Chapter 1 – The Zero Regiment


    My name is Koch. No surname—haven’t taken one yet. That means I’m not married. I’m a soldier of the Sheer Cold Empire, part of the Zero Regiment. A specialist unit. We handle the jobs no one else can. Or wants to.


    I used to be a high elf. At least, that’s what I think. Now, I’m Coldian. Have been for a decade. I started in the XVIII Regiment, but it didn’t take long for them to figure out I wasn’t much for working in a crowd. That’s how I ended up here. The Zero Regiment is for those of us who work best alone or in pairs—spies, assassins, couriers, scouts. We serve the Empire’s hierarchy in whatever capacity they demand, whether that’s delivering a message, standing watch, or eliminating a target. In my years of service, I’ve done all of it.


    And now, apparently, I have to write this. Some kind of travelogue. A record of my life from this moment until… whenever someone decides they’ve read enough.


    The year is 1386 DC. I haven’t been on a mission in seven months. Seven months of waiting. Seven months of nothing. I won’t sit idle any longer. If no one’s going to send me out, I’ll go find the orders myself.


    “You know, sometimes I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Other times, the ugliest,” said Manach.


    Manach is my partner. Coldian like me, though he used to be high elf. Agile, fast-talking, unstoppable at any game of chance—because he cheats. He’s been my duo since I joined Zero Regiment.


    “Why’s that?” I asked.


    He twirled a dagger between his fingers, smirking. “We Coldians love our armor. Hardly ever take it off. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without it, and we’ve been at this together for, what, ten years now?”


    He wasn’t wearing his armor. Most Coldians don’t, unless duty calls. His pale skin was scarred, his lean body built for speed rather than brute strength.


    “There’s not much to see,” I said, voice flat, rasping. “That’s a dull conversation. I’m going to get us a job. Commander Licht might have something. You coming?”


    “Nah. I don’t like Licht. Too disciplined.” Manach flicked his dagger back into its sheath and walked away.


    I nodded and went my own way, toward the Citadel.


    I always found myself admiring it. The seat of power in the Sheer Cold Empire, the great fortress of our god, the Sheer Cold Reaper—Dominatarh. Or Domino, as most called him. Built in just four days, an entire city within a city. Not a place for civilians. A place for rulers, mages, enchanters, warriors, investigators—everyone who mattered.


    But I wasn’t here for them. I was here for Licht. He worked out of the barracks near the Citadel. That was my destination.


    The walk took hours.


    By the time I reached the training grounds, the barracks were alive with the sounds of drills—swords clashing, orders shouted, warriors pushing themselves to their limits. I envied them.


    “Soldier. Come here.”


    The voice was deep, commanding. Impossible to ignore.


    I turned and found myself staring up—far up—at a figure three times my size. General Zaah. The Champion of Sheer Cold. Supreme Commander of the Empire’s armies.


    “Yes, sir,” I said, snapping to attention.


    “At ease,” he rumbled, placing one massive hand on my shoulder. The weight of it was enough to make me feel like he could crush me—helmet and all—with just two fingers.


    “What’s your name?”


    “Koch, sir.”


    Zaah’s grip tightened, just slightly. “Good. I have a job for you.”


    I followed Zaah toward the Citadel, my pace steady, my thoughts measured. I’d only been inside twice before—never past the entrance hall. This time was different. We climbed staircases that spiraled upward, endless. Passed doors, corridors, and chambers filled with things beyond my understanding. Artifacts. Relics. Devices I didn’t have the words to describe. The Citadel wasn’t just a fortress; it was a world unto itself.


    Zaah led me into a meeting chamber just outside the main council room. My pulse quickened. This was where the real power sat. The ones who could shape the world with a word. Even in my wildest imaginings, I wouldn’t stand a chance against them.


    Zaah pointed at a chair. “Sit.”


    I obeyed without question, lowering myself into the seat. With measured respect, I removed my helmet, setting it down on the polished mahogany table. Expensive. A luxury. My shield and sword followed, placed carefully to my side. Then I waited.


    Zaah dropped a file in front of me and took a seat across the table.


    “So, Koch,” he said, his tone casual, almost bored. “Been on many missions?”


    “I wouldn’t say many, sir. Just enough.” My voice came out low, steady.


    Zaah nodded. “Ever track anyone down?”


    I straightened. “Had a few jobs like that, yes.”


    “Good. Perfect.” Zaah leaned back. “Drink?”


    I blinked. “I’d love a drink, General.”


    Not every day you got to sit and share a drink with the supreme commander of the Sheer Cold armies. He poured a deep amber liquid—dwarven ale, strong stuff. I took a sip, enjoying the warmth that settled in my chest. For a few minutes, the conversation drifted. Small talk. How was the job? Favorite mission? Ever been married?


    Then Zaah’s tone shifted.


    “Koch.” His voice hardened. “Enough chit-chat. You’re with the Zero Regiment, correct? Duo?”


    “Yes.”


    His helmeted gaze locked onto me. “I need you to find a missing Coldian.”


    “Of course, sir.” I hesitated. “How long has he been missing?”


