For eleven years, Dreadmoor had been dealing with an odd and uneven frost. The weather was pretty harsh too, with heavy snowfall and freezing conditions, leaving behind old iron mines, iced up coastal waters and ice-covered pine forests. Dreadmoor had never been a warm place, whatever the season, but the last eleven years had been extremely cold for its people.
At thirty, Viscount Soren Vane Delve was the perfect match for the land. His face was as sharp and scarred from the battle as a mountain peak. His eyes were a strange shade of gold color, they didn't seem to show any emotion at all. His hands were the battle-scarred hands of a Knight-Commander who had led battalions and weighed up the value of human lives.
Perched on the massive stone walls of Ironhold Fortress, Soren gently adjusted the fur cloak draped over his heavy plate armour, which was now covered in a thin layer of frost. His silver-blonde hair was combed back with military precision, framing an angular jaw carved by decades of northern frost. Golden eyes, cold and unreadable, swept over the frozen fortress grounds below. He wore no gold or silk, only dark steel, hardened leather and the heavy crimson wolf-fur mantle that proclaimed him Knight-Commander of the Dreadmoor Vanguard.
"Commander.." A deep, powerful voice boomed behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who was talking. Captain Valerick Thorne Blackwood dropped to one knee and bowed his head towards the ground, showing respect to the commander.
"Your father has arrived."
When he heard this, Soren smiled broadly and turned to see his father standing next to Captain Valerick, Marquis Dragan Vane Delve. After years of leading troops, Dragan's beard had turned from thick to silvery-grey, but the old Marquis still had broad shoulders and a sturdy, wolf-like bearing.
A man who had never bowed down to the bureaucrats of Veridia.
"Father.." That stern voice had softened and those intimidating eyes had immediately warmed.
"The barley stock in the lower barn is only enough for three weeks, Soren," Dragan said in a deep, soft voice like the grinding of millstones amidst a bone-chilling wind. Then he had a bit of a bitter smile. The High Council has cut off our shipping lines again. They're trying to starve us out before the mid-winter audit.
This has been Dreadmoor's biggest problem since the long winter struck Arboris. Their land is a region of steep, rugged ice, but in spring, flowers would usually still be in bloom, allowing farmers to grow a variety of fruits and vegetables that could be preserved for months. But now, they can't.
A few years back, Dragan suggested we build a greenhouse, but the plot of land set aside for it didn't produce enough to sustain the whole region.
"They might cut our grain rations, Father, but they won't be able to kill us." Soren answered in a calm but low voice. He sounded sure of himself, like a really solid iceberg. "I'm going to start meetings with the vanguard and the rest of the Dreadmoor forces first thing tomorrow. Make sure the civilians in the suburbs of the bottom city get the whole wheat harvest."
Dragan breathed out a cloud of white smoke into the freezing air and then put his heavy, gloved hand on his son's arm, "You did your best, Commander."
Soren's serious expression softened a bit. A subtle, rare shift he revealed only to his family, "I'm just doing my job as the commander of the troops here, Father…"
Dragan nodded.
"Come home," Dragan murmured gently, his eyes brimming with paternal warmth. "Your mother's been keeping the fireplace crackling in the east wing. And Mordessa has been asking about you since dawn."
When he heard his sister's name, he started feeling really heartbroken and protective.
They left the frozen outer fortress and went into the main Vane Delve family manor. The interior of that place felt warm, unpretentious and lived-in, unlike the cold, grand marble halls of Veridia. The stone corridors smelt of burning pine, roasted root vegetables and herbal tea. Soren's mother had woven tapestries of ancient battles of the North and the family crest, hung them on the walls.
Once he was inside the personal family room, a lady with beautiful hair and a calm, gentle look at him as she glanced up from the fireplace. Hilda Gray Moor, immediately put her knitting to one side and went over to Soren to brush the frost off his armour. A few servants stepped forward and started helping her take off the guy's armour.
"Your body's so cold it feels like it's freezing, Soren," she told him gently, while her fingers caressed her son's cheek. "Why not sit by the fire? I've asked the maid to brew you some pine needle tea to soothe your throat."
"I'm fine, Mother," Soren said as he leaned forward to let his mother's touch linger for a moment in silence, closing his eyes, enjoying the soft touch he always missed. After that, he went over to the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall.
