Era…

THE AGE OF THE FROST-FALLEN

Part 1

The world had shrunk to a mere two fathoms of sodden white. The horse-drawn sleigh, accompanied by the rhythmic jingle of ice-crusted harnesses and the heavy, rasping breath of the beasts, struggled to hew its path through the blizzard. The wooden frame groaned under the weight of the cargo, and the runners emitted a high, glassy shriek, as if slicing through the very skin of the frozen earth. Eion, huddled on the driver’s seat, could see only the whitened haunches of the stallions, which looked like ghosts in this milky haze.

"Master, can you see the trail at all?!" the lad cried out, shielding his mouth against the biting gale. "I fear we’ve lost our way! The first quarter of the night is upon us, and there is no sign of the Slumbering Knight!"

The boy's voice was swallowed by the roar of the wind, but the figure seated in the back remained unmoved. Eldiole, wrapped in the blue fur of a sacred bereis—skins that marked her royal blood—clutched the edge of the sleigh. The cold seemed to thicken the very blood in her veins, and her eyes, fixed upon her companion, burned with a restless dread.

"Fret not, My Lady. We are already quite close to our mark," spoke the aged Bunhold, his voice calm yet heavy as ancient oak. "Look to the left, Eion! Just a bit further and we shall pass the Knight, and from there, the fires of Atkira will already be licking the sky!"

The driver muttered something under his breath about the White Lord and the curse of the eternal winter, which had ravaged the world for four decades, leaving only a few scattered enclaves alive. He urged the horses forward, and the sleigh lurched, biting deeper into the territory of the Frost.

"Do you truly believe, Bunhold, that we shall make it?" Eldiole whispered, leaning toward the mage so the wind wouldn't carry her words to Eion's ears. "Do you think you can truly defeat Murguld and his Cold Men?"

The mage looked at the great crates occupying the lion's share of the sleigh. In their crevices pulsed a barely discernible, amber light—the Tree Souls, the last hope of their people.

"I? Alone, I am but an echo of former power, Lady," he replied bitterly. "Without the unity of all enclaves, neither this..." he pointed to the cargo "...nor my lore will hold back the Icicles. We must forge pacts that will seem like treason to your father. Otherwise, the ice shall bury us all."

"What pacts?" Eldiole narrowed her eyes. "You told Viltus that Atkira was an ally. Who else are you keeping silent about?"

Bunhold hesitated, and the frost on his beard seemed to thicken.

"We do not journey to Atkira merely to warm our hands at Azumdin’s hearth. Others will be there. The Vilkunds."

The princess froze. The air in her lungs suddenly turned as sharp as the icy lash of the blizzard. In her mind, like a raw wound, exploded the image of burning homes and the bestial face of Ragnar the Beardless. She felt a physical pain, as if that old fire was burning her skin all over again.

"The Vilkunds?" Her voice became unnaturally quiet, though inside she trembled entirely from suppressed sobs and fury. "You want my father to shake hands with Odin’s dogs? Those who murdered my mother and brother?!"

"Eldiole, listen... The world is dying, we must—"

"Traitor!" A scream tore from her throat, and her previous fear vanished in a single heartbeat, replaced by a murderous fuse. Her hand instinctively darted to her side. "Where is my dagger?!"

Rage hit her harder than the frost. She realized her belt was empty. With blinding fury, heedless of anything, she began pounding her fists against the mage's steel spaulder. Every blow bruised her own knuckles, but the pain only fueled her hatred.

"You robbed me! Traitor! By the Four-Faced One, you shall burn in hell for this insult!"

Bunhold raised a hand. A short, guttural whisper made the air around them vibrate. Eldiole’s movements suddenly became sluggish, as if she had plunged into thick molasses, until finally, she froze completely, one hand raised to strike. Only her eyes—devilishly fierce and brimming with tears—still sought to kill him.

"Sleep now, child," the mage whispered, steadying her limp head. "We need the Order of Murk as well. If we are to survive, we must ally ourselves even with wraiths."

Part 2

A figure clad in white bear fur resembled a wraith emerging from the void. The warrior pressed forward on snowshoes, cutting through the ceaseless blizzard almost soundlessly. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze feverishly scanning the swirling flakes for "Icicles"—the servants of the White Lord, who in these parts were more than mere legend.

He breathed a sigh of relief only when a massive, carved dragon-head emerged from the white thicket. It was a drakkar adapted for land-hunts—its hull resting upon formidable, steel-shod runners. Behind it, like a flock of predatory birds with folded wings, loomed the silhouettes of dozens more assault sled-ships.

