Embers In The North

As the first snowflake settled, it whispered secrets of a winter tale waiting to unfold.

Across the snow-covered mountains and valleys, a howling storm raged. Overhead, dark clouds loomed, and the ground shook with the resounding rumble of thunder

Perched atop her Shadowbeast, Reyna scanned the southern border of Egranox. The rhythmic ebb and flow of her mount’s breath beneath her was calming; its muscles flexed beneath the saddle as it snorted.

Reyna was aware of her surroundings through its acute senses. Its giant nostrils flared as it sniffed the air, allowing it to pick up even the most subtle scents. Ator–her Shadowbeast–had tracked the path of the Redfall wolves that had eluded their patrol earlier that day, leading them here.

“Are we really entering Silver Oak?” Lance reined in his Howler to steady himself beside Reyna.

Peering into the forest, Reyna weighed her options. It was dangerous terrain fraught with avalanches and hidden crevasses. The dense ice-glaze thicket of trees, interspersed by stretches of deep snow as high as five feet would be challenging to navigate–dangerous for Lance, who was a Redfall accustomed to warmer climates.

She glanced at Lance who never quite managed to keep himself warm, no matter how many layers he put on. He had become accustomed to staying within the citadel and making excuses to avoid border patrols.

“Berserkers are smuggling a Fleet of Redfall wolves into the North.” She pulled at Ator’s reins to face Lance directly. “Knowing this, would you follow them into the white forest of death, Fang?”

Lance’s response was accompanied by an exasperated exclamation. “By Odin’s beard!” He vigorously rubbed his gloved hands together in a futile attempt to stave off the cold. “This could be the end of me.”

To Reyna’s chagrin, she was slowly realizing her mistake. Once she picked up the unmistakable scent of Greenpeak, her single-minded pursuit of its source led her to overlook a critical detail: Lance’s Redfall heritage. He was the sole Redfall in an Icehelm Fleet, a jarring incongruity. It was a glaring discrepancy that embarrassed her to the point of foolishness.

Reyna knew that the Redfall wolves were ill-equipped to handle the Arctic temperatures and blizzards of the Frostcall tundra. Unlike their Icehelm counterparts, the Redfall wolves lacked the protective thick fur and ice-resistant paws that adaptation had granted the Icehelm wolves. As a looming storm threatened, Reyna’s concern deepened. The last thing she wanted was for Lance to be exposed to the merciless cold.

“Return to the citadel. I will follow their trail alone,” Reyna said.

“I will not abandon you to chase down a horde of wolves and belligerent Berserkers! I’d sooner die, Prime.”

“You’re already courting death.” Reyna glanced at him. “Make your way back before the storm hits. It was not a request.”

“Have you forgotten that the Warmaster has summoned all Fangs to the citadel? The Alpha is due to arrive tonight.”

Reyna grunted with frustration. As the Prime Commander of the North, she was bound by duty to welcome the Alpha and his entourage, no matter how much she detested it. Moreover, the law of Aupheadia required that everyone attending a solstice celebration be welcomed with open arms.

It would be considered an act of aggression to not welcome the House of Maynord alongside Frostcall’s Warmasters on his first inaugural celebration of the Northern Solstice. The weeks leading up to the event should have seen emissaries from the House of Maynord arriving in Frostcall. However, not a whisper had been heard about their arrival.

Curiously, amidst all this, a Fleet of Redfalls appeared to be making their way into Egranox, almost unnoticed. It could be a mere coincidence, but Reyna couldn’t shake off the nagging suspicion that this might be part of the Alpha’s calculated scheme.

“When I’m finished with this, I’ll be there. Quit bickering about things I already know and get back before you freeze. I’ll pursue their trail alone. If I don’t return by dusk, I’ll have earned a Fang’s glorious exit!” Reyna said.

Lance tightened the brown shawl around his face, leaving only his eyes visible. He tucked his hands into his coat for warmth, shivering slightly. “I do not know what to say to Warmaster Bandos. He expects you to be in the citadel to receive the House of Maynord.”

Her gaze was fixed on him as he shivered stubbornly on his Howler. It was truly remarkable that he had survived Frostcall for so long. Lance’s will and resilience were commendable, qualities that earned him a place in her Fleet. A Highthaw native to Suncrest Territory would have likely succumbed to the harsh Frostcall climate by now.