    Zaah exhaled through his nose. “Three months.” He sounded unimpressed. “To be honest, he’s a nobody. A rank-and-file soldier. But the Sheer Cold Code obliges us to find him. Or at least, find out what became of him.”


    My fingers brushed the file on the table. “This is about him?”


    “Yes. Name’s Sioh, I think. I don’t know the details.” Zaah shifted, already half-standing. “You accept?”


    “Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity.” I rose, collecting my gear.


    Zaah had already moved toward the door. I could tell he wanted this done and forgotten. Just another task off his list. Maybe he had bigger concerns. I hoped so. I’d been in that room for barely twenty minutes.


    As I walked away, searching for a quiet place to study the file, a thought nagged at me. Something wasn’t right.


    Every Coldian had a rune of telepathic communication, linked to the runic relay at the Citadel. If we left Sheer Cold territory, we were required to check in daily, always at the same hour we departed. Three missed days in a row, and the Code of the Sheer Cold dictated a response.


    That was the law.


    Three days.


    Sioh had been missing for three months.


    Peculiar.


    I found a quiet spot at the edge of the woods, away from passing soldiers, workers, and travelers—a small tree standing alone, its branches skeletal in the cold. Solitude. I sat beneath it, placed my gear beside me, and pulled out the file. Just two papers inside.


    The first page held the subject’s details.


    Sioh Coldnose.


    I grimaced. A Coldian chose their surname upon marriage, a tradition. Coldnose? An unfortunate choice. Sioh had been a soldier in the CLXII Regiment, once human before the transformation. Tall, pale-haired, amber-eyed. Nothing unusual there. Most Coldians had the same spectral look. Married four months ago to a woman named Rechna Coldfeet. Another unfortunate name. That was all—just the barest facts of his existence.


    The second page explained the situation.


    Sioh had been granted leave for a single month to take his wife on a honeymoon. That was four months ago. He had never returned. Never checked in. His last known location: The Silent Sun City.


    That was it.


    I folded the papers, tucking them back into the file. The Silent Sun. A place that had little love for my kind. Not long ago, we had been at war with them. That would make things difficult.


    I needed Manach’s insight. He had a way of picking out details others missed.


    “You know,” came a voice from the bushes, smooth and smug, “if I didn’t know you, I’d think you were avoiding me.”


    Manach.


    “Maybe I am.” I glanced up at him. “I was just thinking about you.”


    He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. I know I attract people, but I’m more into women, thanks.”


    “That’s not—” I shook my head. “Forget it.”


    He nodded toward the file in my hands. “What’s that?”


    I gave him the short version. The job. The mission. The peculiar gaps in protocol. He listened, took the file, and skimmed it. His eyes lingered on the cover.


    “Three months,” he muttered. “And the file was written by a Frost Mage, not a Coldian. That’s odd. That’s not protocol.”


    “Frost Mage?” My attention sharpened.


    Manach smirked. “And here I thought Koch, master of details, never missed a thing. Look at the cover. The name’s right there—Aurelia.”


    I took the file back, glancing at the name. He was right.


    “Who is Aurelia?” I asked.


    Manach shrugged. “No idea. But the mark here? School of Frostbite. Could be worth asking around.”


    Of course, by ‘asking around,’ he meant me asking around. I could already see it in the way he shifted his weight, itching to be elsewhere.


    “And you?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”


    He smiled, flicking his dagger between his fingers. “I have some… debts that need settling.”


    I knew that tone. Knew better than to ask. Illegal, most likely. Dangerous, definitely. But it wasn’t my business, and I didn’t care.


    “Fine,” I said. “I’m not moving without you. We need a plan. You settle your business, I’ll prep our gear. Meet me tomorrow?”


    Manach just nodded and slipped back into the shadows of the trees. I watched him go, then stood, adjusting my equipment.


    I returned to the barracks. Home, if you could call it that.


    The Zero Regiment’s quarters sat near the Citadel, a towering block of stone and frost. Less a barracks, more a fortress. Every soldier had their own room—small, spartan, just enough space for a bed, a chest, and a nightstand. The successful ones bought their own homes. That was a goal. Something to work toward.


    Manach’s room was near mine. I knew where he kept his key.


    I let myself in. Bare walls. Sparse furniture. But his travel gear was still there, meaning he hadn’t yet packed. I gathered it up and took it back to my own quarters.


    Once everything was prepared, I sat by the window, watching the snow drift past the towers of the Citadel. I had a feeling—one of those gut-turning suspicions that never led to anything good. Something about this job didn’t line up. Three months missing, no official notice, a Frost Mage—not a Coldian—filing the report. And Sioh’s wife? Why hadn’t she posted his disappearance? Why hadn’t the regiment?


    Too many questions. No answers.


    But the job wasn’t to uncover a conspiracy. It was to find Sioh. Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe this was nothing.


    I exhaled, forced my mind to quiet, and let sleep take me.


    I dreamed.


    That was rare. I never remembered my dreams. But this one was vivid, sharp as a knife.


    I wasn’t a Coldian in the dream.