The interior of the main vessel was filled with a heavy stench: the smell of scorched meat, unwashed sweat, and cheap mead. A group of bearded men warmed themselves by a fire-pit, beneath a makeshift sail-roof that flapped ominously in the wind.

"He, he, he! A good one, this!" croaked a red-haired man with a milky cataract in one eye, gnawing on a bone with such fury it was as if he were still battling its owner. "See? This is what awaits you if you try to nip at me again!" He brandished the bone before the snout of a snarling hound huddled in the corner.

"Do you know, fool, how long it takes to train a proper dog?" spat Gjord. The smooth-faced youth, whose features seemed ill-suited to this den of cutthroats, struggled to hold back the lunging animal.

"Gjord is right. Dogs are tools for us, not snacks," spoke a voice as cold as the ice beneath the runners.

Ragnar the Beardless sat in the shadows, the firelight revealing only the outlines of his athletic frame and the deep scar that ran from his temple, vanishing into the remnants of a thin beard. "They can pin a beast in the snow until we run it through. Now, since Bulfir is out tracking, we have only one left on deck."

"Ragnar, you and your son are right," the redhead cackled, baring rotted teeth. "They are useful. But they are also, by Odin, damn tasty!"

The deck shuddered with drunken laughter, which was suddenly cut short by the rustle of a parting canvas. A gust of frost burst inside.

"Quiet! Someone approaches!" hissed a guard.

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere in the drakkar shifted from festive to murderous. Laughter was replaced by the clatter of drawing steel. Axes and swords flashed in the light of the dying fire. The scout in the bear fur stepped inside.

"Is the Shaman here?" Ragnar asked curtly.

"Yes, Jarl. And he brought the girl, as agreed."

Ragnar slowly touched the scar on his cheek. The memory of the moment Eldiole had stripped him of his pride and his beard stung sharper than any wound. "Is it truly her? That old sorcerer is as cunning as a pack of foxes."

"It is her," the scout replied. "When she realized Bunhold sought a pact, she fell into a saber-toothed tigress's rage. She bit off half a guard’s ear when he brought her food. They had to lock her in the tower."

"Yes... it must be that little she-devil," Ragnar hissed, a demonic hunger for vengeance igniting in his eyes. "This time, I shall be the one to tame her."

"Ha!" Goldun, the one-eyed provocateur, could not hold his tongue. "You said the same last time, Ragnar the Beardless! And you ended up with a carved face and no name. Give the kitten to me, I know how to straighten a spine..."

The laughter that erupted on the deck of the drakkar died as suddenly as if someone had struck the revelers with a blunt club. Axes and chalices hung suspended in mid-air. Everyone turned their gaze to Ragnar, waiting for an explosion of raw madness.

The Jarl, however, did not flinch. The scar on his cheek turned stark white, and inside, beneath his breastplate of bear fur, his blood boiled with a fury that could melt the ice beneath the ship's runners. On the outside, however, his face remained unnaturally, eerily calm. Ragnar slowly set down his chalice, raised his eyes, and fixed them upon the reveller sitting closest to Goldun—a massive, hot-headed warrior who, moments ago, had roared with laughter loudest of all.

"Are you laughing, Haldor?" the Jarl's venomous, quiet whisper sliced through the grave silence. Ragnar smiled faintly, baring his teeth. "You didn't dare to speak such insolence when I took my turn riding your mother, your wife, and your daughter. Oh, how sweetly your sixteen-year-old Aise squealed..."

The warrior's face went white. No father on the frozen north could endure such an insult. Haldor let out an animalistic roar of fury, bolted from the bench, and without a second thought lunged at Ragnar, raising a heavy battle-axe over his head.

But the Jarl had been waiting for exactly that.

Instead of stepping back, Ragnar moved with lightning speed, closing the distance. He slipped past the lethal swing, using his forearm to deflect the haft of Haldor's weapon. The axe blade slid across the chieftain's thick steel pauldrons, throwing a shower of sparks. Before anyone on deck could blink, a long dagger appeared out of nowhere in Ragnar's other hand.

With blatant, murderous relish, the Jarl drove the blade upward, straight beneath the jaw of the charging giant. The steel pierced the throat with a wet squelch and broke through the skull bone with a sharp, loud crack.

Haldor froze, his eyes instantly clouding with blood as the axe slipped from his limp fingers. Ragnar wrenched the weapon free with a sharp tug, and the massive body collapsed onto the deck planks with a dull thud, while the thick blood immediately began to steam in the freezing air of the drakkar.

