North of the continent

  Climate change was felt immediately.

  Autumn here was no longer gentle. It pressed down with cold. The temperature had dropped, the air had grown drier and sharper. The trees around had turned yellow, much of the foliage already lying on the ground, crunching underfoot. Conifers dominated, their resinous scent mixing with damp stone.

  The mountain ridges were dusted with snow. Not solid sheets, just patches, but enough to serve as a reminder: winter comes early here, and without warning.

  This land was not as fertile as the southern regions. It was harsher, stonier, far less forgiving of mistakes. Nothing survived here by accident.

  Two soldiers lay on the ground among the trees, almost completely covered by leaves. They did not move. Even their breathing was slow and controlled. Their fur-lined clothing blended into the surroundings, echoing the colors of soil, bark, and fallen foliage.

  They were watching a settlement where construction was in full swing. New walls, fortifications, storehouses. The movement was constant, but orderly.

  The soldiers themselves looked nothing like anyone from the South. Long beards. Long hair. Heavy clothing made of coarse materials. You would never see such people in Korosten or other southern cities. The people here wore the cold as part of their bodies.

  This was the kingdom of Konath.

  Another enemy of Ceredan.

  Konath was sealed in by mountains on all sides. That made it difficult to reach and helped the state survive despite its aggressively expansionist policy. The mountains were both shield and trap at once.

  With Ceredan, it shared only a narrow stretch of plain. That was the border. Both states had raised defensive structures there, and around them, two settlements had emerged—one on each side.

  The distance between them was small enough that on a clear, sunny day, you could see the enemy settlement. Buildings. Movement. Smoke. But to make out details, to understand what the enemy was actually doing, you had to approach unnoticed, to within bow range.

  A road ran between the two settlements. Every few days, peasants and traders traveled along it. The guards on both sides knew them and did not open fire. These rules were old and unbroken—too much blood had been spent to establish them.

  Those allowed to walk this road were called runners.

  They could not be interrogated.

  They could not be used for military purposes.

  But watching the enemy is the foundation of defense.

  So information had to be gathered in other ways.

  Along the edges of this narrow border valley stretched cliffs and forests. That was where those watching each other hid.

  And that was exactly what the two soldiers were doing.

  Lying among the leaves like part of the ground itself, they watched a future war—one that had not yet begun, but was already being prepared.

  “Look at how high those walls are,” the soldier on the left whispered, without turning his head.

  He only shifted his eyes slightly, careful not to disturb the leaves.

  “I see,” the soldier on the right replied. “They’re linking the two towers with a solid wall. That one’s for a ballista.”

  He paused for a moment, judging the angle.

  “Archers will have a hard time reaching anyone up top. Too high. Too thick.”

  “Damn mercenaries,” the left one hissed. “They’ve been here a month already. And they still won’t stop building.”

  “Yeah,” the right one nodded. “Sealing themselves in completely. Digging a ditch, reinforcing the gates. Look how they’re hauling the earth out—means they’re digging deep.”

  “I hope the chieftain comes to his senses soon and does something,” the left muttered. “Because later it’ll be too late.”

  “It will,” the right agreed dryly. “Once they’re done, you won’t just walk up to this place.”

  He carefully brushed a leaf away from his face and looked toward the construction again.

  The people there moved without pauses, without shouting, without chaos. Everyone knew where to go and what to do. No one was running—yet the work never stopped for a second.

  This wasn’t improvisation.

  It was a plan.

  They were mercenaries from Red Breach—masters of heavy, dirty, massive work. They weren’t hired for maneuvers or elegant victories. They were brought in where the landscape itself had to be changed.

  Red ants in the world of men.

  They didn’t argue. They didn’t ask why.

  They simply hauled, smashed, dug, and stacked—until the place became something else.

  Among the builders, Balrek was constantly on the move. He didn’t stand aside or watch from a hill—he moved. He stopped by one group, threw out a few short phrases, pointed with his hand, then went on to the next.

  He was a fanatic of efficiency.

  And he knew how to command different groups of subordinates as if they were parts of a single mechanism.

  Despite his excess weight, Balrek was not inferior in strength even to Skeld. His body was heavy, dense—like a well-assembled battering ram. The Red Breach had been created with exactly that idea in mind: as an ultimatum, as an instrument of breakthrough.

  Many among them were from that branch of the Rejected, who gained muscle but lost agility. Slower, rougher, but almost tireless. They were called Oaken.

  They didn’t run.

  They walked.

  And if they walked, then straight through everything.

  Balrek’s right hand was one of the Oaken—Tuneta. She was shorter than he but broader in the shoulders, with heavy hands and movements stripped of anything unnecessary. She knew when she could interrupt the commander—and when it was better to stay silent.