    I stood in a bustling kitchen, fire roaring in the hearth, knives flashing, voices shouting. I was giving orders, cooking, moving from station to station. The scent of something rich and unfamiliar filled the air. I was happy, frustrated, focused.


    Cooking.


    I had always been good at it. Had a knack. Everything I made turned out perfect. But in waking life, I found it dull. Boring.


    Here, in the dream, it felt like everything.


    I woke at dawn, the silence of the barracks a comfort.


    Then—BANG, BANG.


    A heavy knock. Someone using their boot.


    I sat up, rolled my shoulders, and opened the door.


    Manach stood there, fully armored.


    That meant one of two things—he was either too eager to leave, or he was hiding an injury.


    “Let’s get some tea,” he said. His voice was tight, his expression hard. No jokes. No grins.


    He’d been in a fight.


    I didn’t press. Just nodded, murmured a calm good morning, and grabbed my gear.


    We found a quiet tavern, ordered raisin tea, poured in something stronger.


    Manach needed it.


    “I’m not going to ask,” I said, watching him closely, “but I need to know—is it done?”


    “It’s done.” He sipped his tea. “And we’ve got enough money for a three-month journey.”


    I took that to mean it had been messy.


    Best not to pry.


    I leaned forward. “You’ve given thought to our route?”


    “Yes.” He set his cup down. “First, we question the wife. Then we chart a path to the Silent Sun. And I wrote a letter.”


    I raised a brow. “A letter?”


    Manach met my gaze. “This isn’t a standard job. You know it. I know it. Something’s off. But we need to stay above board. So I wrote to the higher-ups, requesting permission to investigate alongside the search. Official approval.”


    Smart. And right.


    I nodded. “Alright. You take the map, chart the route. I’ll take the letter to the Citadel.” I stood, adjusting my belt. “Meet you at the wife’s place in an hour?”


    Manach gave me a firm nod. I left, stepping into the cold.


    Time to get answers.


    The walk to the Citadel should have been uneventful. Instead, it felt wrong.


    The streets were quieter than they should have been. Shops, bound by working hours, remained shut. Those who were out moved like shadows, speaking in hushed voices—or not at all. Reactions varied. Some looked shaken. Others excited. Some unreadable.


    Then I saw why.


    Six regiments.


    Fully armored, weapons at the ready, officers standing tall at the front.


    That was war.


    Five or fewer, and it would have been a raid. Six meant something larger. The rule wasn’t absolute, but it held true often enough.


    I pushed forward, threading my way to the edge of the gathered soldiers.


    On the platform above them stood Commander Licht.


    Tall. Muscular. Coldian through and through. The perfect soldier, if such a thing existed. His horned helmet shimmered with frost magic, and the massive sword strapped to his back looked like it had been forged in the heart of a glacier.


    Licht didn’t waste breath on anything beyond war. Tactics. Soldier maintenance. Campaign logistics. Discipline. He was the kind of leader who knew every law, every regulation, as if he had written them himself.


    And yet, for all his presence, it wasn’t Licht who made my skin prickle.


    It was the figure beneath the platform.


    A monster. Twice my size.


    Fang.


    Leader of the Razorclaws. One of the ruling Council members of the Sheer Cold Empire. A Lychen by race, a werewolf of unnatural stature, wrapped in battered deathplate armor. His pale fur bore more scars than most men had bones.


    And he loved war.


    The Razorclaws and Bloodclaws were both part of the Empire’s structure, but there was no mistaking what they truly were—warmongers. Allies, yes, but dangerous. Always dangerous.


    I forced myself to listen.


    “Now, in the name of the Sheer Cold! In the name of the Cold One—march!”


    Licht’s voice carried across the city like a storm wind.


    The Coldian regiments slammed their shields as one. A thunderclap of steel and resolve. The sound made my blood itch.


    Even I felt the urge to march with them.


    Then the army moved.


    A tide of disciplined bodies, falling into step as they headed south.


    Toward Golden Village.


    I frowned. That was odd.


    Golden Village was human territory. A minor settlement. Just a few hundred people. Outside of Sheer Cold borders. Not a military target.


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    So why?


    The undead? A hidden threat?


    I pushed the question aside. Not my concern. Not now.


    What was my concern was Licht marching with them. That meant no approval from him. I needed another option.


    As the last soldiers left the square, the city stirred back to life. Shops unlocked. People emerged. Life moved on.


    I reached the Citadel gates.


    Closed.


    That meant one of two things.


    Either a threat had surfaced inside Coldian lands.


    Or the Council was in session.


    A Coldian archer stood nearby, leaning against a pillar.


    “Archer!” I called. “Is the entrance completely closed?”


    He barely turned his head. “Aye. Council.”


    Damn.


    That left me with very few choices.


    I scanned the area, trying to decide what to do next. That’s when I saw him.


    And my gut sank.


    A tall figure.


    Humanoid, but wrong.


    His body rippled, coated in a shifting, viscous darkness that clung to him like living tar. His left arm was monstrous—twisted with scales and tendrils of void-black corruption. His right? Almost disturbingly normal. Human.


    Shadathor.


    Prince of Darkness.