The Aupheadia Territories were vastly different, shaped by distinct climates and geography. Frostcall, because of its elevation and latitude, was a mountainous tundra. The Suncrest Territory was an expanse of scorching heat due to its low rainfall and sparse vegetation. The tropical paradise of Greenpeak, on the other hand, teemed with biodiversity with an abundance of rivers and rainforests.

In the same way, the wolves of each region were different; each adapted unique traits for their territories. Icehelms grew thicker coats for the cold weather, while Highthaws had lighter fur to help keep cool. Greenpeak Redfalls were the most diverse, with some adapting to the heat of the rainforest and others to the cold of the mountain ranges.

Frostcall had the smallest population of the three territories despite having the largest landmass. A portion of it was frozen and barren, making it uninviting for habitation. Another reason lies in history—the House of Maynord invaded the North when the Thorin House reigned as Alpha of Aupheadia. The massacre they perpetrated wiped out the Thorin bloodline, leaving their lands in ruins. Only five cities remain in Frostcall- a fraction of its former size.

“Worse things have happened, Lance. Odin’s virtue!” she hissed.

She held little regard for Alpha Roth and his Omegas who relegated females to the lowest rungs. It was a gross injustice that stifled the true potential of female Fangs. Despite her efforts to challenge it, history’s legendary Five Feral Fangs deterred her. Those remarkable Fangs, all females hailing from the three territories exhibited uncanny strength that surpassed even the loftiest of Omegas. Yet, their accomplishments remained largely unrecognized, buried under the weight of prejudiced tradition.

It was frustrating to watch Lance linger for nothing, shaking like a leaf. An irritated groan escaped her lips, and Ator, attuned to her emotions, let out a low growl directed at Lance’s Howler.

Startled by Ator’s warning, the Howler recoiled, pivoted on its paws, and sped off, carrying Lance away towards the citadel. Leaning slightly forward, Reyna extended her hand to stroke Ator’s white mane in a tender, affectionate gesture of appreciation.

With the birth of every wolf, a corresponding Shadowbeast emerges, their souls entwined in an unbreakable bond. They never strayed far from their wolf, lingering within the shadows until they were summoned. They represent the wolf’s inner power; a blessing from Fenrir.

The Icehelm wolves had Howlers; robust Shadowbeasts that stood six feet tall and could manipulate their territory’s snow and frost. Travelling with Howlers was easier with a storm on the way and snowbanks four feet high.

Ator was her Shadowbeast, adorned with pristine white fur that harmoniously blended into the snowy landscape. With her long, dexterous claws, she could effortlessly scale the steep peaks of the Northern Fjords, and glaciers. She was an apex predator in the region.

As Ator carried them forward, descending into the deep trenches that guided them towards the heart of the Silver Oak forest, Reyna let out a measured breath. Her pitch-black eyes remained focused on the path ahead, tapping into her ability to perceive beyond obstacles.

That was why she wanted Lance to leave; for unimpeded access to her abilities.

The trail was lined with the prints of Snow Beatles– four pairs side by side, and a fifth set from a runner dragging behind them. As it turned out, the Berserkers were indeed smuggling wolves into their territory. Notably, the runner’s tracks were small, so it had to be carrying no more than four or five wolves. How did they get past the imposing Mountain of Ice undetected by the second Fleet? If they had gone west, they could have avoided Silver Oak altogether and she would have missed them.

“Let’s go, Ator.”

Ator ran like lightning, cutting through the snow and Reyna hunkered down. The howling of the wind and the crunch of the snow under her feet were the only sounds that kept her pace as she moved. The snow seemed to be aware of Ator’s presence; its icy crystals responded to her movements, parting around them like a river around a rock. Ator could outrun any Howler, running through Silver Oak in just minutes at a pace that made the landscape look frozen in time. Their bond was fitting - the Howler champion united with the Prime Commander of the North.

As Ator slowed down, Reyna caught their scent. The towering trees of Silver Oak stretched their spindly, bare branches toward the sky; the intruders had stopped to hide behind the skeletal trees. Four distinct scents mingled with hers and Ator’s, making them hard to tell apart. Trying to tease apart the various notes in the olfactory medley, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. An earthy musk, a faint hint of grass, and the unmistakable smell of Greenpeak Territory merged in a fragrant cocktail.