  It was she who pulled him away from directing the construction.

  She approached and silently handed him a letter. Balrek took it at once, without question. He scanned a few lines—and his face changed. Not emotionally. Functionally.

  He folded the letter, gave Tuneta a short nod, and moved quickly toward a building.

  The construction behind him didn’t pause for a single second.

  The anthill kept working.

  “Alright,” the scout whispered. “Let’s head back. It’s getting dark. We have to make it in time to report.”

  They didn’t stand up.

  Didn’t sit.

  Didn’t even roll over.

  Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, the soldiers began crawling backward, pressed flat against the ground, making sure the leaves settled exactly as they had before. Only when a small rise of earth grew between them and the settlement did they allow themselves to move a little faster.

  The way back lay ahead.

  And a report no one would want to hear.

  And on the side of Ceredan, the construction did not stop.

  Not even with the coming of evening.

  Evening. The throne hall of Ashkar

  The hall was large, but not grand. No marble. No gold. Wood, stone, and fur. The chairs were rough and heavy, covered with the hides of northern beasts. Time had left its marks on their backs—scratches, hardened resin. No one sat still here. This was a place that was lived in.

  Dozens of torches burned around them. The light flickered, casting long shadows along the walls. Smoke rose toward the ceiling and escaped through vents, leaving the air thick with the scent of burning resin and raw wood.

  Three people sat around the hearth.

  They took turns rising to throw logs onto the fire, without calling servants. That was the custom. A ruler who cannot add his own wood to the fire does not survive long in winter.

  The first was bald—the chief industrialist.

  Hairless, with coarse scars across his scalp, a massive neck, and heavy shoulders. His face was sharp, angular. This was not a man who shouted. He pressed.

  The second was the old leader, the chieftain of the kingdom.

  Gray-haired, with a tangled beard where sparks from the fire caught and died. His eyes were clouded, but attentive. He remembered winters that wiped out entire clans, and wars that left no songs behind.

  The third was young—the commander of reconnaissance.

  Still strong, still hot-blooded, with restless movements. He sat leaning forward, as if ready at any moment to rise and walk straight out of the hall into war.

  The bald man broke the silence.

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  “So, what did the scouts report?”

  The old man slowly raised his head.

  “They report that the Ceredan forces are actively fortifying their positions.”

  “You mean mercenaries,” the bald one cut in sharply.

  “For me, it’s the same thing,” the old man muttered. “They all march for silver.”

  The industrialist leaned closer to the fire.

  “Not the same. Ceredan is fighting a war with its army on Solmar, and the king pulled his troops from our border. Instead, he sent mercenaries here. Far fewer of them.”

  The young commander jumped in immediately.

  “We should have struck earlier. Before they arrived. Serain would be tearing himself apart on two fronts by now.”

  He clenched his fist.

  “And now Balrek is building a fortress right under our noses.”

  “Then why can’t we strike now?” the bald man turned to the old one.

  The old man didn’t raise his voice.

  “Because winter is coming. If the war drags on, we won’t have enough supplies to feed the army.”

  “And if we don’t strike,” the young man pressed on, “come spring, Balrek will be spitting into this hearth from his walls.”

  The old man slowly tossed another log into the fire.

  “Construction will stop for the winter. That’s a pause. For them—and for us.”

  He lifted his gaze, heavy as stone.

  “I will not risk what we have for illusory territorial gains.”

  The young man sprang to his feet.

  “Illusory?! There are, at most, three thousand of them. If we strike fast and break their defenses, there’ll be no one left to protect Ceredan’s rear!”

  The old man turned fully toward him.

  “Do you even understand who those three thousand are? This isn’t chasing lost northerners through a mountain pass.”

  He bent his fingers one by one.

  “Heavy cavalry. Crossbowmen. Infantry with tower shields. And at least two third-stage Suggestors.”

  He paused.

  “This will not be a quick battle. It will turn into a multi-day siege that will consume our resources faster than theirs.”

  The old man leaned closer to the fire.

  “Serain’s army may be far away, but their logistics work flawlessly. And Red Breach can hold prepared ground for a very long time.”

  The young man slowly sank back into his chair.

  He had been counting on support from the third man. He was ready to raise an army within a week. But he did not get it.

  The fire crackled.

  The torches smoked.

  At the same time, on the other side of the border.

  Balrek stood on the wooden platform of the tower.

  The planks beneath his boots were damp, springing slightly, but they held—just like everything built here. Together with his subordinates, he was setting up a new ballista. No haste. No wasted motion.

  Heavy bolts slid into the grooves one by one.

  The ropes were drawn to the required tension.