    A Council member. One of the most feared beings alive. Some whispered that he was as powerful as the Cold One himself, Dominatarh.


    Every instinct screamed at me to walk away.


    But I needed this approval.


    And I had no one else to turn to.


    I forced my legs to move. Forced myself forward. Then I bowed, dropping to one knee.


    “Master Shadathor,” I said, keeping my voice even. “If I may—”


    He walked past me.


    Ignored me completely.


    Something in me flared—annoyance, maybe desperation. I turned, about to try again—


    And he was already there.


    Right in front of me.


    Looking through my mask.


    Looking through me.


    His eyes burned like red embers, staring into my soul.


    And I saw it.


    Myself—shredded, torn apart. My limbs ripped from their sockets. My body broken and remade in agony.


    “You spoke to me,” he said. His voice was cold. Final. “When you were not allowed.” His eyes narrowed. “Then you tried again.”


    I felt my breath hitch.


    “Either you wish for death, or you have something worth my time.” He tilted his head slightly. “Something that will stop me from feeding you to the Void.”


    I couldn’t think.


    Couldn’t breathe.


    But somehow, I spoke.


    “Y-y-yes, well—” My throat locked up. My knees felt weak.


    He stepped closer. The air around him was wrong. Not rot. Not decay.


    Something worse.


    A scent like a dying rose—fragile beauty, withering under corruption.


    “My presence is required in the Council,” he said. “If you have words, speak them. Now.” His tone darkened. “Or be gone.”


    I forced the words out. “Master Shade… I have this letter. It requires approval from someone in the hierarchy so I can conduct my business.”


    For a moment, silence.


    Then—


    “A letter?”


    His voice shifted.


    “A LETTER?”


    His very presence darkened.


    “Of all the meaningless things you could have done, this is what you bring to me?” His crimson gaze burned. “Out of all the miserable nobodies you could have approached, you chose me?”


    Dark tendrils coiled around his demonic hand.


    “This level of insolence demands punishment.” His voice deepened, seeping into my bones. “An eternity of torment.”


    I saw it. My death.


    I had been stupid.


    Everyone knew not to cross Shadathor.


    Then, suddenly, his head tilted.


    Like he was listening to something.


    A moment later—he was gone.


    Vanished into the shadows.


    I let out a slow, shaking breath.


    I had come so close to ceasing to exist.


    I was an idiot.


    A lucky idiot.


    But now what?


    I found myself sitting. Not by choice.


    My legs had buckled beneath me, and now I was just there, hunched on the ground like a man who had barely survived a storm. My knees still shook, my breath was uneven, and my entire body felt wrong.


    I had never felt fear like that before.


    Paralyzing fear.


    Not the rush of battle. Not the thrill of danger. Something worse.


    It had crept into my bones, lodged itself in my mind like a thick fog, filling my thoughts with a single, heavy question—


    What just happened?


    My hands trembled. My heart pounded. I stared at nothing, trying to piece myself back together. And then—


    A growl.


    My stomach.


    For a moment, the sheer absurdity of it cut through the terror. Near-death. Soul-crushing fear. And my body still reminded me it needed food.


    I let out a weak chuckle. Just a small one.


    But it was enough.


    Enough to shake me from the fog, just a little. Enough to remind me that I was alive.


    I took a breath, grabbed my things, and tucked the letter securely into my pouch. There was no rush. I needed a break.


    And I needed food.


    I set off toward Wolf’s Bane.


    Wolf’s Bane stood just outside the Citadel, nestled deep within Sheer Cold’s heartland. An hour’s walk, give or take.


    A city split in two.


    The first half belonged to the Bloodclaw clan—lychen scholars, mages, intellectuals. This part of the city was a place of knowledge and refinement. Libraries, research facilities, and spellcraft workshops dominated the skyline. The greatest of them all was the Muskwater Library, named after the river that curled protectively around it. It held the largest collection of knowledge in the territory. The Bloodclaws were masters of arcane magic, especially illusion. They were dangerous, but not in the way most warriors thought.


    Then there was the other side of Wolf’s Bane.


    Razorclaw territory.


    Where the Bloodclaws built halls of knowledge, the Razorclaws built arenas. Where the Bloodclaws studied ancient texts, the Razorclaws drank and fought. This part of the city was all sharp angles and rough edges—bars, fighting pits, and strange, haphazard homes thrown together with little thought for beauty.


    At its center stood Prey House.


    A looming, brutalist mansion belonging to Fang himself. It wasn’t just a home. It was a legend.


    Here, the most dangerous bounties in the world were posted. Some came from rulers, others from criminal syndicates, but all of them were deadly. Bounty hunters from every nation visited, drawn by the high stakes and high rewards.


    But I wasn’t here for that.


    I was here for breakfast.


    Coldians were warriors, strategists, perfectionists—but we couldn’t cook for shit. Food in our ranks was utilitarian at best, abysmal at worst. That’s why we imported it.


    And in Wolf’s Bane, there was a market stall in Bloodclaw territory that sold northern food—dried fish and delicate pastries. Simple. Satisfying. Edible.


    As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to the job.


    I needed to find Manach.


