An hour later, the grand cartographic chamber of the Aichenwald Palace—known as the Hall of Stone Pillars—was not lit by festive chandeliers, but by the restless, flickering glow of dozens of thick candles. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of wax, sweat, leather, and raw tension.
At the massive oak table, now covered with the most detailed map of the northern borderlands, the key figures sat and stood. At the head was
Tywin Aichenwald
, his face carved from granite. To his right sat
Randel
, already changed into a practical field uniform, his bandaged arm resting on the tabletop. To the duke’s left was
Roxana
, her crimson eyes scanning the map with cold, crystalline clarity. Nearby stood the senior generals, their faces etched with the scars of past campaigns.
And a little to the side, like a ghostly reminder that the rules of the game had changed, stood
Amanda
. She was still wearing her emerald gown, though a dark cloak had been thrown over it. The mask concealed her face, but it could not hide the focused intensity of her posture.
Leo
and
Torglin
, unseen, had taken up positions along the walls.
“Confirmed,” one of the generals said in a hollow voice, pointing a sinewy finger at the map. “Our scouting patrols made contact with the horde’s vanguard at the Stream of Icy Tears. They aren’t moving chaotically. This is an organized advance. Gul-Nadar is enforcing iron discipline.”
“The Linné lands… are scorched,” added another, the one with gray mustaches. “Survivors are fleeing toward our border. If we let them in, the horde will pour through right behind them. If we close the gates… it will be a moral catastrophe.”
“We have no choice,” Roxana countered coldly. “We let the refugees in. But only through controlled corridors. And we screen every single one. There will be scouts and infiltrators among them.” She turned her gaze to her father. “We need resources. Food, medicine, steel. And we need time. Their horde is vast, but it is slow and cumbersome. We must make them bog down.”
“Bog down? Where?” Randel asked, jabbing his finger at a narrow mountain pass on the map. “The Fallen Giant Gorge. The only major northern artery we can actually seal. If we manage to fortify it and take position before their main force arrives…”
“That’s a gamble,” the old general growled. “If they break through there, they’ll be in our rear. Or they’ll find a way around…”
“There are no ways around,” Amanda said quietly but distinctly, speaking for the first time that evening.
Every head turned toward her. Her mechanical voice sounded alien and out of place in the grim atmosphere of this strictly military council.
“The forests east of the gorge…” She paused, recalling descriptions from the book and the faint, hazy sensations she picked up through her connection to this world, “…they won’t allow such a mass of men and beasts to pass. The trees there are ancient. They dislike foreign rage.” She gestured vaguely westward. “And to the west lie the Marshes of the Eternal Whisper. The ground there is treacherous. Mammoths would sink to their first rib.”
Roxana fixed her with a piercing stare.
“Are you certain?”
“I can feel it,” Amanda replied, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. Through her borrowed body she truly caught faint “moods” from the surrounding lands—like a weak radio signal (though much of it came from book knowledge and the author’s interviews). “The gorge is their only swift path. They will try to smash through it.”
“Then the battle will be there,” Tywin concluded, his voice ringing like a sentence passed. “Randel, you will command the defense of the gorge. Take the Steel Oak Legion and the militia from the southern cities. Roxana, you handle logistics and counterintelligence within our borders. I will coordinate defense along the other frontiers and conduct negotiations with the other houses.” He cast a heavy glance over the map. “A rider is already racing toward the Imperial Court. But we cannot expect aid from Cassius in less than a month—if we receive any at all.”
At that moment,
Kaelen
entered the hall almost soundlessly. He was impeccable as ever, yet his face bore the mark of brisk, businesslike focus.
“Forgive the intrusion, Duke,” he said, inclining his head. “The Imperial Court has just received your dispatch… and our own sources have confirmed the intelligence. The scale is… deeply troubling.”
This text was taken from NovelFire. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Tension rippled through the room. What would the Empire say? Offer aid? Or simply watch as House Aichenwald drowned in blood? After all, even when they arranged Randel’s assassination, they had hired the killers unofficially—plausible deniability in case things went wrong.
“His Imperial Majesty Cassius V expresses… concern,” Kaelen continued, choosing his words with precision. “However, the rapid deployment of legions over such a distance is… problematic. But—” He paused for effect, letting the silence stretch. “—the Empire is prepared to provide alternative assistance. Intelligence. Maps of the horde’s movements, obtained via our eagle-satellites. And… a limited contingent of magical artillery.”
Magical artillery. Cannons that hurled bolts of devastating energy. Expensive, terrifying weapons the Empire almost never loaned to anyone.
“On what terms?” Roxana asked bluntly.
