Beneath the northern sky, in a village not far from the garrison, columns of black smoke still coiled upward, clawing stubbornly at the ashen heavens as if refusing to vanish. The air was thick with the acrid scent of charred timber, the metallic tang of blood… and the heavy stench of death.
Half the roofs had collapsed under the ruthless assault of the Redmark marauders. Granaries, fields—everything that once sustained life here—had been reduced to smoldering debris. Even a passing glance could conjure the nightmare the villagers had just survived. By some rare fortune, no lives had been lost.
Scattered across the ruins, a handful of villagers and soldiers worked in grim silence, gathering the corpses of the fallen Redmark raiders—those too slow to escape. Others picked through the wreckage, searching for what little might still be salvaged. Rowan, his face streaked with sweat and soot, his armor dulled by smoke, climbed the rise where Dorian stood.
"My lord." he said solemnly, "as you instructed, the villagers have been gathered at the chapel for treatment. The good news is… no serious injuries have been reported."
Dorian gave a slight nod, his gloved hand unconsciously tightening around the hilt of his sword. His eyes remained fixed on the crimson-stained earth, where the enemy's bodies were being heaped into pyres.
"About half of them managed to flee," Rowan continued. "Their numbers were greater than we'd anticipated."
Dorian was silent for a time, then asked quietly, "How much food do we have left?"
"Enough for four, perhaps five days at most."
Only then did Dorian turn away, his gaze no longer anchored to the carnage behind him.
"Tell the village elder to assemble his people. For those who wish to leave, provide enough provisions to reach the nearest settlement. The rest—if they choose—may follow us back to Everfrost. Let them begin again."
Rowan inclined his head. "As you command, my lord."
Dorian paused in mid-step, his voice low.
"Tell them this: the raiders will return. To leave… is to survive."
Later, Rowan stood in quiet conversation with the village elder—a wiry man past fifty, his frame thin but his eyes still sharp with clarity.
He took in the situation with a heavy stillness, then slowly nodded.
"The Duke of Valemont has spared our lives. If he says this is the wisest course… then I place my trust in him."
Some hesitated when the village elder spoke.
They stood before the charred remains of their homes—places where children had been born, where families had once gathered in the warmth of firelight, where memories had been etched into every beam and stone. The idea of leaving felt like surrendering a part of their soul.
But the scent of smoke still clung to the wind, and the earth was stained with blood. What remained was no longer a home, but a graveyard of what once was.
One by one, they began to understand: survival demanded sacrifice.
To stay was to mourn.
To leave… was to live.
And no one wished to be left behind in a frozen grave.
Elsewhere in the ruined village, Bryden and Keiran were finishing their inspection of the battlefield. The mingled scents of blood, gunpowder, and churned mud clung stubbornly to their armor and clothes.
"That's the last of them," Keiran muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. His gaze drifted toward the village center.
"If we'd arrived a little later… the bodies we'd be piling up wouldn't be Redmark," he said grimly, glancing toward the villagers huddled before the chapel. "They'd be theirs."
The Redmark had struck under the cover of night, leaving precious little chance for escape. But thanks to the villagers' resistance—and their own army's timely arrival—the enemy had been repelled without a single civilian death.
"The Duke… truly sees far," Bryden murmured. "Without his swift orders, we'd have come only to collect ashes."
Rowan had joined them by then, silent as he listened. His gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, where the sky had darkened to a dull, smoke-colored grey.
"It's as if he knew this would happen," Rowan said softly.
"Knew?" Keiran frowned.
"Not like some prophecy out of a bard's tale," Rowan replied, his voice thoughtful. "More like… he's lived it before."
Bryden let out a short, gruff laugh, thick with smoke and fatigue. "You make him sound like a man who can turn back time."
Rowan allowed himself a faint smile, knowing how absurd his words must sound—even to himself.
From the moment Dorian had written to the Queen… to the redirection of the troops northwest… everything had unfolded as though guided by unseen hands. As if every step had been laid in advance.
"With the Duke," Rowan said at last, "nothing happens by chance."
That night, they made camp beside a wide tributary of the Iselwyn River — a river that stretched far across the northern highlands, once called "the flow of the gods." It was the largest river in the North, providing vital water and life to the people who lived along its banks.
Dorian stood alone on a gentle sloping bank, where he could gaze down at the quietly flowing water. The river reflected the pale golden moonlight, its shimmering glow breaking apart with each ripple and wave that caressed the stones along the shore.