    Whatever we did next, we had to do it together.


    Even if we met Rechna, we couldn’t question her without approval. The letter was clear. We were only authorized to track down Sioh and conduct business outside Sheer Cold’s borders. Anything beyond that? We needed permission.


    Which meant I needed to rethink our approach.


    I made a slight detour, hoping to intercept Manach before he disappeared on some errand.


    For once, luck was on my side.


    I spotted him up ahead, talking to a few men. By the time I got closer, they had already gone, leaving him alone—waiting.


    He saw me before I even opened my mouth.


    “You’re done already?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or did you get lost?”


    I scowled. “Shut up and walk with me. You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”


    I grabbed his arm and pulled him along.


    “Where are we going?” he asked.


    “Wolf’s Bane. We’re eating first.”


    He yanked his arm free, frowning. “And the letter? The job?”


    “I’ll explain on the way,” I said, my voice serious.


    Something in my tone made him pause. He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Fine.”


    And with that, we walked.


    As we made our way to Wolf’s Bane, I told him everything.


    “What the actual fuck.” Manach laughed, shaking his head. “You were gone for half an hour.”


    “It’s not funny,” I said flatly.


    “Oh, it is funny.” He grinned. “Big bad Koch—off to get a letter signed, comes back with soiled pants.” He chuckled again. “That’s comedy.”


    “Like you would’ve handled it better,” I muttered.


    Manach smirked. “No, no—trust me. I’d have gotten the signature, wrapped up the job, grabbed us food, and still had time to wait for you while you were still charting the path on a damn map.”


    I rolled my eyes. “Speaking of which—did you finish charting the path?”


    He stopped walking. “Doesn’t matter.”


    That meant no.


    I exhaled, but before I could call him out, the treeline ahead thinned. The sight of Wolf’s Bane stretched before us.


    The city pulsed with life.


    Lychen bustled about their business, running errands, moving supplies. Coldians walked among them, their rigid discipline at odds with the casual, almost chaotic flow of the Bloodclaw streets. Stalls stood open, traders barking offers, the scent of fresh-baked goods and smoked meat curling through the air.


    No danger. No threats.


    A rare moment of peace.


    We made a straight line for our target—a simple market stall in Bloodclaw territory, the one place where you could get real food instead of the rations we suffered back home.


    We paid, took our food, and settled at an outer table.


    Manach cut his meal into neat little portions with his dagger, stabbing a piece and popping it into his mouth with exaggerated refinement. A noble’s performance—mocking, but precise.


    I rolled my eyes and muttered through a mouthful of food, “So, what’s the plan now?”


    “We can’t leave without approval. Would be pointless. There’s more to this job than we know.” He twirled his dagger absently before spearing another bite.


    “I know that. But with the Council ongoing and this whole war effort… who’s even left to give us approval?”


    Manach shrugged. “Can’t we just wait for the Council to finish?”


    Could we?


    I frowned. “We could, but we’d still need to find someone after that.”


    Manach studied me, his expression shifting. He knew what I was thinking. The real problem wasn’t waiting—the real problem was access.


    The top brass? Impossible to reach. The chain of command? A bureaucratic nightmare.


    But Manach—he always had a way.


    “I know a guy,” he said finally.


    I stopped him right there. “I don’t like it.”


    He smirked. “You never do.”


    “Because every time you ‘know a guy,’ one of us ends up needing a healer.”


    He waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t wor—”


    “Nope.”


    “Listen—”


    I sighed. “Yup. One of us is going to need a healer.”


    Manach leaned forward. “Look, let’s stock up. Then we meet the guy. You get final say. After that, we figure out our next move once we have approval.”


    I opened my mouth to argue.


    Didn’t get the chance.


    “Awesome!” Manach shot up from his seat, already moving. He strode to the stall and started ordering supplies—food, water, rations—paying in gold and silver like it was nothing.


    I watched him work, exhaling slowly.


    Maybe this was the day I died. Wouldn’t be the first time I had that feeling around him.


    But still—I followed.


    As he loaded up, I asked, “At least tell me the guy’s name.”


    Manach grinned.


    “Ruhk.”


    We walked for hours.


    Neither of us spoke much. Just the basics—travel, terrain, distance.


    The Ashridden Forest stretched around us, vast and undisturbed. A gentle breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the canopy in a way that settled my nerves. The tension from earlier still lingered, but the walk was almost peaceful. Almost.


    The deeper we went, the more my mind wandered.


    Who was Ruhk?


    The name had Coldian weight to it, but why was he so far north? There were no settlements here—just wilderness. My gut, always sharper than I gave it credit for, supplied the answer.


    Manach was shady. Always had been. That meant the people he associated with were worse. This Ruhk, whoever he was, had to be hiding something—something bad. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be out here, far beyond where anyone could stumble upon him by accident.


    I felt it in my bones.


    But I followed anyway.


    We pressed on in silence until I finally broke it.


    “Is this guy really this far north?”


    Manach didn’t even slow down. “No idea.”


    I stopped walking. “Wait, then why the fuck are we heading this way?”


    He turned, grinning. “We don’t find him. He finds us.”


