The following afternoon
The main granary of Everfrost lay along the western wall of the stronghold, where thick gray stone walls — cold to the touch yet slow to lose heat — kept winter's chill at bay.
At this time of day, the sunlight had begun to take on a honeyed hue, glimmering through the fine dust rising from sacks of wheat, dried potatoes, and turnips stacked in towering heaps.
Rosalind stepped into the granary with a thick cloak draped loosely over her shoulders, followed by Maera Vexley. The air inside was steeped in the sharp scent of old wood, dry straw, and freshly harvested crops. The stewards bowed, then returned swiftly to sorting, recording, and shelving supplies.
"All three main granaries are nearly eighty percent full," Maera said with a faint smile, her voice tinged with satisfaction. "At our current pace, we should be able to fill them completely in just two more months. This year's yield may be one and a half times greater than last year, my lady."
Rosalind glanced over the bulging sacks before turning to Maera.
"That's wonderful news."
"Yes, the weather has been kind, and the harvest abundant. The people are truly uplifted." There was a glint of hope in Maera's eyes.
When the biting cold retreats for only four short months, a good harvest is nothing less than a blessing from the earth itself.
But Maera's smile slowly faded, as if she had just remembered something. Her slender, wrinkled fingers rubbed gently against the back of her hand.
"Maera… are you all right?" Noticing the change in the old housekeeper's demeanor, Rosalind tilted her head and asked softly.
"I just recalled something. Perhaps it's something you should consider…"
"I'm always open to your advice." Rosalind had long learned that anything Maera proposed was worth listening to.
"These days, the areas around the border outposts have been under frequent attack from the Redmark tribes… so we've taken in quite a few refugees recently."
She paused, her gaze drifting toward the children playing nearby.
"And we can't very well shut our gates to them… But we also can't feed all of the North with just a few fields."
Rosalind fell silent. The clatter of grain being poured into sacks, the rustle of crates, the calls of workers, the joyful shrieks of children — all merged into a rhythm of life that felt both urgent and fragile.
So this is how the people of the North live. How they've always lived.
They did not simply endure the cold when snow blanketed the land — they had to battle it even when the fields gleamed gold with ripening grain.
There was never a moment when they weren't fighting.
"What if we purchased supplies from elsewhere?" she asked.
Maera considered it for a moment before replying.
"It's not a bad idea, my lady. But I worry about the high cost of transport."
The lands governed by House Ellowen in the West were known as the Empire's primary agricultural heartland. Though geographically, the West and North were separated only by a single mountain range, the surrounding forests and treacherous, snow-covered peaks made direct trade between the regions nearly impossible.
Thus, the fastest and nearest option for food supply would be to buy from merchants in the East — and of course, that came at a steep price.
Not to mention, the large military presence in the North would become a significant burden if war broke out again with the Redmarks.
The steady rhythm of the granary was broken by hurried footsteps — a maid, breathless, clutching a letter sealed with the Duke's sigil.
"My lady… a letter from the Duke," the maid announced between gasps. She had clearly run with all her strength to deliver it.
"From Dorian?"
"Yes, my lady."
Rosalind accepted the letter and opened it carefully.
Dorian's handwriting hadn't changed — precise, slanted, a little cold, yet unmistakably firm. He never wrote much, always just what was necessary, no more.
She used to tease him for that laziness — though in truth, she had always treasured the rare moments when he did try.
"I… will try to be better at expressing things."
He had said that once, looking as if he were surrendering to an impossible mission.
The thought made her lips curl ever so slightly — a smile thin as early winter frost.
A smile no one could see, perhaps not even herself.
But then… the smile faded, as her eyes fell on a particular line — brief, but heavy.
Several villages near the border had been completely destroyed. Dorian would bring the survivors back to Everfrost, at least to give them safe shelter for the winter.
"They'll likely return within two or three days… with around twenty people," the letter read.
She folded the letter, her eyes drifting briefly over the bulging sacks of grain. So much effort, so much hope — and yet, never enough. Her thoughts gathered like storm clouds over a harvest field, heavy with a single truth: they had to act now.
"Then we must prepare shelter. And food."
