The wind blew with icy claws over the defences of the forgotten border between Silvania and Ferralia, where the mountains rose like silent judges and the grey sky seemed to crush travellers with its vastness. It was the eighth day that Elizaveta Volkova – called Frost by the men and women who feared and followed her – had been leading her Winter Wolves along old goat trails and hidden valleys, hoping to find Elias Ventresca and the promised reinforcements from the Green League.
Silence and time were their greatest enemies. There was no raven in the sky. No smoke on the horizon. Only the deep footprints in the mud and the murmurs among the scouts betrayed that time was always running against them.
The patrols, however, had not been in vain. Along the way, entire villages – hungry, desperate, steeped in the ashes of war – saw in the Wolves a lifeline, or at least a lesser evil. Young and old, lordless veterans, Ferralian deserters, even former bandits, offered swords, spears, and arms in exchange for pay and survival. The regiment had grown. Where once they were little more than six hundred, now they were two thousand – half an army, loyal not to a banner, but to the name of Elizaveta… or to the weight of the gold she made jingle in their purses.
Her fortune was no myth. For years, she had sold the edge of her blades to kings and rebels alike, and had charged dearly for every battle won. Every sacked city, every plundered trade route, every overthrown lord had filled her coffers with silver, rubies, and coins stamped with now-dead faces. And now, with Ferralia bleeding itself dry in a civil war that was entering its fifth year, the Ferralians could scarcely afford their own bread, let alone the blade of a mercenary.
Elizaveta knew it. She knew that gold bought loyalty, but also silence, secrets, and betrayal. For now, that was enough. As her eyes swept the horizon, she thought not of men's faith, but of the rhythm of the hills, the winds from the north, and what might lie beyond the last bend in the road.
The Wolves marched in silence, the hooves of their horses sinking into earth that was once fertile and now knew only ash and bone. Near Minierossa, there were no birds singing, no leaves on the trees, no people in the fields – only the cruel testimony of five years of civil war: burnt walls, collapsed roofs, makeshift altars by dusty paths.
Elizaveta rode at the front, her grey-blue cuirass gleaming like ice under the overcast sky. Her eyes, sharp and cold, scanned the horizon. Nothing. No sign of Elias, nor of the promised companies of the Green League. No emerald eagle, no Silvanian horn. Only the sound of her own troops and the dry wind whispering among the ruins.
Gregor Malhov broke the silence with a short laugh, like the crack of a dead branch.
– Well, Dário… – he said, leaning in the saddle to look at his companion, – seems you owe me a skin of wine from the southern vineyards. I told you the Silvanians wouldn't come. They didn't come yesterday. They haven't come today. And they certainly won't come tomorrow.
Dário Solvani didn't respond immediately. His eyes, more watchful than they appeared, searched the distant hills, where sky met stone and memory.
– It makes no sense – he murmured. – What do they gain by leaving Ferralia to its fate? A hungry, vengeful neighbour? No… that can't be their game.
Gregor shrugged, the usual mocking smile hanging on his lips.
– Maybe they're too busy bathing in the green lakes of their enchanted forest. Or maybe they decided to let us kill each other first, then come and pick up the scraps. Wouldn't be the first time they played the long game.
– I expected more from them – Elizaveta murmured at last, not looking at anyone in particular. – I dreamt of high battlements, iron gates, black walls that would call me lady. Spadaguarda… the name sounded like power. It would have been worthy.
Gregor let out a brief, almost spitting laugh.
– And you'd have to share the throne with us, of course – he said, sarcastically. – You with the wall, and Dário and I with the coffers.
– I have no hopes of seeing full coffers around here – Dário growled, dryly. – Like the houses, the granaries, the fields. The Ferralians left nothing. We have to see reality for what it is: we came to the end of civilisation, to the very Mouth of Morvak, and we're near the gates of the Eternal Underworld.
Elizaveta shot them a sideways glance.
– Enough games. My dream of Spadaguarda is fading, as are the promises of Silvania. I don't plan to go to the Eternal Underworld anytime soon, and I will figure out, by Velkaria, what's happening in this land of spectres. But for now, we have this – she gestured with a gloved hand, and the horses began to descend the hill – Minierossa.
The city – if it could still be called that – was a twisted skeleton of what it once had been. The collapsed roofs were covered in soot, and the tall chimneys of the foundries rose like scorched fingers towards a dull, smoking sky. The wind carried an acrid scent, of burnt coal and old flesh. The streets were covered in ash and debris, and grass grew in the cracks between cobblestones as if trying, in vain, to cover the scars left by years of blood and steel.
The Winter Wolves advanced in tight formation through the city, silhouettes of steel and leather among the rubble. Here and there were remnants of old life – a toppled potter's wheel, a half-burned child's toy, a beam inscribed with devotions now covered in rust and mould. No living soul greeted them.
– This was the heart of the rebellion – Dário remarked, almost reverently. – And now… it's nothing but a carcass.
Elizaveta dismounted, placing her boots on the city's blackened ground. She walked a few steps, her eyes sweeping the broken facades, the torn posters, the screams that still seemed to echo from the walls. She stopped by a dry fountain. The marble had been split in half by a cannonball.
– And even so – she said quietly, – even so, there is still something here. Ash, but not surrender. Ruin, but not defeat. This city did not fall and did not kneel.