"Who else?!" Ragnar roared, sweeping the hall with a maddened gaze, ready to slaughter anyone who would dare call this murder rather than the right to defend his honor.

A grave silence fell. Only Goldun, after a moment of heavy tension, spat into the pool of blood, turning pale beneath the Jarl's cold stare.

"Well, you’ve fouled the deck, Jarl."

Ragnar pointed his bloodied dagger at the only man who still dared to look him in the eye.

"That girl shall bear me sons, Goldun. She will be my queen, whether she wills it or not. And you, mind your tongue, or I shall send it to Valhalla before you."

Part 3

Viltus, the Anointed of the Four-Faced One, spurred his horse. Behind him, fifty knights of Zahira formed a blue wedge, barely visible in the mounting blizzard. The King felt a dread that did not spring from the frost, but from the silence echoing beneath the walls of Atkira. According to Bunhold’s assurances, they were to find allies here.

"Your Majesty!" A scout galloped from the front. His face was white with terror. "On the walls... where our banners should fly... hang the colors of the Sea-Folk and the Order of Murk!"

"What?!" Viltus jerked the reins. "Bunhold spoke of negotiations, not surrender! Our banner shall never fly beside those dogs!"

"Sire, look behind!" one of the men-at-arms cried.

From the white void, like an army of wraiths, emerged a wall of shields. Over a hundred warriors in bull-horned helmets marched in a soulless, rhythmic cadence.

"Hu! Hu! Hu!" The war-cry of the Vilkunds hit the knights like a shockwave.

"Treason!" roared Viltus. "Retreat! To the left, lose them in the storm!"

Before the horses could turn, the same guttural roar answered from the left flank.

"Hu! Hu! Hu!"

Another wall of shields, bristling with pikes, was closing the trap. They were caught in the jaws—between the steel of the Vilkunds and the deep moat of Atkira. The only path was the drawbridge, which still remained raised.

At the same time, in the Great Hall of Atkira, the mead flowed like rivers, but the scent in the air was that of a slaughterhouse rather than a feast. Ragnar the Beardless sat at the heavy table, clutching a chalice he never brought to his lips. His eyes, predatory and keen, tracked Bunhold’s every move.

"Bunhold!" Ragnar shouted over the drunken songs of his men. "Where is your Lady? Does the princess scorn the company of the future King of the Enclaves? I wished to pay homage to her divine beauty... and perhaps mend what she lately broke on my face."

He pointed to the scar, and his warriors erupted in coarse laughter. Ragnar knew Eldiole was locked in the tower, but he relished tormenting the mage with the pretense of courtesy.

"She rests after the hardships of the journey," Bunhold replied dryly. He sat between Dreydel, the ruler of the vampires, and the host, King Azumdin. All three looked like islands of gravity in a sea of feigned drunkenness.

"A pity..." Ragnar smiled, his hand tightening on the axe-hilt beneath the table. "My son, Gjord, always said that wild kittens are best tamed with hunger. Eion!" he pointed to the mage’s apprentice. "Take these scraps to her. Let her know the lord of Atkira is generous."

Eion, pale and trembling, seized the platter of meat. Bunhold whispered something in his ear—a command so quiet it was drowned in the din of the hall. As the boy left, Ragnar’s gaze followed him, then he leaned toward his officer.

"As soon as the boy enters the tower, we begin. I do not want that little she-devil to see her world burn... not yet."

"Do you think, Bunhold, that Viltus will accept our terms?" Dreydel asked discreetly, hidden in the shadow of his hood. The vampires sat motionless, their eyes reflecting no candlelight. They were the only silence in the hall.

"I count on his wisdom," the mage began, but suddenly cut short.

A Vilkund warrior leaned to Ragnar and whispered: "Viltus is beneath the walls."

"What I’ve been waiting for!" snapped the Beardless with a sudden, murderous relief. "Begin!"

Before Bunhold could finish his sentence about the wisdom of kings, the world exploded into violence. Ragnar’s heavy axe split Azumdin’s skull with a wet thud, turning the host into a shapeless mass before the eyes of the guests. In the same moment, the pike of a bearded giant pierced Bunhold’s chest, pinning him almost to the back of his chair.

The vampires, usually lightning-fast, were butchered where they stood—Ragnar knew of silver. The silver blades of the Vilkunds sliced through black habits, and the smoking remains of the bloodsuckers turned to mist under the blows of the axes.

Bunhold felt his soul leave his body to escape the pain. He saw the slaughter from above—in slow motion. He saw Ragnar approach his cooling corpse.

"Finish him!" the Jarl commanded.

