Chapter 67

  Vin wandered through the camp whistling, as if it were a cozy village in late summer—though your breath still froze into thin ice the moment you exhaled. The air was clear, sharp, but not hostile, as long as you knew the rules. The camp itself no longer looked like a pitiful refuge, but a growing fortress. On some days, one almost forgot that they were still deep within the Ice Wastes—a region where the weather tried to kill you and even the plants had more teeth than leaves.

  At the edge of the palisades, she stopped. The defense was made of massive Frosthorn logs—wood as hard as iron, capable of storing magical energy. The trees themselves grew slowly, almost proudly, defying wind, ice, and everything in between. They bore red-glimmering fruit that fed most of the wildlife—and thus the hunters, and finally, the people. Everything here was part of a cycle, brutal, but somehow more honest than the courtly intrigues of Thulegard.

  Vin stepped onto a small, snow-covered path that led up to one of the elevated watch posts. Two archers stood above, wrapped in thick fur cloaks, their bows made of black, curved bone. They nodded to her, and she nodded back—friendly, but silent. From up there, one could see almost the entire camp: the huts made of solid wood, interspersed with leftover tents now repurposed as stables or storage. Three large fire pits marked the center of camp life, where people cooked, forged, and argued. The air smelled of roasted meat, cold metal, and a faint trace of magic—only noticeable to those who had ever wielded it themselves.

  By now, around five hundred people lived in the camp—not soldiers, not fanatics, but regular men, women, children, elders, and a few who could be called warriors. Yet with each day, they became more organized. Stronger. More resilient. During Vin’s time here, about twenty newcomers had arrived—mostly from Thulegard or smaller outposts that had realized something about the city was… wrong. Corrupted. Twisted.

  The Seer—leader, prophet, hermit, depending on who you asked—was the only one in the camp who could see the entire edge of the Ice Wastes. He usually stayed in his house, a crooked structure of wood, resembling an overturned spider-nest tree. Up there, he could feel movement, waves, arrivals—and when he chose to, he could open the Veil of the Ice Wastes. That fog which separated this region from the rest of the world. No one could enter or leave without him noticing.

  Isen and Drav—two eccentric but brilliant tinkerers—had built the teleportation network. Four fixed stations linked key locations: the edge of the Ice Wastes, the camp center, the cave exit, and the hunting grounds of the Hasks—those scaly polar bear-beasts with far too much hunger. With a stone and a few words, one could travel—provided the way was clear and you didn’t end up inside a tree. That had, according to Drav, “happened once, never again.” Vin wasn’t entirely convinced.

  The Seer had of course noticed Luken, Maira, and Arik. Long before they had even entered the caves. But instead of welcoming them, he refused. Allegedly, it was “already too late” for Luken, and Maira was a “lost heretic, with cold fire in her heart.” Vin didn’t know what that meant, but she had no interest in arguing with him. She didn’t like men who spoke in riddles and didn’t even smell good while doing it. Besides, she had already made up her mind to do something entirely different.

  Because despite the camp life, despite the fleeting moments of normality, despite everything that almost tasted like home—this wasn’t the goal. It was just a stepping stone. Soon, it would begin. The assault on Reyn. A move they had long prepared for. And for all the sunlight in her heart Vin had fought to preserve, she knew one thing: if she were to whistle through another camp someday, Reyn had to be defeated.

  Otherwise, there wouldn’t be any camp left.

  -

  "The sweet little hero group of the North will soon be reunited," said Ulthanox, his voice dripping with false softness as he rested his hands on the bone-colored railing.

  "An elf, a demonic paladin, and your last follower on Tirros."

  He ended with a quiet chuckle—not exaggerated, but just loud enough to provoke Erebos a bit.

  "And an Ashblood," added the Plaguefather with a barely noticeable grin as Arik’s figure became clearly visible in the astral projection—the shimmering echo of a being held together by burnt faith and dissolved guilt. He didn’t react. Not yet.

  They stood once again on the balcony above that grey abyss stretching beneath the cathedral like the open maw of an ancient world. But unlike usual, they paid no attention to the slimefalls dripping from the spire tips, nor to the living carvings crawling along the walls, nor the writhing reliefs of pus and golden disease that Ulthanox admired the way others might a sunset. No—today their gaze was fixed on what the astral veil revealed: the caves of the northern passage, where the group still slept.

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  Arik, the newcomer, was half-curled beneath a frost-fur. Maira lay with her back to the wall, her hand near her weapon.

  Luken… was harder to see. His presence flickered—not weak, but unstable. As though he were resisting something in his dreams that had no shape.

  "And then," Ulthanox continued, sweeping around grandly as if narrating a tale,

  "they will defeat the Lord of Shadows and Storms, stop his ritual, and live out a long, happy life in Thulegard. Maybe they’ll marry. Maybe Arik becomes a city elder. Maybe Luken writes a book."