Elizaveta felt the weight of wary eyes sprouting from the shadows of broken arcades, from windows covered with dirty rags, from gaps where once had stood market stalls and children's laughter. No pain remained there – nor trust. Many watched her and her Wolves with hands already resting on the grip of a flintlock pistol or the hilt of a rusted sword. In that exhausted city, there was a fragile tension, like the surface of a frozen lake waiting for the wrong weight to crack it.
But even so, Elizaveta did not flinch.
– Has anyone seen Elias Ventresca? – she asked, her strong voice echoing across the worn stones of the square. – Or any warrior of the Green League of Silvania?
Silence. Not a whisper, not a nod. Only a limping old man who looked away, and a woman who pulled her children back inside. Those who remained simply watched, silent and armed, as if waiting for violence – an old acquaintance in that land – to resume at any moment.
Gregor let out a sigh and shook the mud from his boots. Dário scanned the rooftops as if expecting a shot. Elizaveta had mounted again, gripping her mare's reins tightly, preparing to give the order to leave. They would not stay where they were not welcome. She had seen too many cities pretend to show hospitality only to close their gates at night with less than noble intentions.
But before she could give the order, she heard a voice.
– My lady… – said a thin voice, almost a whisper.
Elizaveta turned. The voice had come from near a collapsed staircase. A young woman, perhaps twenty years old, but so short in stature that she looked more like a teenager. She was beckoning with a furtive gesture. She wore thick rags, stained with ash and oil, like so many others from the area, but her gaze – brown and shrewd – betrayed her clarity of mind.
– My lady, if you're looking for Ventresca… you shouldn't speak so loudly – the girl's voice was firmer than Elizaveta had expected, given her short height and fragile appearance, as if time had spared her stature but not the weight of the world. – Elias is still alive – she murmured quickly, as if afraid the stones might hear her. – When you left Silvania, the Archdruidess gave the order for him to be imprisoned. They said it was necessary… to be cautious.
Elizaveta narrowed her eyes, as one might when staring into fog, trying to tell if it's just mist or if there are bayonets behind it.
– Prisoner? – the word came out almost as a growl. – And the Green League? What are they playing at?
The girl leaned in, almost as if to whisper a secret into the ear of a corpse.
– The League intends to take advantage of the chaos Dante is sowing. The Iron Dominion is trembling, and they intend to be the final gust that brings down the wall. They say when two giants fight, the ghosts gather the bones left behind.
Elizaveta studied her carefully, her fingers already toying with the strap of her riding glove.
– And how do you know all this?
The girl raised her chin, proud.
– We're not blind just because we're poor or rebels. We have eyes and ears everywhere: messengers that fly without wings and spies disguised as beggars. A war between nations isn't won just by watching the battlefield. It's won with every stolen word, every step heard in the dark.
For a moment, silence weighed between them. The wind swept down the narrow street with the smell of burnt coal and rusted iron, and the distant cries of Minierossa echoed like the laments of ghosts that never left. Elizaveta glanced at Gregor and Dário, then back at the girl, and for the first time in a long while, she felt that old chill in her chest; not of frost or ice, but of uncertainty.
When the girl finished, the captain of the Wolves placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and nodded gravely, before turning and walking back to Gregor and Dário.
– He's alive – said Elizaveta plainly. – But he was betrayed. The Archdruidess ordered him imprisoned, and the Green League intends to use the chaos in Minierossa and Rocciaguarda to break the Iron Dominion with their own hands.
Gregor frowned.
– Then no one's coming? Just us?
– No one – she confirmed. – Dante's only hope is us.
Dário slowly uncrossed his arms, staring at the ground with suspicion.
– And why, in Solarius' name, should we help him? Silvania's already cast him aside like a sacrificed pawn.
– Nothing binds you to this land – she said, her voice firm but shadowed. – You can go. You can mount up now and head north or south, and let the mountain dragons and forest shadows devour you.
Elizaveta lifted her gaze to the sky, thick with grey clouds, as if searching for an answer above. Then, she looked back at them.
– But I don't trust the Green League – she continued. – I never have. And if we turn back now, we'll have to cross their territory. There's no route south that doesn't pass through their forests. And if they learn we refused their cause…
She didn't need to finish the sentence. A crow cawed atop a broken tower. Gregor and Dário exchanged a silent glance, like two men watching the weight of a decision fall, grain by grain, like coal dust over a dying city.
– I don't like him – Gregor said at last, his voice hoarse with smoke and weariness. – Dante. I never liked him. Always looked like a man who believes the world owes him something. But… – and here he looked into Elizaveta's eyes – … I can't bear to see my people bleeding like this. Women being evacuated on hay carts. Boys missing limbs. Old men starving in trenches. This isn't politics anymore. This is agony.
Dário furrowed his brow but said nothing.
– We need to end this war – Gregor continued. – Once and for all.
Elizaveta nodded slowly, as if weighing the weight of every word before letting it fall.
– Then so be it. Tomorrow, when the sun rises over the first day of Ignis, the last month of summer, the Winter Wolves will run again. This time… for Dante. And for all those who have no one else left.
Silence fell once more. In the distance, came the bark of a dog, or the scream of a man dying in a dream.
– And may the gods be with us – she murmured. – Because if we fail… no one will sing songs about us.