"Can't sleep, my lord?" a voice broke the silence.
"…Perhaps not. And you, Rowan?" A faint smile flickered on Dorian's lips, fragile yet genuine.
"I'm on watch, my lord," Rowan answered, standing straight with his hands clasped neatly before him.
"Good. I hope I'm not disturbing your vigil."
"Not at all, my lord. I'm honored to keep watch."
Rowan took a few careful steps closer to Dorian. Truth be told, he was not truly on duty. Since dinner, Dorian had disappeared without a word, and Rowan had felt a prick of worry. Though he knew worrying over such a strong warrior was unnecessary, as a loyal servant and friend, he could not help but care.
The two stood in silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the riverbank.
"I've sent riders to inform the lady, as you instructed," Rowan said softly.
"Thank you," Dorian replied, his voice low.
"Most of the villagers wish to follow us to Everfrost. Life on the borderlands grows ever harder, with the constant threat of the Redmark tribes stirring unrest."
Rowan hesitated a moment, then turned to ask, "May I ask you something?"
Dorian did not answer immediately. He simply inhaled deeply, letting the cool night breeze fill his lungs.
"How did you know… the Redmark would attack this village?"
The night wind grew stronger, stirring the seemingly calm river into rippling waves that crashed softly against the stones.
"If I told you I was lucky enough to predict it, would you believe me?"
His words hung vague in the night air, but Rowan understood. Dorian preferred to keep such things to himself, refusing to explain his actions or share his burdens openly.
It was no surprise. His father had fallen in battle, and not long after, his mother became paralyzed by illness and passed away. At just eight years old, young Dorian was left to survive amid wolves hungry for power—wolves that his family name, Valemont, symbolized.
In such a harsh world, could anyone expect him to grow into an innocent boy?
Rowan likely knew the answer better than anyone.
He looked at the man before him—a sturdy figure, but one shadowed by loneliness.
"Well then, perhaps you are the lucky one, my lord," Rowan said quietly.
"Don't say that. Gods do not like to be compared to men," Dorian chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"We can never be sure when that luck will leave us…" he added in a low murmur, almost like a warning—to himself, or to the night.
Without another word, he turned away and walked off, leaving only a solitary silhouette standing by the riverbank, alone under the vast night sky.
Morning broke with a pale mist still veiling the grass as the camp slowly stirred to life. Quiet voices drifted through the dawn, mingling with the soft snort of horses and the fading crackle of dying embers in the fire pits.
Dorian was inspecting the supply carts when he caught the sound of hesitant footsteps brushing against the grass. Turning, he saw a young girl—no older than seven or eight—making her way toward him with cautious steps. Her light brown hair was hastily tied to one side, and she clutched a small bundle wrapped in worn cloth tight to her chest.
He crouched slightly, his voice gentler than usual.
"Is there something you need, young lady?"
The girl nodded, her face a mix of nervousness and quiet resolve. With small, trembling hands, she unfolded the cloth to reveal a few pastries—still warm, their soft scent carrying the quiet comfort of a home that had so little left to give.
"My parents… they woke up early to make these," she whispered, as if afraid her offering might not be worthy. "I… wanted to give them to you, my lord."
For a brief moment, the duke's cold composure gave way. He stared at the bundle in silence before reaching out to take it—his movements slow, careful.
"Thank you," he murmured, offering a faint, unguarded smile as he gently placed a hand on her head.
The heat of the pastries seeped through the cloth and into his palm—lingering there, strangely comforting.
The girl looked up at him, the fear in her gaze now softened into wonder.
"When you smile," she said shyly, "you look really handsome… my lord."
The words struck him with unexpected force. Dorian blinked—then let out a low, genuine laugh, the sound surprising even himself. Around them, a few heads turned, drawn by the unfamiliar warmth in his voice.
"I'll treasure that compliment," he replied, the edges of his smile deepening.
The girl offered a quick, bashful bow, then spun on her heel and ran back toward her waiting parents—her dirt-streaked hem swaying in the morning breeze.
Dorian lingered for a moment, watching her disappear behind the carts. The pastries in his hand were still warm. So were her words.
It might have been all the villagers could give—a humble offering from a grateful heart. But to him, it meant far more than gold.
Soon after, the caravan set off on its journey back to Everfrost—leaving behind a northern land just beginning to breathe again.