The wind howled across the frozen landscape of snow and blue ice, carrying whispers from the sea and the south. It curled through the whistling masts and rigging at shore and continued through the narrow alleys of the village, rattling bone chimes hanging from doorframes.


    A storm was coming.


    The grandmother pulled her shawl tighter, trudging through the snow, boots crunching toward her hut at the village’s edge. Beyond it, the ice stretched endlessly northward swallowing the last island where the sea met glacier, slipping beneath them to carry on its journey. Reminders, sounds of cracking ice braking and grinding against itself, were frequently heard from miles away. The pressure of the sea underneath divided west from east, and the ice in the north, bridged over the islands to form the only connection, save boat or skyship. These two lands were days of travel apart, weeks in places. Her ice bound home, her lands and her people, or so it seemed to those outside, lived by the old ways—sea beasts kept them fed, driftwood, stone and ice built their homes. Along with furs and bone, forming almost tent like roofs. The war beyond the ice to the south was not theirs.


    Far south, the West and East burned. The mountain dwellers, their technocrats and nobility all tied together through military might, dug deep beneath the stone, sending their lowest inhabitants to the mines, tearing gems from the dark—blue, red, green, bright veins of power fuelling the war above. She knew the Miners themselves did not think in terms of power, one crystal was almost equal to the next. From their perspective they were not compelled to mine, they were Miners. To the west The forest rulers fought to take them, the crystals, having few natural mountains to dig and fertile lands did not yield crystal crops. Their pilots were the elite, their nobility and military seemingly one organism, or more so than those living in the mountains . They truly flew through the skies, stealing crystal hoards from fallen ships. Deeper in the earth still, buried where even the miners feared to dig, lay the black crystals—so rare they were whispered of more than seen. Nobility alone wore them. On either side. Small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. Powerful enough to change the tide of battle.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    But not here.


    Nothing lay beneath the ice but frozen stone and sea. No veins of power. No reason to fight.That was why they did not come. That was why the North was left untouched.The grandmother stepped inside, shaking frost from her sleeves. The fire smouldered low, the scent of dried herbs, pepper, oats and smoke curling in the air. Where she had herbs and spices from, no one new, she seemed to always have them and the villagers dared not ask, she was their medicine woman and her service to this tribe and that of her small family, was not worth the cost of too much curiosity.


    They were a strange sort anyway.


    She sat beside those dull glowing embers and put a new log on, one that would burn long enough for the evening, she feared the worst, but it had to be done, she watched to see the log catch, just right, the embers glowing anew and bright and she waited.


    She reached into her pocket and traced the worn edges of the little brass timer. Her father’s timer. He had carried it through a different war, in a time when the sky was still quiet. The gears inside clicked softly, counting moments. Then—A little chime.


    Shortly after, a knock at the door.


    The grandmother exhaled, slow and steady. It was not beast, wind or snow. It was not, something else. She would have known.


    This time, it was only Elan.