  The mechanism clicked smoothly and obediently, as if it understood what was expected of it.

  Balrek personally checked the locks, ran his hand along the wooden bed, and judged the angle. Someone else would have left this to the craftsmen. He didn’t. Not out of distrust, but out of interest in the work itself.

  He looked toward the border.

  Beyond the plain lay another state.

  Another rhythm of life. A hostile one.

  Balrek raised his hand silently and signaled to continue the adjustments. The work resumed at once, as if he had never been distracted.

  Winter had not yet begun.

  Until now, he had time—cold, stretched out, controlled.

  But that was before today.

  Before he read the letter.

  Now there was less time.

  And Balrek felt it.

  He didn’t speed up. Didn’t raise his voice.

  He simply shortened every timeline in his head.

  And that was enough.

  West of Ceredan

  Stecepiy’s squad was closing in on its objective.

  Ahead lay a small camp—a surveillance post tracking movement along the river. Officially, a control point. In reality, the kingdom’s eyes are in this forest.

  They hoped to overtake the attackers who had destroyed the main camp deeper in the woods. So they moved fast and tight, stopping only for brief pauses: check the map, confirm direction, verify landmarks. No one sat down. No one relaxed.

  It was the second half of the day, and the squad was moving exactly on schedule. By their estimates, they would reach the camp’s area before sunset.

  The river was already visible to the right. Wide. Alive. Unsettled. The water never rested here—it roared, crashed against stone, carried branches and leaves downstream.

  Autumn was at its peak. The foliage had thinned, and the crowns no longer formed a solid wall. Both banks were clearly visible, which made observation easier—and stripped away the illusion of cover.

  The squad halted before reaching the water.

  They went to ground, watching the zone where the camp should have been.

  The forest lived its own life here.

  The river’s noise was loud enough to mask footsteps. Birds didn’t fall silent. Small animals moved through the undergrowth until the last moment, sensing no danger. It was easy to hunt here—and that was precisely why the place had long attracted more than just hunters.

  Poachers used it.

  Smugglers.

  Those who traded in people and in shadows.

  That was exactly why the king had established an observation post here. At first, a small one. Then it expanded and began to control all movement along the river—goods, slaves, messengers, spies. Everything that traveled by water or along the banks eventually fell within its sight.

  But this camp was never meant to be a military position.

  It had no fortifications.

  No stockpiles.

  No people prepared to hold a defense against professional fighters.

  Stecepiy knew that.

  And so, looking toward the camp, he already understood:

  If it had been found first, the defenders never stood a chance.

  The question wasn’t if.

  The question was when.

  They went to ground and began observing the camp.

  It was a little worse than the previous one, which was why they found it fairly quickly.

  No movement.

  No smoke.

  No voices.

  After a brief pause, Stecepiy nodded. They would act by the same scheme as before. Two were sent forward to scout. The rest stayed in position to cover a possible withdrawal.

  Without a word, the squad took their places.

  The first two fighters took up their shields and moved slowly toward the camp, keeping their distance and careful not to break the silhouettes of the trees.

  They crossed the camp’s notional boundary.

  In the middle of the clearing lay a covered body.

  The fighters halted. Looked around. The bushes were silent. The forest lived its usual life—the water roared, birds sang. Nothing pointed to danger.

  They moved closer.

  One of them bent down and took hold of the edge of the covering, the other shielding him with a raised shield.

  The cover lifted.

  And in that same instant, everything became clear.

  There was no body—only bundled timber.

  A tree branch was tied to it, bent and drawn tight like a spring.

  The rope snapped.

  The branch whipped straight and slammed into a metal plate hidden among the roots.

  The clang was deafening.

  Rough. Sharp. The kind of sound that explodes through the forest and comes back as an echo.

  “Trap!” one of the scouts shouted.

  They immediately began to pull back.

  Arrows flew from the neighboring bushes.

  Matif didn’t wait for orders. He started firing blindly toward the directions the arrows came from—not to hit, but to force the enemy to duck and break their aim.

  One of the scouts, covering himself with his shield, slipped on the damp ground and fell. The rhythm of the retreat broke. He rolled behind a rock and froze.

  To get back to his own, he would have had to sprint across open ground.

  Just a few meters.

  Perfect range for archers.

  There was no chance.

  Stecepiy assessed the situation instantly. He gave a signal—clear, sharp.

  Raise the shield. Stay down. Wait.

  The scout set the shield in front of him and pressed himself tight to the rock, bracing to take whatever came.

  And at that exact moment, a shout rang out from the bushes:

  “What is our base?”

  The scout didn’t hesitate.