  Erebos didn’t respond immediately. The bony ridge of his forehead—or what passed for one beneath translucent mucus-flesh—tightened slightly in a trace of displeasure.

  Not at the irony. He’d long since grown used to that.

  But at the tone beneath it.

  "The prophecies say something else," he finally said, his voice like deep sand—dry, heavy.

  "Besides, the paladin still believes destroying the rebels is his purpose."

  Ulthanox exhaled theatrically. Of course, without breath, but with all the flair of a sighing ghost.

  "Even death is allowed to dream, isn’t it?" he murmured, turning away and shifting the view in the astral field with a flick of his hand.

  "Not when so mu—"

  "—ch is at stake?" interrupted Ulthanox with a weary smile. Not mocking—just old. Infinitely old.

  "Yes, yes. They always say that. So much at stake. It always is. But in the end, it’s still a matter for mortals."

  The projection slid slowly onward, like a shimmering surface, revealing a deeper place—an underground facility.

  At its center floated several ring-shaped structures, pulsing to a rhythm no living heart could follow. Between them hovered a crystal, about the size of a man, streaked with deep blue like frozen starlight.

  Erebos gazed at the image for a long time.

  "If that succeeds," he said slowly,

  "then it will be far more than a mortal matter."

  Ulthanox smiled again. But this time, without irony.

  Only concern.

  -

  Reyn’s breath was steady, but each exhale misted slightly, as if it had grown colder—despite the fact that the Void Chamber had no real temperature. Everything here was focus. Order. Silence.

  With a precise motion, he drew an invisible circle in the air before him—an ancient runic band that immediately began to glow. The glyphs etched themselves into the nothingness, then flowed into a shimmering disk that slowly opened like a sluggish mirror of mercury-darkness. The edge crackled, as if reality itself was being cut open.

  This technique—a physical-astral transmission—was risky. Not because it was dangerous. But because it was expensive.

  Cosmic mana that could not simply be replenished. Energy from the in-between—where time and will flowed into one another. Most who attempted it died from inflammation of the mind or lost themselves in alien perceptions.

  But Reyn wasn’t a novice. And no longer a man who had to worry about affording such luxury spells. He forced the connection to remain open as it slowly cleared—like mist dissolving.

  Eventually, a room came into view.

  A simple, cold wooden room. Cracked planks. Furs on the walls. Dried meat. A massive shield made of bone-blades. A weak fire burned in a pit, just enough to be seen, but far from warming.

  And in the center, he stood:

  A half-giant—nearly two meters sixty, with broad shoulders, a chest like a cliff face, and hands capable of crushing a man without effort. Over his weathered, scarred face he wore a silver helmet from which a single, straight spike of dark metal protruded.

  Not for decoration. A weapon. A symbol. A warning.

  His name was his creed: Silverdorn, the warlord of the barbarian clans that bore his name—a man with a simple worldview: strength is law. Cunning was only allowed if it led to violence. And respect had to be earned—or bought.

  Reyn bowed slightly, with a feigned humility that was perfectly calculated.

  “Silverdorn. It is an honor to reach you in this form.”

  The barbarian’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in suspicion. But then he raised one eyebrow. The transmission itself—this costly, rare form of communication—had impressed him.

  “You go to great lengths, Shadowlord.”

  Reyn nodded.

  “Phase one of my plan will be completed in a few days,” he began, calmly but with subtle emphasis. “When the first strike hits, many eyes will turn toward us. It would be… an honor, if your warriors stood beside me.”

  Silence.

  The half-giant exhaled slowly, his massive shoulders rising, then gave a crooked grin—like someone who didn’t just enjoy swinging his fists, but relished it.

  “Agreed.” His voice sounded like stones grinding together. “I like honest attacks. No sneaking, no poison. You know I hate that crap. But if you want an open war… fine. Then you’ll get war.”

  Reyn smiled—politely. Not smug. But the moment of agreement didn’t last long.

  “But don’t forget…” the barbarian growled, stepping closer to the projection, his gaze turning cold, “we still have a score to settle. You killed my best men. Just like that. For your… 'play'.”

  Reyn showed no reaction. His voice remained neutral, almost gentle:

  “It was part of our arrangement. Without that illusion, we would never have stabilized Thulegard.”

  “Maybe.” Silverdorn’s teeth flashed. “Maybe not.”

  Then his grin widened, nearly mocking.

  “You always meet twice in life, Lord of Shadows and Storms.”

  He said that last part slowly, almost like an insult—but with a certain respect. Like a man who knows his enemy is dangerous… and still intends to beat him. On principle.

  Reyn bowed again, just slightly.

  “I hope so, Silverdorn. And when that day comes, it will be an honorable fight. As you deserve.”

  Then he released the connection—and the vision dissolved into a shimmer of dust and shadow.

  All that remained was the empty chamber. Quiet. Cold.

  Reyn exhaled.

  Another piece was in play. And war drew closer.