidal—both of which sound boring. But I prefer to call it an adventure."
Some knights chuckled nervously.
Alaric's smile softened. "In truth, we don't know what we'll find. Vanished villages, claw marks on stone, fire where there shouldn't be. Our job is to find out what's happening, and if it's something dangerous, to stop it before it reaches the capital."
His tone grew sharper. "But remember—no matter what we face, we do it together. Chronus stands because we stand together."
The knights straightened. Rowan, though still shivering, managed to stand tall. Selene's gaze was steady as steel. Icarus's calm aura radiated quiet strength.
Alaric gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Now mount up. Let's see what secrets the north is hiding from us."
As the group began to move out, Rowan muttered just loudly enough for Selene to hear: "I bet the secret is frostbite."
She didn't answer, though the faint twitch of her lips suggested she fought back a smile.
And so, with banners fluttering and hooves crunching against frost-hardened earth, the company set forth—toward snow, silence, and the unknown.
The road north stretched like a scar across the land, cutting through rolling hills that grew colder and harsher with each mile. Snow drifts piled against crooked fences, trees stood skeletal against the pale sky, and the air was sharp enough to sting with every breath.
For most travelers, the journey would have been silent and grim. But with Rowan in the party, silence didn't stand a chance.
"Are my toes supposed to feel like this?" Rowan groaned, hunched forward in his saddle. "They're so cold I can't tell if I still have ten of them. Selene, count my toes."
Selene didn't even look at him. "Rowan, if you remove your boots in this weather, I'll personally see to it you don't live to regret it."
Rowan gasped in mock offense. "So cruel! You'd let a comrade perish from frostbite just to avoid looking at his majestic toes?"
Several knights nearby chuckled. One even muttered, "Majestic, he says…"
Icarus, riding slightly ahead, allowed the faintest shake of his head. He didn't stop Rowan's antics—no one ever could—but he also didn't encourage them. Selene, however, looked seconds away from throwing Rowan off his horse.
Alaric, on the other hand, was thoroughly entertained. Riding at the front, he twisted in the saddle, grinning. "Don't worry, Rowan. If you lose a toe, we'll carve you a wooden replacement. Might even make it sharper, so you can use it as a dagger."
Rowan gasped again, this time with genuine excitement. "A dagger-toe? Commander, that's… that's brilliant. I'd be unstoppable! Fear me, foul beasts, for I wield the legendary Sword of the Left Foot!"
The knights erupted in laughter, and even Selene let out a reluctant snort before quickly composing herself.
"Don't encourage him," she warned Alaric.
"Oh, I'll encourage him as much as I like," Alaric replied cheerfully. "It keeps morale high."
Selene muttered something about "morale" not equaling "idiocy," but she didn't argue further.
As the day wore on, the land grew harsher. Forests thickened, snow deepened, and the road narrowed until it was little more than a frozen trail. Icarus kept his gaze steady, scanning the treeline. The silence here was different—not peaceful, but watchful, as though the woods themselves were waiting.
At one point, the group passed a hunter's lodge. Or what had once been one. Its roof sagged inward, its walls bore deep claw marks, and the door hung loose on broken hinges.
The knights slowed, unease spreading through their ranks.
Rowan, usually quick with a joke, fell oddly quiet. "That's… not normal, right?" he asked.
"No," Icarus replied softly. His silver eyes lingered on the claw marks. They weren't from wolves. The gouges were too wide, too deep, and burned faintly at the edges, as though made by something hot enough to scorch even ice.
Alaric dismounted, brushing snow from the markings. His expression, for once, was serious. "Beasts don't do this." He turned back to the group. "Stay sharp. Whatever's out here isn't something you've fought before."
The knights nodded, though Rowan muttered under his breath: "Fantastic. Just what I wanted to hear in the middle of nowhere. Totally reassuring."
The company pressed on. That night, they made camp in a clearing, building fires that crackled against the chill. Selene efficiently organized the knights into shifts for watch, while Rowan… attempted to build a snow wall around his tent.
"This will protect me from the cold and any monsters," he declared proudly, stacking snow like a child making a fort.
Selene crossed her arms. "Or it'll collapse on you while you sleep."
Rowan paused mid-stack. "…Details."
The knights laughed, though some admitted Rowan's antics did help ease their nerves.