Reyna dismounted from her Shadowbeast, and with a subtle nod to Ator, her pristine white mount vanished into the shadows. Peering through the woods, she engaged her all-seeing ability- as she liked to call it. Her gaze settled on the runner tucked behind a massive tree trunk off the trail, its presence deliberately obscured beneath a layer of snow. From within the runner, the outlines of four male figures were discernible—Redfalls, she surmised, judging by the way they clung tightly to their cloaks to fend off the cold.

Her fingers curled around the cold metal handles of her twin swords, her gaze sweeping across the terrain searching for Berserkers and Snow Beatles. The Beatles were simple beasts of burden, used for hauling heavy loads like logs from farther away. Yet the Berserkers were a different matter altogether. They were vicious, feral wolves that had been known to attack unprovoked and with deadly force. She should have sensed them or at least detected their scent by now. But she had not. It made her pause and take a step back, her eyes narrowing as she tried to figure out why. The only thing that made sense was that the Berserkers had abandoned the runner, leaving the Redfalls to face the approaching storm that was steadily descending the slope. While she tried to figure out how the Berserkers left Silver Oak without a trace, distant thunder echoed off the cliffs above.

Such a move wouldn’t be surprising. They were a race of Fangs who followed their own rules, and even those seemed to change on a whim. They were unpredictable and often used it to their advantage, avoiding conflict if they felt they could not win. It was a matter of survival and it was likely that they sensed something in the coming storm that made them flee.

For a time, she remained motionless, attuned to the mournful howls of the wind, her gaze steady on the runner. Reyna had seen enough of their operations to be able to tell when they had moved on; they were extremely careful and did all they could to avoid being noticed. Their methods were so effective that it was almost like they had vanished into thin air.

After some time, the figures in the runner rose to unlock the door.

Reyna drew closer as the doors flung open. As they leapt, they shifted mid-air, transforming into large wolves before their paws hit the snow. They grunted in discomfort as they grappled with the snow covering them halfway. The wolves were enormous and were undeniably Fangs. A four-foot snowdrift would normally bury a wolf, but the Redfalls stood above it. They stepped onto the path Ator’s speed had cleared with a snarl as their eyes locked on her.

“State your business on Egranox soil, Redfalls.” Blades poised and senses heightened, Reyna maintained a steadfast stance, prepared for any sudden attack.

From the pack of four, the largest wolf stepped forth. By Odin, he was huge! With brown fur and a set jaw that looked capable of tearing through opponents with a single bite. His eyes emitted an eerie golden glow, almost otherworldly in appearance. Those eyes locked onto her, causing Reyna’s heart to quicken with apprehension, and she swallowed hard. His heartbeat pulsed, steady and strong, his canines gleaming immaculately in the moonlight. She sensed his intent to engage her in battle, likely because their infiltration had been meticulous, only to be stumbled upon by her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Reyna cautioned.

Undeterred, he took another measured step forward. Sensing a turning tide, Reyna returned her blades to their sheaths and crossed her arms over her chest. Behind her, Ator emerged from the shadows. The three wolves behind the leader retreated, but he remained unmoved, his gaze now lifting to regard Ator.

“Shift. Now.” Reyna’s command was punctuated by a snap of her fingers, a gesture meant to compel compliance. In response to their hesitation, Ator growled low, a guttural sound.

Reluctantly, they obeyed, their bodies transforming into their human forms. As they stood, their imposing presence loomed over her and the snow. Rarely did Reyna feel small; her solid stature of five feet seven inches usually imparted confidence. Yet, these males surpassed her in height. Her focus zeroed in on the bulky wolf in front, his tawny brown mane cascading in untamed waves. His eyes, one blue and the other amber glinted like otherworldly gems—an unmistakable trait of the Maynord lineage.

Her eyes swept over his large form, noting his grey tunic atop black breeches, and black knee-high boots. All set against the backdrop of a finely woven cloak. This cloak, adorned with the intricate crest of House Maynord, was draped regally over his shoulders, an emblem of his noble heritage.

Seeing the distinctive scar that marred his face, trailing from his left brow across the bridge of his nose to his right cheek, Reyna’s mouth went dry.

Alpha Roth.