As the warrior wrenched the pike from the mage’s chest for the final blow, Bunhold used the last spark of his essence. He vanished in a flare of blue light, leaving Ragnar with an empty chair and a pool of cooling blood.

"He won't get far!" Ragnar shrugged, wiping blood from his face. "Take the girl! Everyone to the bridge! I must welcome Viltus!"

Part 4

Eion climbed the winding stairs of the eastern tower, feeling the platter of meat grow heavier in his hands than a sack of stones. Before the oaken doors of Eldiole’s chamber stood two guards—one nervously fingering a blood-soaked bandage on his ear, the other keeping a safe distance from the bolt.

"You are to take this to the princess," Eion said, trying to infuse his voice with even a shadow of Bunhold’s authority.

"M-m-me?" stammered the guard with the bandage, his face turning pale as death. "I-I’m n-not going in there! S-s-she’s a d-d-demon’s daughter! M-my ear hurts!"

The second sentry merely jerked his head aside with a look that said: "I’d sooner be impaled than step inside." Eion sighed. He realized he was alone.

When they finally cracked the peephole, the boy caught a glimpse of Eldiole’s motionless form beneath a pile of furs. She seemed to be sleeping. He slipped inside on tiptoe, dreaming only of setting down the tray and fleeing. It was only when he placed the food on the table beneath the window that he felt an unnatural silence in the chamber. He looked around feverishly. The heavy, oaken stool was gone.

Then he saw it. Or rather them—small, bare feet pattering toward him from behind the doorframe. Eldiole emerged from the shadows like a vengeful deity, holding the stool over her head with both hands. Eion closed his eyes, cursing every magic lesson he had ever slept through. This was the end.

And then, the impossible happened.

With a dull thud, right between them, the blood-drenched body of Bunhold hit the stone floor. The mage looked like a hunk of meat tossed by the gods from the heavens. Eldiole froze with the stool held high, and Eion nearly fainted.

"Put it down..." Bunhold wheezed, spitting blood onto the princess's boots. He desperately clutched an old tome to his chest. "We must flee... Ragnar... he’s coming for you!"

"Bunhold? What have you done, you fool!" Eldiole cried, casting the stool aside and throwing herself toward the wound in his chest.

"Eion... the circle... quickly!" The mage pulled out a pouch of dust. "I must... undo..."

Eion, jolted by the fury in Eldiole's voice, lunged for the dust. His hands, once clumsy, now traced the signs with inspired precision. He knew the heavy boots of the Vilkunds could already be heard outside the door. He also heard Viltus's horn beneath the walls—a song of hope that was about to turn into a funeral dirge.

Eldiole ran to the window and saw what Bunhold had seen in the spirit realm: her father being hacked by axes beneath the raised bridge, the blue banners of Zahira drowning in the mud.

"Father!" Her scream tore through the air at the very moment the Vilkunds breached the door.

In that same split second, Bunhold choked out the final word of the incantation. The world turned inside out. Darkness, a blinding flare of silver, and the scent of ozone...

Eion woke in the sleigh. The wind lashed his face, and the stallions snorted rhythmically. Everything was the same—the jingle of the harness, the frost, the smell of wet fur. Only in his mind did Ragnar's roar and the crack of Azumdin’s skull still echo.

"Young man... time runs short. The dagger!" he heard a whisper beside him.

He looked at Bunhold. The mage was white as death, and a great, black void gaped from his chest, though the blood had not yet begun to flow.

"Master! There’s a hole in your chest!" the boy cried in terror.

"Everything... in your head... was real," the mage wheezed, performing a swift ritual over Eldiole’s dagger. "Give this to her. I tried to turn back time, but the power of the White One is too great..."

"The Master has passed to the other side, My Lady," Eion replied in a voice so old and weary it was as if he had lived a century in a single night. He handed her the dagger. "It was no dream. It was the future. Bunhold gave his life so we might change it."

"This is the sixth time I have turned back our convergence..." the dying mage wheezed from the planks, his words trailing off as his gaze grew glassy.

"What are you saying, old fool?" Eldiole whispered, dropping to her knees, unsure if he was murmuring in his final agony or speaking with what little sense he had left.

"Every single turn... the ice bites deeper. Each time, it ends in ash," Bunhold choked out, a faint, bitter smile touching his bloody lips. "But this time... this time, you breathed. You survived. I have no essence left to turn the glass again, child. Flee... to the east... to Dreydel..."

The mage slumped onto the planks of the sleigh, his body immediately beginning to stiffen. Eion felt the dagger in his hand pulse with an unnatural warmth.