    I stared at him.


    “Come on, Koch—have a little faith.”


    Faith. Faith.


    The last time Manach told me to have faith, we were in the Hinterlands. He had me jump a cliff in full armor. Said I’d make it. Said it was easy.


    I missed.


    Broke my leg, my ribs, both arms. Three weeks of urgent care. I still didn’t remember most of it.


    And now he was asking for faith again?


    I sighed.


    But I followed.


    Eventually, we reached a clearing.


    Tall trees loomed overhead, their trunks marked with carved sigils—Ancient Reaper script, complex and unfamiliar. I recognized the language but couldn’t read it. My primary tongue was Elven, my secondary was modern Reaper, but Ancient Reaper? That was another beast entirely. Too convoluted. Too intricate.


    Still, I knew one thing.


    These weren’t just markers.


    They were ritual sigils.


    “What do they say?” I asked.


    Manach shrugged. “No clue. But there’s a treehouse nearby. Look for a ladder.”


    He pushed forward, moving between the trees like he already knew the way. I didn’t like this—any of it—but I was already here.


    A few minutes later, I found it. A wooden ladder, nailed into the trunk of a massive tree, stretching up into the branches.


    “Over here,” I called.


    Manach clapped his hands. “Then don’t just stand there—climb.”


    I gritted my teeth and started up.


    The ladder led to a small trapdoor, shut but not locked. I pushed it open and pulled myself inside.


    The room was cluttered.


    Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes, scrolls, and scattered, half-destroyed notes. Loose parchment littered the floor—some so worn and brittle they crumbled underfoot. Arcane items sat haphazardly on tables, their glow faint but wrong. The air itself felt charged, like the residue of a spell still clung to the wood.


    I exhaled, glancing around.


    I knew what this was.


    “Coldian mage,” I muttered. “Forbidden arts. Ritual magic. Anything I’m missing?”


    Manach hauled himself up through the trapdoor and dusted off his coat. He gave me an approving nod. “Actually, no. I’m impressed.”


    I smirked. “You should be.”


    “Don’t push it.”


    He glanced around, scanning the room, then spoke as he started searching.


    “Look for a book. No writing on the cover, but it’ll have an arcane seal on it.”


    I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”


    Manach rifled through a stack of scrolls. “If we touch it, Ruhk will come. He doesn’t like people messing with it, so he put some kind of spell on it.”


    I froze. “What kind of spell?”


    Manach hesitated. Just for a second. Then, too quickly—


    “No idea. I don’t mess with magic.”


    Liar.


    He knew something. And for him to be this cagey, it meant the spell wasn’t some harmless little warning rune. It was something worse.


    Still, I exhaled and started searching.


    Because whether I liked it or not, we were already here.


    We still hadn’t found the book when we heard it—rustling outside.


    Manach and I locked eyes. No words, no hesitation. He drew his daggers. I unsheathed my sword, shield up over my arm. The climbing noises grew louder.


    Then the trapdoor creaked.


    Manach moved first. The moment it cracked open, he kicked it up, yanking whoever was climbing through. I seized them, locked their arms behind their back, and pinned them hard. Manach’s dagger kissed the stranger’s throat.


    “Who the hell are you?” Manach whispered.


    The intruder didn’t struggle. Heavy armor, no weapons. Coldian.


    A mage.


    If this wasn’t Ruhk, then who the fuck was he?


    He didn’t answer, so I tightened my grip. “Would be wise to talk,” I murmured.


    No fear. No hesitation.


    “My name is Nacht.”


    Manach got close, too close. “Nacht? What are you doing here?”


    “Master sent me.”


    I felt my stomach tighten. Master? Coldians didn’t have masters. That wasn’t their way. This wasn’t right. A spell, maybe? A binding ritual?


    “Who’s your master?” I asked.


    Manach chuckled. I shot him a look. He raised his hands in mock apology.


    “Ruhk,” Nacht said simply.


    I frowned. “Why did he send you?”


    Nacht’s face was unreadable. “To ask if the intruders can speak the Volume of Three.”


    The what?


    Before I could even process it, Manach answered, “We can.”


    Of course he could. Code words, secret dealings. Typical shady bullshit. I hated it.


    I let Nacht go. He didn’t react—just dusted himself off and started cleaning the room like we hadn’t nearly killed him.


    I turned to Manach. “Volume of Three?”


    “A code of trust,” he said.


    Then, without hesitation, he knocked on wood three times, whistled seven, and coughed once.


    The air twisted.


    A portal tore itself open.


    I felt my stomach churn.


    I hated portals. I hated teleportation. The sensation of being unmade and reassembled—like your soul took a moment to catch up with your body. Coldians used it all the time, jumping between realms, but I could never get used to it.


    And then—he stepped through.


    No armor.


    Pale Coldian features, red eyes burning like embers, a black leather tunic. A short staff in his hand, surrounded by floating arcane crystals humming with energy. His hair, short and silver, shimmered unnaturally—magic radiating from him like heat from a forge.


    Manach grinned. “Ruhk, you’re a hard man to find, but an easy one to lure.”


    So this was Ruhk.