  He and the others answered at the same time, without thinking, exactly as they had been taught:

  “Forest. River. Our place”

  A short pause followed.

  “Stand down!” someone shouted from the bushes. “Friendly!”

  The forest seemed to exhale.

  The arrows stopped.

  The trap had worked—but not the way its setters intended.

  The forest slowly settled.

  The metallic ringing had long dissolved into the sound of the river. Arrows no longer hissed through the air. But the fighter behind the rock still didn’t dare lower his shield. He stayed pressed to the ground, feeling cold sweat run down his back.

  Too many times in this forest, “friendly” had turned out not to be.

  Stecepiy stepped forward and raised his hand, stopping his own people.

  “My name is Stecepiy,” his voice was even, without challenge. “I’m the squad commander. My task is to get information from you. Identify yourselves.”

  For several seconds, nothing happened.

  Then a reply came from the bushes—no longer tense, but still cautious:

  “My name is Slava. I’m the commander of the observation post we’re standing next to.”

  Stecepiy straightened and stepped out of cover.

  He knew that name.

  Slava was the only real soldier in this camp. Not a temporary overseer, not a reassigned official, but a fighter with experience. He hadn’t been sent here by order—he had asked for the assignment himself.

  His younger brother also served at this post and was meant to gain experience not from stories, but from reality.

  Slava himself emerged from the bushes.

  Of course, he recognized Stecepiy as well—the most promising scout in the kingdom and a close friend of the prince. A man spoken about even by those who had never seen him.

  The tension eased almost tangibly.

  Fighters from both squads began to come out of their positions. Carefully, without sudden movements, but no longer ready to kill on the first breath. They moved closer, exchanged brief greetings—not embraces, but looks and nods.

  That’s how those who understand just how close a mistake had been.

  Slava’s squad had only four people.

  But they had taken firing positions with such overlapping sectors and fallback points that, from the outside, it looked like there were at least twice as many of them.

  This wasn’t a camp.

  It was an ambush, ready for anyone.

  And that said one thing clearly:

  They hadn’t survived here by accident.

  “Good ambush,” Stecepiy said, glancing over the surrounding positions. “Waiting for guests?”

  Slava allowed himself a faint smile.

  “Your fighters are solid. They know how to work with shields.”

  He nodded toward the clearing.

  “And yes, we were waiting. Yesterday, we spotted enemy scouts. Palmers. They were looking for our camp. They knew it had to be somewhere around here, but they didn’t know exactly where.”

  The Suggestor from Stecepiy’s squad quietly interjected:

  “So… they didn’t break them.”

  Slava frowned.

  “Break whom?”

  Stecepiy answered instead.

  “We were at the Heart.” The name landed heavily. “The camp is destroyed. All the sentries are dead. One of them was clearly interrogated. We were afraid they’d broken him and would find you before we did.”

  Slava exhaled slowly.

  “Then we were lucky. That means the fighter was tough. I hope his soul is in a better place now."”

  He paused for a moment.

  “Though torture breaks anyone. It’s only a matter of time.”

  The medic from Stecepiy’s squad added quietly,

  “I think he jumped off a cliff. On his own. So he wouldn’t talk.”

  Stecepiy nodded.

  “I’ll find out his name. And I will definitely mention his loyalty in the report.”

  For a few seconds, no one spoke.

  “Tell me about the ones who were looking for you,” Stecepiy continued.

  Slava’s expression hardened at once.

  "These weren't ordinary Palmers. These were Manurds."

  He grimaced.

  “We were lucky they didn’t find us. Their armor, their look… doesn’t make you eager to meet them. Those don’t come to observe. They come to finish things.”

  “Yes,” Stecepiy agreed. “The ones at the Heart never stood a chance.”

  He scanned the surroundings once more.

  “But you did solid work with concealment. Even with a map, it took us some time to find you. That’s what saved you.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

  “The previous watch here was missing only a sign saying ‘tavern.’ You made this place invisible.”

  “Thank you,” Slava replied shortly. “But the camp is compromised. It no longer exists. We’ll need a new one.”

  “Yes,” Stecepiy agreed immediately. “You can fall back east, to the border post. We were there—it’s safe for now. Pass them all the information. Let them start preparing new observation points.”

  He paused, then added,

  “We plan to check one hideout in this area and then return to the king. We’d appreciate it if you could orient us on the map.”

  Slava nodded.

  They sat down beside each other and spread the map directly on the ground, weighing its edges with stones. Fingers slid along the river lines, forest tracts, and markings known only to themselves.

  The other fighters from both squads stood a little apart, talking quietly among themselves, trading short phrases.

  They rarely had time for calm conversations.

  And they all knew this calm wouldn’t last long.