Chapter 7 — Echoes Beneath the Ice
Snow whispered against the outer ramparts of Blackhold Keep. A cold wind threaded through the arrow slits, dragging the scent of steel and frost into the war room. Lorien stood alone beneath the iron chandelier, where a map of the Ashen Marches was spread wide across the stone table. He had not moved since before dawn. He did not blink often. And when he did, it was slow—like a man drawing in breath before a killing blow.
The door creaked open behind him, but he did not turn. He had expected them.
"Report," he said.
The Emberborn stepped into the light, one by one, robes streaked with slush and blood. Their faces were unreadable. Eleven of them—every single one who had departed the keep in silence three nights past—now returned.
"They were expecting no one," said the lead operative, Seris, a tall woman with a voice as low as mountain thunder. "Our presence was not sensed, our departure not followed. Three of their war-chiefs dead. Nine banners burned. No survivors in the outposts. No noble interference detected."
Lorien looked up from the map. His eyes, usually slate-grey, seemed darker today. "None of the northern tribes warned?"
"They still believe it was wolves, my lord," another Emberborn murmured. "We left only shattered camps and frozen corpses. One chieftain was pinned to a mast with a black-iron pike."
Lorien allowed himself a single nod.
Seris stepped forward, unwrapping a bundle of torn hide. She unfurled it carefully, revealing a rudimentary map drawn in ochre and charcoal—barbarian script marking cave systems, river fords, and migration trails across the northwestern forests.
"This was recovered from the tent of the One-Eye," she said. "It confirms your suspicion. They have not been acting alone."
Lorien's gaze narrowed.
"Clarify," he said.
"Their supply caches," Seris said. "They are not built like the others. Cut stone. Barrel-sealed grain. Southern craftsmanship. Imperial-grade pitch for their fire bombs."
Lorien moved, finally, reaching forward and tracing a gloved finger across the hide-map's path. "Southwestern quadrant. Burnedge Province."
Seris inclined her head. "It was not nobles, my lord. The branding on the crates was scraped. Coin-based emblems. Black coin with a serpent."
Lorien's jaw tightened. He did not look up. "The Nomads."
Another Emberborn spoke, softer still. "Sellsteel from the east, my lord. They've been hired to teach the tribes fire discipline. Two of the scouts had scars in the eastern style."
Silence held the war room for a long time. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth behind him.
"You were not seen?" Lorien asked again.
"We were wind," Seris said. "Even if they searched the snow, they'd find no shadow of us."
"Then we escalate."
Lorien reached for a sealed scroll and opened it with a flick of his wrist. His pen moved quickly, etching a command. When he finished, he sealed the letter in black wax stamped with his sigil—a crowned torch ringed by thorns.
"Deliver this to Thornvale. I want Captain Nael to prepare a feint along the low valleys. Meanwhile, we'll pull their vanguard toward Greywatch." He looked up at the Emberborn. "While they scatter to the west, we will strike into the heart. Not a raid. A purge."
A murmur of assent passed through the operatives, quiet as breath.
"You'll strike again in three days," Lorien said. "But this time, you leave one survivor. A low-ranking one. A messenger."
He walked slowly to the window slit, gazing down into the training yard below where the Ashen Vanguard drilled with silent precision.
"Make sure the survivor sees the sigil," he said. "Let them carry it back. Let them tell the others what comes when the empire forgets the north."
—
The next morning, Blackhold moved like a blade being drawn from a sheath. Riders moved out in pre-dawn fog, messages sent along hidden trails. Smiths stoked forges to life, smoke curling through chimneys into the colorless sky. Ashen Vanguard commanders gathered in the inner barracks, poring over hand-drawn terrain sketches marked in blood-red ink. All of it moved beneath the surface—like fire under frost.
Lorien stood in the keep's high northern turret, watching the ridgeline through a bronze-rimmed spyglass. Beyond the grey peaks, he could almost feel the enemy coiling in the mist.
"They don't understand the war they've brought," he murmured to himself. "But they will."
Behind him, a presence stirred.
It was Mera, his steward. A quiet woman, always watching, never intervening.
"My lord," she said, "Captain Sael requests a private audience."
Lorien lowered the glass.
"Let him in."
Sael was not Emberborn. He was no cultivator. But he had fought beside Lorien when they'd taken Blackhold back from ruin with only two hundred men and a storm at their backs. The man's left arm had never quite healed, but he still trained every morning until blood dotted the snow.
"My lord," Sael said with a deep bow. "You should see this."
He handed over a tattered satchel. Inside: a severed tongue, wrapped in silk.
Lorien raised an eyebrow.
"They sent it to Greywatch," Sael said. "Tied to the door of our outpost. Burned symbols around the body. Tribal warning."
Lorien nodded. "Which tribe?"
"Unclear. But the markings match those we've seen in the eastern highlands. The Red Horns. They were supposed to be scattered."
"Then someone's uniting them," Lorien said. "The Nomads. Gold for loyalty. Eastern tactics. Southern equipment."
He closed the satchel carefully. "We send a message in return."
"To who?"
Lorien's lips curled into something cold.
"To everyone."
—
That night, a storm rolled over the Ashen Marches, but Blackhold's inner court was ablaze with activity. The Emberborn prepared their next infiltration. Supplies vanished from the quartermaster's log with silent efficiency. Each operative carried a blade forged in silence, cloaked in shadow. They did not speak as they armed themselves. They did not need to.
In the great hall, Lorien met with his senior commanders.
Greywatch was to be fortified. Thornvale would stage a diversion. Stonehollow Ridge would be reinforced with archers trained in anti-cavalry tactics. The tribes would be drawn out, exposed, then crushed. But not before they learned one truth:
The north was no longer unclaimed.
The Ashen Marches had a Warden.
And he did not forgive.
—
By morning, the Emberborn had already vanished beyond the gates, leaving only the faintest tracks in the snow—soon swept away by wind. Behind them, the flame at the Blackhold brazier burned higher than before.
It was not just war that Lorien prepared for.
It was conquest.