The Great Hall of Dreadmoor Fortress wasn't like the sweet-smelling kind of place you'd expect, but more like the kind of place where they cook roasted boar and the air is full of the smell of pine needles and strong ale.
It was the first night of The Rite of Severance, an ancient Northern tradition where people get together to eat, drink and formally cut ties with a ruler who's about to leave. This ceremony has been a part of marriages, alliances, and the departure of nobles to foreign lands for centuries. But tonight, the mood in the hall felt more like a serious honour for a living general than a party.
At the high wooden table sat fifty Veridian knights and the Grand Alchemist. Seated apart in the center of the room, surrounded by Vanguard soldiers standing at the ready, hands resting casually on their sword hilts, the envoys from the capital consumed their meal in awkward silence. They chewed nervously on strips of salted beef and drank plain water, feeling utterly out of place amidst the raucous laughter of the Northerners.
Marquis Dragan, who sat silently downing liquor from a horn goblet, appeared utterly heartbroken and shattered that night. No one approached him, as if out of respect for the anguish he was enduring.
Soren had just finished packing and preparing everything he needed for his departure. He could hear his mother crying in her room again, while his father was drowning himself in alcohol at tonight's party. So, he decided to go to the camp where the knights were.
He set off with Alberon, his beloved horse. He had cared for Alberon since he was a child and was a little sad to have to part ways with him.
When he arrived at the camp, several knights showed respect by raising their hands in salute. Soren nodded and quickly jumped off from Alberon. He's going to see Valerick. That man's private tent was at the very back. The lights were still on, which meant that the people inside were still awake.
Valerick Thorne Blackwood had been his best friend since they were kids. He was three years younger than him, but he achieved everything Soren had achieved by the time he was 27. He had become a captain and the knight commander's second-in-command.
They were so close that they had been through countless battles, both life and near-death. Everything the Northern Unit achieved in Dreadmoor was partly due to their hard work. The Northern Unit was the strongest unit in Arboris after they officially joined the Dreadmoor Knights.
He cleared his throat, "Valerick.."
"Soren?" The voice came from inside.
"Yeah, it's me.."
Valerick stopped for a moment before finally inviting him to come inside. The man looked confused when the person who was meant to be at the send-off party turned up at his tent wearing a gloomy expression.
Soren was seated on the sofa and let out a long, wordless sigh. Valerick let him be, allowing a moment of silence before Soren voiced whatever was on his mind. He knew that Soren just wanted to get him out of the manor for a while.
Valerick sat across from him, his brow shadowed by heavy thought. When Soren had first broken the news, the captain had stood stunned, unable to reconcile the legendary Knight-Commander of Dreadmoor with the ancient, bizarre decrees of the capital. Men did not bear heirs in the North.
But as the fire crackled between them, disbelief faded into a quiet, furious solidarity. They drank in silence, two soldiers who knew the battlefield was about to shift from snow and steel to silk and venom. In the end the two of them spent the night talking about all sorts of things, interrupted by moments of unexpected nostalgia.
Late on the second night, as the evening meal had settled into a quiet, low murmur and the imperial envoys had been put up in the western barracks, Soren made his way down a quiet, candlelit corridor toward his sister's bedchamber.
He was carrying a small, sealed, velvet box that the Alchemist had given him in the courtyard. A vial containing the precious, glowing sap of the Mother Tree.
When he pushed the door open, the embers in the cedar-wood hearth were still crackling, casting warm shadows around Mordessa's slight figure. She was already awake, her frail body wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Her chest was still moving up and down with short, rattling breaths, but her pale face had brightened the moment Soren stepped into the room.
"Soren…" She said in a hoarse voice, barely more than a whisper, in the silence. "the... the servants said there were soldiers from the capital in the courtyard. Why are they here?"
Soren pulled his wooden chair right up beside the bed and sat down. He didn't answer straight away. Instead, he carefully opened the velvet box and took out a small glass vial. The thick, golden resin inside it emitted a faint, warm glow, illuminating the tiny silvery-grey scales on Mordessa's wrist.