Later, as the camp quieted, Icarus sat by the fire, his silver eyes reflecting the flames. He thought about the claw marks, about the burned edges, about the silence of the woods. It all pointed to something deliberate, something unnatural.
Alaric sat down beside him, holding a roasted leg of meat from his ever-present sack of provisions. "You're thinking too hard again, Moonborn."
"I'm trying to understand what we're dealing with."
Alaric chewed thoughtfully. "That's good. But don't forget—sometimes, the best way to understand something is to hit it very hard until it stops moving."
Icarus glanced at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. "…That's your wisdom as Commander of the Holy Knights?"
"Of course," Alaric said, grinning. "Also, don't trust nobles. But that's a lesson for another day."
The next morning, the company resumed its journey. The snow was deeper now, slowing their pace. Rowan's complaints returned in full force.
"My horse hates me. I can see it in his eyes."
"That's because you're an idiot," Selene replied without hesitation.
Rowan gasped. "How dare you insult Thunderhoof!"
"Thunderhoof?" Selene repeated flatly.
Rowan patted his horse, who looked deeply unimpressed. "Yes. He told me his name in a dream."
Selene pinched her temples. "I can't do this."
Alaric burst into laughter so hard he nearly dropped the reins.
Even Icarus couldn't stop a small smile.
But beneath the laughter, the tension lingered. The woods grew darker, the air colder, and an unspoken truth settled over them. Whatever they were walking toward—it was waiting.
By the third day of travel, the snow thickened into a white wall that swallowed sound. The trees bent heavy under its weight, branches creaking like old bones. Even Rowan, whose mouth rarely knew rest, had grown quieter, though whether from awe or exhaustion was anyone's guess.
The company reached the first northern village just as dusk painted the sky in shades of violet and blood-red. From a distance, the place looked peaceful—rows of wooden homes huddled together against the cold, smoke chimneys rising lazily into the sky.
But as they drew closer, unease prickled their skin.
The smoke wasn't from fires. It was from ruins.
The main street was empty, snow drifting across it like a funeral shroud. Doors hung open on creaking hinges, windows shattered inward. Pots of frozen stew sat untouched on tables, icicles forming where steam should have been. A child's toy, half-buried in snow, lay abandoned in the square.
No people. Not a single soul.
Rowan dismounted slowly, his usual chatter gone. He picked up the toy—a little wooden horse—and brushed snow off its back. His hands trembled slightly as he set it down again.
"I don't like this," he muttered. "It's like… they all just vanished."
Selene's eyes scanned the area, sharp and calculating. "No tracks. No signs of struggle. They didn't run. They didn't fight."
Alaric crouched near one of the walls, brushing his fingers against a blackened scar that marred the wood. The edges shimmered faintly, as if burned with heat far beyond a torch. He didn't smile this time.
"Not vanished," he said quietly. "Taken."
The knights fanned out, searching homes, barns, even the well. All reported the same: empty. Too empty.
Rowan, desperate to cut the silence, called out, "Well, maybe they all just… moved? You know, packed up and left. Started a new life somewhere less… frozen and terrifying."
The look Selene gave him could have frozen water.
"Right," Rowan sighed. "Wishful thinking. Got it."
One knight, pale and wide-eyed, stumbled out of a barn. "Commander! You need to see this!"
They followed him inside. The barn was dark, the air thick with cold. Against the far wall lay deep gouges, claw marks that carved straight through thick wooden beams. The marks glowed faintly, the same scorched edges they had seen before.
But worse was the floor. It was covered in ash. Not wood ash. Not coal ash. Fine, gray ash that clung to their boots and filled the air with a metallic tang.
Selene knelt, touching the substance with gloved fingers. Her jaw tightened. "This… was once alive."
Rowan's face went pale. "You mean—"
"Yes," Alaric interrupted, his tone firm. "This is what happens when something burns the soul out of a body."
A chill deeper than the northern wind filled the barn.
Outside, Icarus stood apart from the group, staring at the sky. His silver eyes reflected the fading light. The village was silent, but in that silence, he felt… pressure. Something ancient. Something watching.
A memory stirred—old tales of Ishgar, the first Moonborn, who sealed away horrors in ages long past. And the name that had haunted Icarus ever since whispers began: Ashura.
He clenched his fists.
