The frost bit through iron. Rows of soldiers stood beneath the dull red banners of Induva, their armor breathing steam into the winter air. The muster ground stretched silent beneath a gray dawn, boots cracking the frozen earth, horses shifting restlessly as wind hissed between pikes.
Sergeant Gareth Kael watched in silence. His breath fogged against the cold, eyes reflecting the pale sky that never seemed to wake. Around him, the chatter of men rose and fell — tired, half-hearted.
"Half my wage to the Collector, half to the innkeeper. What's left, Kael? " A grizzled soldier named Radan laughed bitterly, thumping his breastplate. "Maybe I'll pay my debts with prayers. They're cheaper than taals."
Gareth gave no answer. His gloved hands tightened around the reins, the leather stiff and cold. He'd learned long ago that some questions weren't worth wasting breath on.
"You talk of taxes," he murmured finally, eyes still fixed ahead, "but coin's the lightest burden a man will carry before war."
The men around him fell quiet for a heartbeat, as if the cold itself paused to listen. Then came the usual nervous laughter — the kind that didn't reach anyone's eyes.
A crow circled above the training yard, black wings slicing through the gray morning. Gareth reached into his pouch, took out a single ryn, and flicked it backward into the air. The coin spun once, caught a sliver of dawnlight, and fell into the frost. The crow descended silently, landing where it dropped, and with a sharp caw, it picked up the ryn and flew away toward the walls.
Taren, the youngest in their unit, frowned. "You always do that before a march. Superstition?"
"Maybe," Gareth said. "Maybe it's a bribe.""To the gods?"He smiled faintly. "To whoever still listens."
Taren chuckled, shaking his head. "You think birds have gods too?", " If they do," Gareth said, watching the crow vanish into the gray, "theirs must be kinder than ours."
Before Taren could respond, a horn split the air.
Captain Leron Vaust stepped forward, his silver-trimmed cloak heavy with frost. He unrolled a parchment and began reading, his voice flat and hollow.
"By command of His Imperial Majesty, the Second Unit of the Silver Legion will escort an expedition of scholars and engineers to Stillwater Keep. Their task: to examine the mine collapse and recover any relics or holy crystals found within. You will maintain silence and obedience."
The words fell heavy, like stones dropped into a frozen pond.
"Treat this matter as sacred," Leron finished. "And remember—disobedience is treason."
The men saluted. Gareth didn't. His eyes were on the noble officers behind the captain — dressed in shining plate, laughing softly among themselves. Their steeds were fine-blooded Shilvars, each one worth more than the yearly wage of a village blacksmith. The common soldiers stood beside thin, weary nags bought for thirty taal apiece.
For a moment, Gareth wondered which of the two would break first: the horses, or the men.
In the barracks, the clatter of steel and muttered prayers filled the stale air. Radan was sharpening his sword, sparks jumping like dying fireflies. "Once this mission's done, I'm buying land," he said. "Ten ryn and peace, that's all I want."
"You'd have to buy peace from the nobles first," another soldier said dryly.
Laughter followed, but it carried no warmth. At the far end, a man knelt before a dull fragment — a chipped Lifestone glowing faintly with blue light. His voice trembled as he prayed.
Gareth paused, watching. The faint hum of the fragment reminded him of a heartbeat — fragile, borrowed.
If the gods made these stones to bless us, he thought, why do they drink blood before they shine?
He turned away, tightening the strap on his worn armor. His own crystal — a small Aegisgem — rested against his chest beneath the plate, its light long since faded. It used to shimmer once, years ago, before he learned what war did to men who believed in miracles.
The bells tolled as they rode out of Avren. Snow began to fall — slow, quiet flakes that melted against steel and skin. The streets were almost empty. Only merchants, beggars, and tax collectors watched from doorways as the column passed. The smell of coal smoke mixed with the scent of cold bread and wet stone.
"Feels wrong, don't it?" Radan muttered from beside Gareth. "Leaving in silence like this. No farewells, no blessings."
"Silence keeps the lies warm," Gareth said.
Radan gave him a look — part confusion, part worry — but said nothing. The road bent north, and soon the city walls were little more than gray teeth behind them.
The wind picked up, carrying the sound of iron wheels and distant temple bells. Somewhere far beyond those hills, the kingdom of Qina waited — patient, watching.
Taren broke the silence. "They say Stillwater's cursed. Whole squads vanished there before."
Gareth's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "Then let's hope curses prefer better company."
The others laughed, but it faded quickly. Each man stared ahead, faces hidden beneath helmets and frost.
Snow thickened. The last sound before the horizon swallowed them was a voice from the ranks — weary, uncertain.
"Snow before war," it said."Maybe the gods are merciful after all."
Gareth looked toward the horizon, where dawn was smothered in cloud.
"Mercy," he whispered, "or mourning."
Author's Note :
Taal – The basic coin used for everyday trade; enough for a simple meal or small purchase.
Ryn – A silver coin worth 100 Taal, used by merchants and soldiers as standard payment.
Sol – A rare gold coin worth 100 Ryn, often seen only in noble dealings and royal treasuries.
In short: 1 Sol = 100 Ryn = 10,000 Taal.