    The mage’s expression didn’t change. His voice was smooth, wise, but laced with steel.


    “I should have known a pathetic swindler like you would come crawling back.” He folded his arms. “You owe me five thousand gold, Manach. I assume you came to pay your debt.”


    Five thousand?


    How the hell did Manach rack up that kind of money?


    “Don’t worry, Vizier Ruhk. The debt will be paid. But first—business.” He motioned toward me. “Meet my associate, Koch.”


    Vizier. That meant something. A Coldian mage of power—someone who carried the same weight as a captain of a regiment.


    I nodded. “A pleasure.”


    Ruhk barely looked at me. “You are unimportant, soldier.” His eyes didn’t leave Manach. “Now. Give me my money. Then we talk.”


    As we spoke, Nacht slipped out. Just left. No words, no acknowledgment. Just gone.


    I wanted to ask about him—what the hell he was—but now wasn’t the time. I kept my mouth shut.


    Manach sighed, pulled a heavy bag from his pack, and tossed it to Ruhk. It hit the floor with the dull clink of a lot of coin.


    “Then sit,” Ruhk said.


    And just like that, a table and three chairs materialized in the middle of the room.


    Magic. I fucking hated magic.


    We sat.


    Ruhk leaned back, fingers tapping against his staff. The air shifted.


    “I don’t want this to take long. Tell me what you want, so I can tell you to fuck off and get back to real business.”


    His tone had changed. The wisdom in his voice faded, replaced by something rougher. Meaner.


    Manach grinned, flicking one of his daggers between his fingers. A tell. He always did that when he had something planned.


    “Simple,” he said. “We need five thousand gold. I’ll be in your debt. And we need an approval seal, or a meeting with someone higher up.”


    The silence stretched.


    Then—


    “Fuck off,” Ruhk said, standing up.


    “Gladly,” Manach replied, still grinning. “But not without those things.”


    Ruhk narrowed his eyes. “You insult me, Manach. That’s unlike you.”


    Manach leaned forward. “I don’t insult. I negotiate.”


    “You just paid your debt, and now you’re asking for the money back—plus a favor?”


    “Yeah.”


    Ruhk studied him. Then, slowly—too slowly—he nodded.


    “What do I get in return?”


    Manach tilted his head. “What do you want?”


    How the hell had this gone from fuck off to let’s make a deal?


    Ruhk’s expression darkened. “A head.”


    Manach didn’t blink. “Whose?”


    “We have a deal?”


    “We do.”


    Ruhk extended a hand. “Then give me the letter.”


    I slid it over.


    He barely glanced at it before pressing a seal onto it—an approval seal. From Athion.


    The Chaos Archon.


    I felt something tighten in my chest.


    How the fuck did Ruhk have a direct seal from Athion?


    Didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to ask.


    Ruhk met Manach’s gaze. “Once you deliver, you get the gold. If you fail, I hunt you both down.”


    Manach just smirked. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”


    I finally spoke. “Who’s the target?”


    Manach raised a finger, pressed it to my lips. “Shh.”


    I glared at him. Furious. But I knew this wasn’t my conversation.


    “Why don’t you step outside,” Manach said smoothly, “and let the big boys talk?”


    I wanted to kill them both.


    But I knew better.


    I turned and left.


    Outside the treehouse, the world was still.


    No Nacht. No sign of anyone.


    I’d hoped to corner him, pry a few answers out of him, but in truth, I was glad for the quiet. The conversation inside had been beyond me—half-spoken, half-understood, a language of glances and gestures. Criminal tongues. Mercenary codes.


    I let out a slow breath and sat down, leaning back against a nearby tree, letting my muscles relax against the rough bark.


    Seven months of nothing. Just scraping by, existing from one day to the next. Then, in days, I had a job. I nearly died. I met figures that could unmake me with a thought. And now, I was waiting for my partner to drag us deeper into whatever business this was.


    Twenty minutes passed. Maybe more.


    Then Manach climbed down. No words. Just a glance.


    Something was off. Or maybe he just wanted to talk somewhere quieter.


    I got up, followed him deeper into the woods. We walked until the treehouse was a memory, until the only sound was the crunch of underbrush beneath our boots. Sunset bled across the sky.


    We sat.


    “Talk to me,” I said, voice steady.


    Manach took a breath, then smirked. “I will. Just don’t know where to start.”


    “How about what the hell that was?” I shot back.


    “Business,” he said easily, pulling out a flask and taking a sip. Then he handed it to me. “You know I deal with these types. Be glad no one got hurt.”


    I took a drink. Wine. Cheap. But it settled my nerves.


    He wasn’t wrong. The odds of walking out of that alive were slim. But somehow, somehow, Manach always made it work.


    “Alright,” I exhaled. “No idea what you pulled in there, but we got the money, and we got the approval, I assume?”


    “Yeah,” Manach said. Then, with another grin, “And we got another job. A side-job, if you may.”


    I gave him a look. “Off the record, I suppose?”


    “The best kind,” he said, taking another sip. “But it means our trip is… extended.”


    “How much?”