"I've got something for you," Soren said gently. He pulled the cork out of the bottle and held it to Mordessa's dry, pale lips. "Try this. Finish it all."
Mordessa looked at him, her golden eyes showing a combination of trust and a hint of confusion.
She wasn't curious about what it was. She just tilted her head back a bit to take a sip of the stuff in the bottle. Then, she downed the thick, sweet liquid in three small gulps. She felt a gentle, golden warmth spread through her chest almost instantly. Her shoulders, which had been moving up and down with her breathing, now relaxed. The dry, rasping sound from her lungs subsided, and for the first time in six months, Mordessa drew a long, deep breath without coughing.
"It... it doesn't feel anything like burning," she said, breathlessly, staring at her hands in sheer astonishment. The silver scales on her wrists were still there, but the dark, hardened veins under her skin had stopped pulsing.
"Soren, what's this?"
"This is the first step," Soren whispered, leaning down to plant a firm, warm kiss on the young woman's forehead. He took off the heavy silver pendant from his own neck, it was shaped like a dark red wolf's head and put it in Mordessa's small palm.
He then wrapped her fingers tightly around it.
They looked at each other, and Mordessa could see that her older brother's eyes had filled with tears in the low light of the room. She looked confused.
"I'm heading to the capital, Mordessa," Soren said in a low, committed voice. "I've signed a trade agreement with the new King. I'll head south to get the rest of your medicine."
Mordessa's eyes widened in sudden panic. She grabbed the man's wolf pendant really tightly, "No... Soren…" Mordessa was desperate to say everything she was feeling, but she couldn't. This stupid illness makes it impossible for her to speak for long. She looked at her older brother, hoping he'd get what she was trying to say.
"Hold onto this pendant. Just so you know, I'm doing everything I can to bring back the medicine that can cure you completely. Promise me you'll stay strong until I get back…You have to get healthy again.."
Mordessa cried. She couldn't hold back her emotions any longer. She was a worried wreck. But she knew Soren was doing this for her, so she nodded slowly while pressing her cheek against his big, warm hand.
By the third day, the really cold blizzard had stopped, and the bright sunlight was shining on the snow-covered courtyard. It was as if the weather itself was wishing him well as he left for the capital.
The imperial procession was waiting near the main gate, the horses snorted and blew white plumes of steam into the freezing air. Young alchemists were standing next to a stunning black-and-gold carriage, keeping an eye on the folks from Dreadmoor Fortress as they gathered along the stone walls.
Beside the iron gates, High Alchemist Malakor raised his gaunt arms. A tear in the atmosphere split open a swirling, void-black portal that smelled of ozone, old earth, and alchemy. An overland journey across Arboris would take a full month, but with the Mother Tree starving in its roots, time was a luxury Veridia did not possess. The tear hummed, casting eerie violet light across the snow.
But as the heavy inner-fortress gates swung wide, the Alchemist was open-mouthed with surprise.
Soren didn't show up wearing the velvet robes or silk travel cloak that an imperial consort would usually wear. Instead, he stepped out onto the snow wearing all his Northern battle gear. Heavy, unpolished plate armour with scars from combat, a deep-red wolf-fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders and a broadsword strapped firmly to his waist.
It was a quiet but clear declaration of war against the Veridian government. Soren's refusal to give up his role as a commander to please the silk-clad bureaucrats in the capital.
In the middle of the square, Marquis Dragan and Marchioness Hilda were all teary-eyed as they watched their eldest son walk towards the procession.
Soren stopped before the open carriage door, his boots buried in the cold drifts. He turned back one last time, his golden eyes sweeping over his tearful parents, his loyal Vanguard soldiers, and Valerick standing at rigid attention beside the gate. He did not bow. He did not smile. Steel-clad and wrapped in crimson wolf-fur, the Knight-Commander stepped into the gloom of the carriage as it plunged into the dark portal carrying the North's pride straight into the lion's den.