Frost cracked under boots as the strike force gathered at the camp’s edge. The Ironfang Mountains rose - jagged, sharp. Peaks lost in restless cloud. The air tasted of snow and iron. Even the fire they circled fought to stay lit. Its glow flickered in the wind, stubborn and weak.
Elara stood at the center, crimson cloak drawn tight, her hand resting on her sword’s pommel. The nobles had remained in Verdana, whispering in heated halls, bartering favors for safety. Let them rot. Loyalty was defined here, in cold and dark, danger closing in.
Her most trusted circled close: Sir Alaric - scarred, steady. Serenya, captain of the guard, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. Three priests in grey, lips moving in quiet prayer. The prophecy weighed on them all. Some carried it easily. Others, less so.
The youngest priest, Marcell, spoke first, voice cracking in the cold.
“My queen, the omens grow… troubling. Last night I woke to see lights dancing above the ridges - green and gold, flickering like torches carried by unseen hands. And this morning, crows circled the camp long after dawn. Such signs do not come without meaning.”
“Meaning,” Serenya muttered, “is what fearful men invent when they lack steel.”
Marcell flushed. “Captain, I do not invent. The gods walk close here. Even you must feel it.”
Elara lifted a hand before the quarrel could swell.
“I feel it,” she said softly. The firelight caught her eyes, steady and unyielding. “These mountains remember. They are older than our thrones, older than the crowns of any dynasty. If gods walk near, then let them watch us. Let them judge us by what we do, not what we fear.”
A silence settled, taut but reverent. The wind carried the faint howl of wolves far below.
Alaric cleared his throat, breaking the stillness.
“Majesty, the men whisper. They ask why the nobles are not with us, why those who crow loudest of loyalty sit safe in Verdana. Some begin to doubt.”
Elara’s jaw tightened. “Let them doubt the nobles. Let them see who stands beside them when the earth itself rises to devour us. I would rather march with twenty loyal hearts than a hundred cowards who crumble at shadows.”
That drew murmurs of agreement, a few soldiers striking fists against their breastplates in support. Serenya caught Marcell’s eye and smirked, planting her boots squarely as she addressed him. "There. The queen has spoken. Omens or no, we go forward."
Elara’s gaze wandered past the fire to the mountains where snow curled in the dark. Her thoughts caught on Caden. She remembered Korrin’s hand over hers in battle, the warmth of his grip steadying her when the world burned. She remembered laughter, rare and sudden, breaking loose like water from stone. She remembered his oath, voice low in the dark: I will not leave your side. Not while I breathe.
The memory steadied her, as it always did. Even here, on the edge of shadow, she carried his strength as her own.
They set out before dawn. Frost cracked underfoot, louder than any horn. The march was silent - only the scrape of steel, the shuffle of boots on stone. The mountains pressed in. Cliffs rose like walls - ridges, sharp as teeth. Clouds hung low, veiling the peaks in pale mist.
“Feels like walking into a grave,” muttered one soldier.
“Quiet,” Serenya snapped. But even she glanced uneasily at the heights.
By nightfall, they reached a plateau. The wind clawed at them, never still. The men built fires, but the flames sputtered and died. Smoke twisted and curled, refusing to rise straight. Elara lay in her tent. Sleep came in broken pieces - sharp, restless, fleeting.
In her dreams, a crown of flame rested on her brow. Fire slid down her shoulders, eating silk and skin, but she did not scream. She stood, unbowed. Somewhere in the smoke, a voice whispered:
“Will you burn for him, as he burns for you?”
She woke with a start. Ash lingered on her tongue, bitter and dry.
When she stepped from her tent, she found Marcell already kneeling in prayer near the fire’s embers. He looked up, startled.
“You dream it too, Majesty?”
Elara studied him. “What did you see?”
“The crown,” he whispered. “Always the crown. Wreathed in fire.”
Their eyes met in silence. Neither spoke further.
By the third day, the mountains pressed close. Paths twisted and vanished into empty air. The air thinned, and the men’s breaths turned ragged. Strange sounds drifted from the ridges - whispers carried on the wind, too soft to be real, too clear to ignore.
At one narrow pass, a soldier halted, pale as chalk.
“Majesty, I heard - my mother’s voice. She called my name.”
“Your mother is in Verdana,” Serenya snapped. “Walk on, or I’ll drag you.”
Others murmured, voices and names threading through the wind. Some sounded half-familiar. Even Alaric’s hand drifted to his sword hilt.
Elara strode to the front, planting her blade in the snow.
“These mountains play tricks. They will twist your thoughts, bait your fears. But remember this: shadows have no teeth if we deny them. We march not for ourselves, but for Verdana’s salvation. That is the voice you must heed.”
The soldiers straightened. Some still trembled, but they moved on.
By dusk, they reached the place marked on the priests’ maps - the Hollow Veil.
The caverns yawned before them, carved deep into the mountain’s heart. Their mouths gaped, raw wounds in stone: a faint crimson haze throbbed inside, the breath of something hidden. The air vibrated, the sound settling in bone, not ear.
The men shifted uneasily, gripping spears tighter. Serenya spat into the snow.
“Looks like the gods themselves carved a maw to swallow us.”
Alaric’s voice was low. “Majesty, if ever there was a place cursed by prophecy, it is here.”
Even the priests hesitated. Marcell gripped his staff tightly, mouth moving in silent, frantic prayer as his knuckles whitened around the wood.
Elara raised her sword, the steel catching the red light. Her voice was steady, though her hands felt cold.
“The prophecy does not promise ease. It promises victory. This path was never meant to be gentle. We are called not because it is safe, but because it is perilous. We enter not for ourselves, but for Verdana’s salvation.”
Her words hung in the cold air. Slowly, soldiers straightened, meeting her gaze. One by one, they nodded.
Elara stepped forward and crossed the threshold, sword held ready. Crimson haze curled around her legs, thin as smoke. The strike force followed in single file, leaving the brittle light behind them.
They descended and went down into shadow, into the Hollow Veil, where something waited in the dark.