    Manach watched me over the rim of his flask. “Three months, give or take. If both jobs go smooth, we might wrap this up in a year.”


    I shook my head, laughing under my breath. “Honestly? I’m just glad we’re doing something. Even if it’s a mess.”


    Manach chuckled. He passed the wine back, and I took another sip. I could already feel the dullness creeping in. Not drunk. Just softened.


    While he drank, I started working on a fire. Not for warmth—we didn’t feel cold. Just light. Just to keep the wild things at bay.


    “Tomorrow, we head off,” Manach said. “We’ve got enough supplies. If we’re missing anything, we’ll pick it up on the road.”


    I nodded, then frowned. “What about the wife?”


    He blinked. “The wife?”


    “Yeah. Rechna. Sioh’s wife. We still need to question her.”


    Manach shook his head. “No can do.”


    I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”


    “She’s already gone,” he said. “With a regiment. Off to war.”


    I stared at him. “And you just found this out?”


    Manach took another slow sip before answering. “Remember those Coldians I was talking to before you stumbled into me? They knew her. Told me straight.”


    I exhaled, rubbing my temples. “Alright then. Tomorrow, we move.”


    The fire crackled, painting the clearing in flickering gold. The rest of the night, we talked—reminiscing, trading stories of old jobs, old wounds. We laughed about the time we were hired to escort some human messenger carrying vital information, only for him to get killed by a fucking bird.


    A bird.


    Accidental, of course. But still, a bird.


    We drank. We laughed.


    And eventually, sleep took us.


    And that’s when the dreams came.


    Vivid.


    Too vivid.


    I dreamt of a high glamour keep, vast and endless, its banquet tables stretching beyond sight. The air was thick with laughter, the clatter of goblets, the murmur of conspiracies whispered behind jeweled hands.


    Elves. All highborn, at least in the dream. Drinking, feasting, fighting, reveling in their own power.


    And I was above them.


    I sat at the head of it all—on a throne.


    Empty. No lord. No king. Just me.


    Someone stood nearby. A woman. An elf, I thought. But I couldn’t see her face. Every time I tried, something shifted—her hair obscured it, or the light bent wrong. Her features flickered, her armor changed, her very being refused to settle.


    I tried to speak.


    Then I woke up.


    Manach was laughing.


    I groaned, my voice raw. “Why are you laughing?”


    “Good morning to you too,” Manach said, his grin too wide.


    He was seated nearby, whittling arrows for his bow, still chuckling to himself. I pushed myself up and reached for the rations—hard, dry, and miserable, but food was food. At least Manach had already brewed black tea, my favorite. I sipped it slowly, watching him.


    Still grinning. Still holding in laughter.


    “Tell me,” I said flatly.


    “No, you tell me,” Manach countered. “Who’s Liarna?”


    I blinked. “What?”


    “You called out in your sleep. Liarna! Liarna, my beloved! Liarna!” He burst out laughing.


    I froze mid-sip.


    The name meant nothing to me. No memory. No connection.


    But it had been in the dream, hadn’t it?


    The woman. The shifting figure.


    My stomach turned.


    Manach was still laughing. I let him. It was too early to deal with this.


    We packed up within the hour.


    “Let’s chart the path,” I said as I slung my gear over my shoulder.


    “Already did. While you were moaning in your sleep,” Manach said smugly.


    I rolled my eyes. “And you didn’t think to ask me for my opinion?”


    “Didn’t want to interrupt your wet dream.”


    I ignored that.


    “Fine. Tell me the plan.”


    Manach straightened, listing it off like a tactician reporting to a general. “We cut through the Hinterlands toward Lampis Town. From there, we take a boat to Stonepeak Village. That’s where our target is—Tjogg the Ship Mover. Once we resupply, we move through Silent Sun Valley, around Mount Embrace, past Gronfind, then into Silent Sun City.”


    It was solid. A long road, but direct.


    I frowned. “Why go through the Hinterlands? Why not just take a boat to Lampis?”


    Manach grinned. “It’s boring. The Hinterlands are more fun.”


    Of course. Of course he’d say that.


    I sighed. No use arguing. He was set on it.


    I adjusted my pack. “Who’s this Tjogg?”


    “No idea,” Manach admitted.


    I shot him a look. “And we’re just supposed to find him?”


    “Pretty much.” He shrugged.


    I ran a hand down my face. “Do we at least know what he looks like?”


    Manach’s smirk widened. “Nope.”


    Fantastic.


    By midday, we’d left the Ashridden Forest, the borders of Breathit Volcano and the Wasteland Mountains looming ahead. The road was alive with movement—traders, travelers, Coldians, humans, dwarves. The usual mix.


    Approaching the border, we got special treatment. Coldians always did.


    A fully armored guard stepped forward as we reached the checkpoint.


    “Heading out?”


    I straightened. “Yeah. Zero Regiment. We have a job.”


    The guard gave a short nod. “Good enough. Remember to keep your helmets on and signal the runic relay at this hour every day.”


    He turned and waved us through.


    Manach and I exchanged a glance.


    This was it.


    We stepped past the border.


    The Hinterlands lay ahead. Wild. Waiting.