"How's she doing today?"
Hilda's warm smile disappeared, leaving behind a quiet sadness.
Soren unbuckled his heavy sword belt, left it near the fireplace, then pushed open the door to his younger sister's room. The room was uncomfortably heated.
There were three iron braziers crackling in the corners, burning fragrant cedar wood to freshen the air. Mordessa Vane Delve was lying on the huge four-poster bed. Mordessa should have been having a laugh in the courtyard or practising her archery at nineteen. She should have been getting ready for nobles' gatherings with her age group or studying history and other subjects.
Instead, she was buried under thick wool blankets. Her skin was so pale it looked almost see-through against her hair, which was the same colour as Soren's. She was breathing in shallow, wheezing breaths, it sounded like dry parchment scraping against stone every time she breathed in.
The plague of crystallisation is a horrible affliction caused by contaminated groundwater in old mines, it had spread to her lungs. Her wrists and neck were covered in tiny silver-grey crystal scales, which were shimmering under her skin. Her hardening veins were slowly turning her flesh to stone.
"Is the snow starting to melt?" Her voice was almost completely gone, she was struggling to breathe. Soren hurried over to the bed and pulled a chair right up to it. He took his sister's small, icy cold hand in his own large, rough palm, his thumb carefully avoiding the silver scales on her wrist.
"Yeah, it is," Soren lied smoothly, forcing a calm smile as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"The snow is easing up near the upper ridge. The winter hawks are nesting early this year." Mordessa let out a small, rattling laugh that shattered into a violent coughing fit. Without hesitation, Soren leaned down, gently shifting his sister onto her side to clear her throat.
He felt the cold rigidity in her spine. The crystallization plague turned her joints to stone. The fluid, joyful conversations they once shared as children were long gone, replaced by the quiet tally of her remaining breaths.
Soren sat in the silent room for ages, holding his sister's hand while listening to her heavy, labored breathing. It wasn't like he and his parents hadn't done anything for Mordessa. His mother even studied herbal medicine just in the hope of curing her daughter. However, it was all pointless. There was just not enough info out there about a cure for those with the disease.
The silence was broken by the heavy, hurried clatter of iron-shod boots running down the stone corridor outside. The bedroom door swung wide open. Boran, Soren's most trusted lieutenant and ace scout, stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. His cloak was soaked with melted snow, and his face was deathly pale with shock.
"Commander," Boran said, breathing heavily, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You'll need to head to the main gate. Right now."
When Soren reached the main courtyard, a fierce wind hit him. The Imperial Envoys were standing out in the snow, wearing fancy velvet robes that looked totally bizarre and out of place in the freezing Dreadmoor landscape.
A month had gone by since word got out that King Caelum had gone and his only son, Crown Prince Lucian Sol Veridian, had become king in his place. The way they were dressed and the Mother Tree's decree were causing Soren some concern. He was well aware of what it meant to be as someone from Arboris.
But... Mordessa wasn't doing so well.
Soren's parents were standing near the steps with thirty Vanguard soldiers fully armed with bows and arrows, the tension in the air was so heavy you could cut it with a knife.
"Commander!" The Alchemist's voice echoed across the snowy courtyard, his voice trembling slightly as he looked at the huge, cold figure of the Knight Commander approaching him.
Soren stopped ten paces away, his gold eyes fixed on the imperial crest.
"You're miles away from the capital, Alchemist. State your purpose before my men escort you back to the border."
The Alchemist opened the velvet box, and there was a broad leaf made of pure gold. The leaf let out a bright silver glow that cut through the grey snow.
"King Lucian Sol Veridian has been crowned! Yet, the Mother Tree is now withered and barren, and he has spoken!" Dragan took a step forward, his hand resting on the sword's hilt.
"What's the connection between your dying tree and my son?"
"The Mother Tree has chosen the Bearer!" the messenger shouted, looking straight at Soren.
"By divine mandate of the Crown and the sacred roots of Arboris, Viscount Soren Vane Delve is hereby summoned! You shall surrender your broadsword, step down as Knight-Commander and march south to Veridia! The Mother Tree has spoken, you are to take your place beside King Lucian as the Queen of Arboris! "