Eldiole woke with a shriek.

"Eion! Where is Bunhold?!" she cried, looking around wildly. "I had a terrible dream... Atkira... my father..."

The princess took the weapon, her eyes filling with tears as she noticed the fresh blood of the mage on the hilt. She looked east. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, the Cold Men were just beginning their march on Atkira, which in this new timeline was still pulsing with life, unaware that its death warrant had already been signed.

"Where are we bound?" she asked, wiping her cheek.

"Where fire meets water," Eion replied, urging the horses on. "To the Order of Murk."

Part 5

The sleigh raced through the night, leaving Atkira behind—a city that, in this new day gifted by Bunhold, still teemed with life, though it was but a dance of the damned on the edge of an abyss. Eion felt the Master's magic vibrating beneath his skin, while Eldiole, clutching her dagger, surrendered to a silent, ice-cold hatred.

Suddenly, their path was severed. From the blizzard emerged the Vilkund drakkars—even rows of hulls on runners, waiting for a signal to attack that Ragnar had not yet given.

"Leave the sleigh here," Eldiole whispered, leaping into the snow. Her eyes gleamed with a touch of madness. "I’ll slaughter any who remain on guard and burn these stench-ridden hulks to the ground."

Eion gripped the mage’s sword. They moved cautiously, passing the sleeping giants until they reached a drakkar with smoke curling from its roof. Eldiole, ready for murder, slipped beneath the canvas.

"Is someone there?!" a young, trembling voice called from the depths of the ship. "I’m wounded... I cannot see!"

Eldiole lunged forward, but Eion caught her arm.

"Hold! The dagger... it does not glow, My Lady. There is no enemy here."

"Let go of me!" she hissed, but the boy held her with a strength he had never before possessed.

They approached the fire-pit. On the planks lay a young man, clad in Vilkund furs. His face was mangled, and his eyes were clouded white by the touch of the frost.

"I am Gjord, son of Jarl Ragnar the Beardless," he wheezed. "Help me, and my father will surely reward you..."

Something snapped within Eldiole. She raised the dagger to strike the throat of her oppressor’s son, but then Eion made a gesture found in no book. The air thickened like transparent molasses, trapping the princess's arm mid-strike.

"You cannot do this," Eion said, his voice so calm that Eldiole shivered. "If you kill him, winter will forever dwell in your heart. He is the other half of the prophecy."

The princess fought against the invisible power, cursing Bunhold and his apprentice until her strength finally failed.

"His father took everything from me!" she cried, tears freezing on her cheeks.

"And you shall save what remains of him," the boy replied.

They helped Gjord to the sleigh. Eion learned from the boy's delirious whispers that when the Cold Men attacked their outpost, it was Bulfir, Gjord’s giant, brindled wolfhound, who had fiercely drawn the monsters away, risking his own life to buy his master time to drag himself to safety. Only after losing the beasts had the hound followed his master's scent through the blizzard.

As they set off, leaving the unlit drakkars behind, Eldiole noticed something in the darkness. A great, brindled wolfhound—the very same Bulfir who had saved Gjord—emerged from the blizzard. The dog did not bark. It followed heavily behind the sleigh, head held low to the ground.

"It’s one of their monsters," Eldiole spat, reaching for her bow. "I’ll fell it now."

"Wait," Eion stopped her. "Look at the dagger."

The blade remained dull. The dog came closer and rested its snout on the edge of the sleigh, right beside the hand of the unconscious Gjord. The beast gave a soft whimper, and the wounded boy, in his sleep, curled his fingers into its coarse fur.

"It is not coming for us," Eion whispered. "It is Bulfir. He is just following his master."

Eldiole lowered her bow. For a long moment, she stared at the wounded pair—the Jarl’s son and his hound—with a mixture of compassion and loathing.

"I do not know if I won't kill him when you’re not looking," she muttered, but she covered Gjord with an extra fur.

The sleigh began to vanish into the white.

"Eion... Bunhold spoke of fire and water. It makes no sense. We are lost. Tomorrow you will not become a master of magic to save us."

The boy looked at his hands, still feeling the tingle of the spell he had cast. He urged the horses to a faster pace.

"No, tomorrow I will not yet be a master," he replied softly. "But look at Gjord. You tended his wounds, though you wished to tear him apart. That is our union of fire and water, Eldiole. That is the only magic the White Lord cannot freeze."

They rode on, eastward, toward the Order of Murk. Behind them, in the ceaseless white, followed the faithful hound—the last guardian of yesterday’s world, which was even now becoming tomorrow.