She let out a dry laugh. Somehow, the things they feared always found their way to them — as if fate had a strange sense of timing.
"I think I've found a solution for the food issue. As for arranging housing for the refugees… could I trouble you with that, Maera?"
"I'd be glad to, my lady." The housekeeper nodded. Then, unable to suppress her curiosity, she asked:
"But… may I ask what your solution is?"
Rosalind looked at her, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"I have a shield above me." she said with a cryptic chuckle, before turning toward the castle.
"It's time to send a letter to my dear sister... the Queen."
For once, she would stop shielding others alone. This time, she would let the Castillon name shield her people.
---
While snow fell quietly over Everfrost, far away, in the heart of a darker forest of Northwestern Astravelle.
Where sunlight barely pierced through the thick canopy, a vast camp sprawled among ancient trees. The air reeked of smoke, roasted meat, animal hide, and strong liquor—a feral, savage scent unmistakably Redmark. The scent of lawlessness.
This place once belonged to a nomadic tribe who hunted along the upper reaches of the Velkora River. Now, it had become a den for outlaws: remnants of war, fugitives, mercenaries, and scum rejected by civilized society.
A small group of four riders made their way through the camp, drawing wary, murderous stares from the wild-eyed men around them. They pushed their horses toward the largest tent—one that pulsed with drunken laughter and the sound of singing.
Inside, by the central fire, sat a mountain of a man. Muscles carved like stone, long hair braided into rough ropes. One of his eyes was gone, sealed permanently by a jagged scar running from his brow to cheek.
Gorran One-Eye — the old wolf of the North. A survivor of slaughter, now warlord of the Redmark remnants.
The firelight flickered across his remaining eye: reddish-brown, like mud soaked in blood. It wasn't a fiery rage that glimmered there, but something colder—calculated, unpredictable. Like the echo of a battle still raging in his mind. He sat unmoving, a black statue, his gaze sharp as a beast in the dark.
"Well, well… The Grand Duke himself, slumming it among wolves."
Gorran's voice rasped, laced with mockery.
"Magnus Castillon. The esteemed Grand Duke himself. Welcome, welcome."
Magnus entered, his dark cloak flowing with each step. Hair of muted chestnut, eyes a deep, icy violet. His face bore the calm weight of age, the quiet authority of someone who didn't need to raise his voice to command a room.
"This place," He furrowed his brow, lifting his chin slightly as if surveying something foul. "It stinks. Fitting for a place built by rats and ruled by ghosts."
A few of the Redmark men growled and reached for their weapons, but Magnus didn't flinch. His amethys eyes gaze remained unshaken.
"Easy... easy, guys." Gorran chuckled, lifting a hand. "We're on the same side… no need for blood."
"The same side?" Magnus tilted his head. "Confidence doesn't suit you, Gorran."
Gorran leaned forward through the smoke. "Then tell me, Your Grace... are we friends—or enemies?"
Before the words settled, the tip of a blade sliced through the firelight, pointed straight at Gorran's face.
No one saw Magnus draw. Only the flash of steel and the hiss of burning air.
"Do not test my patience, Gorran," he said, voice low and cold as mountain wind.
"And... don't forget who banished you to this godsforsaken forest. You should be grateful you're still breathing."
The sword glowed red-hot at its edge, steam rising as it hovered inches from Gorran's face. He squinted slightly at the heat.
"Your filthy little army survives on Astravelle's scraps. Don't bare your fangs at the hand that feeds you."
Gorran's eyes darkened. He raised his hand again. One of his men, halfway into drawing a battle axe, froze in place.
The tip of Magnus's blade dropped, kissing the damp earth. It sizzled on contact.
"Control your dogs."
For a moment, Gorran said nothing. Then a grin broke across his face—sharp, unreadable.
"So... what brings Astravelle's finest to the den of mongrels?"
Magnus turned slightly, his gaze resting on a tattered banner — a blood-red eye on black cloth, the old Redmark sigil.
"I need you to do what you do best," he said, voice colder than ever.
"Kill the head of House Valemont."
A flicker of flame leapt in Gorran's eye. He licked his lips, then spoke the name slowly, almost savoring it.
"Dorian... Valemont."