That night, they camped on the edge of the village. Fires burned bright, but the warmth felt hollow. The knights spoke little, their laughter gone.
Rowan tried to lift spirits, telling a ridiculous story about his childhood and how he once tried to teach a pig to swim. Normally, it would have earned at least a chuckle. Tonight, it earned only tired smiles.
Selene, polishing her blade, finally spoke. "Rowan."
"Yeah?"
She didn't look up. "Thank you. For trying."
Rowan blinked, caught off guard. Then he gave a small, genuine smile. "Somebody's got to keep us from freezing inside as well as out."
As the fire crackled low, Icarus remained awake. He felt it again—that presence. Heavy, suffocating, distant but moving closer.
He whispered to the night, "Ashura…"
And in the ruins of the barn, buried beneath snow and ash, faint crimson symbols glowed.
Watching. Waiting.
The next morning, the wind carried with it a strange sound—like whispers woven into the blizzard. The snow was harsher, heavier, but the group pressed on, leaving the hollow village behind.
It wasn't long before they reached the old site Rowan had spotted on the map: a crumbling ruin, half-buried in ice. Pillars jutted out of the snow like broken teeth, covered in runes that pulsed faintly in the gray light.
"Looks friendly," Rowan muttered. "If 'friendly' means the sort of place ghosts would set up a vacation home."
Alaric dismounted with uncharacteristic seriousness. His normally clumsy steps were careful, reverent. "This… isn't just any ruin. This is Ishgar's sanctum."
The name hung in the frozen air. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Selene's brow furrowed. "You mean… Ishgar, the first Moonborn?"
Alaric nodded. "Legend says he fought the Ashura here, nearly ninety thousand years ago. Some historians believe this is where the final sealing ritual began." He brushed his hand against one of the cracked runes. "If the Ashura are stirring again… this place may hold answers."
Inside, the ruins were colder than the snow outside, the air thick with an ancient, oppressive weight. The walls glowed faintly with silvery light, runes etched deep into the stone.
Rowan, never one to keep quiet, tiptoed in dramatically. "Alright, quick roll call: haunted vibes, check. Eerie runes, check. Extremely high chance of something trying to kill us… double check."
He leaned toward Icarus. "If something jumps out, you're tanking it, Moonborn. I'll… uh… provide moral support."
Icarus gave him a flat look. Rowan grinned sheepishly.
Selene, meanwhile, studied the runes. "These aren't just seals. They're warnings. Whoever carved this wanted to make sure no one ever disturbed what lies beneath."
"Which means," Rowan said, stepping backwards immediately, "we should absolutely disturb nothing. Zero things. Not a pebble. In fact, I volunteer to guard the entrance from outsi—"
His foot caught on a loose stone. He stumbled forward, hit the wall, and one of the runes flared brilliantly.
The ground trembled. The air grew heavy.
Everyone froze.
"…I regret everything," Rowan whispered.
From the center of the chamber, a hidden altar cracked open, revealing a basin of frozen water. The ice glowed faintly silver, rippling with light. Within, fragments of ancient images flickered—scenes of war.
They saw Ishgar himself, tall and radiant, silver hair blazing as he faced monstrous figures cloaked in shadow. Behind him, legions of men, elves, and beasts fought side by side. The earth cracked, the skies bled, and four towering shapes—the Ashura Generals—rose to meet him.
Alaric's face darkened. Even in faint echoes, their power was suffocating. "These are not just legends. This was real."
The vision ended as quickly as it began. The basin froze over once more.
For a long time, silence hung heavy.
Then Rowan coughed. "Soooo… just to clarify. We're not talking about regular bad guys. We're talking about soul-burning, village-erasing, possibly-end-of-the-world types. Right?"
"Yes," Selene said curtly.
Rowan sighed, shaking his head. "Why couldn't I have been reborn as a farmer? Or a baker? Or literally anything that doesn't involve ancient demon generals?"
But his eyes betrayed something else. Fear, yes—but also determination.
As they left the sanctum, Icarus lingered a moment longer. His silver eyes locked on the frozen basin. The image of Ishgar, blazing like a silver sun, burned in his mind.
For the first time, he felt it clearly: not just the weight of expectation, but the call of destiny.
And in the cold silence of the ruins, a faint, echoing whisper touched his mind:
"Moonborn… awaken…