The corners of Kaelen’s mouth twitched faintly.
“On terms of future… mutually beneficial cooperation. And guarantees of safety for our specialists who will accompany the guns. And, naturally—” his gaze slid toward Amanda “—assurance that our interests in the region… will be taken into account.”
The hint was transparent as glass. The Empire was offering help, but buying itself a voice in Aichenwald’s future. And their interest was tied directly to the enigmatic figure standing in the corner of the hall.
Randel clenched his fists, but Tywin merely nodded, his expression unreadable.
“Your terms… will be considered. The artillery must reach the Gorge no later than five days from now.”
“We will do our utmost,” Kaelen replied.
The plan was set. Orders given. Yet something unspoken hung thick in the air. Once more, all eyes turned to Amanda. To the
Guardian
. To her now-proven bond with the lands themselves. What would she do?
Randel approached her. His eyes were grave.
“The gorge… you said the forests east of it won’t let them through. Could they… help? Delay them? Confuse them? Entangle their advance?”
She spun sharply on her heel, her cloak flaring out and casting wild, flickering shadows across the candlelight.
“I’ll handle the forests,” she threw over her shoulder. Her mechanical voice cut through the room—sharp, final, brooking no argument. She strode toward the massive doors, her footsteps ringing out across the stone floor like hammer blows.
“Wait!” Randel pushed away from the map table and closed the distance in a few swift strides. His hand closed around her forearm—not roughly, but with desperate strength born of worry and the need to hold her back. “Where are you going? Alone? This is madness! You need an escort, you—”
“LET GO OF ME!”
Her scream shattered the hall. It wasn’t mechanical anymore. It was raw, human, cracking with every ounce of despair, terror, and fury that had built up inside her all evening. She wrenched her arm free with violent force; his fingers—still weakened from the recent wound—gave way.
She recoiled from him like a cornered wild animal, the red glow behind her mask blazing like twin coals.
“You understand
nothing
! Nothing!” Her voice trembled, breaking on every word. “You look at this body, you hear the title, and you think you know me? You—with your brief, pitiful human lifespan? You think your wars, your fears, your… your
attachment
means anything next to what I am?!”
The words poured out of her in a torrent, reckless and cruel, meant to wound, to shove him away, to erect a wall so vast he would never dare approach again. And in the fevered storm of her mind, an idea ignited—desperate, grandiose, perfect. A way to cement her legend once and for all… and to send a message. A message to those watching. To the Empire.
Randel stood frozen, stunned, his face a mask of pure shock and raw hurt. The generals had gone deathly still. Roxana watched with narrowed, unblinking eyes. And in Kaelen’s gaze burned something new: naked, ravenous fascination.
Amanda straightened to her full height, her figure suddenly seeming taller, infused with an illusory, self-amplified power. She turned deliberately so her words would carry clearly to the imperial spy’s ears, then looked down at Randel from above with an icy, ancient contempt she did not truly feel.
“Listen, boy,” her voice took on new, resonant undertones—as though not just lips spoke, but the echo of millennia itself. “Do you think I’m some girl who needs protecting? Do you kiss the hand that once Axius the First, the Iron Founder, clasped in his own when the two of us held back the avalanche of demons at the Gates of Eternal Winter?”
She paused, letting the name hang in the air like a thunderclap.
Axius the First
. Mythical, near-divine progenitor of the current Empire. A hero whose deeds had become religion, whose name was near-taboo. Someone in the hall gasped. Even the unflappable Tywin paled.
Kaelen froze; all trace of casual poise vanished from his posture. He stared at her as a scholar might stare at a newly discovered law of the universe.
“I drank ale with the dwarves when these mountains were still mere hills,” she continued, her words flowing like molten lava, scorching everything in their path. “I sang funeral dirges to dragons when your ‘Gul-Nadar’ was nothing but dust in the womb of his thousand-times-great-grandmother. My wars are not measured in days or years, but in epochs. And you… you dare lay a hand on me? Dare tell me where I may go?”
She cast a gaze of chilling superiority—first at Randel, who stood paralyzed, then—deliberately, pointedly—at Kaelen.
“So tell your toy emperor, shadow,” her voice dropped lower, but grew all the more dangerous for it. “Tell Cassius that his dynasty is built on bones I once helped gather. That his imperial purple is but a pale shadow of the blood we spilled together with his greatest ancestor. And that if he believes his games and his hordes mean anything in the face of what I remember… he is gravely mistaken.”
With that, she turned and strode from the hall without a backward glance. Her steps were firm and eerily silent. The doors closed behind her, leaving only a deafening, tomb-like silence broken by the faint crackle of candles.