79 lines
4.5 KiB
Markdown
79 lines
4.5 KiB
Markdown
**Winter’s Edge – Five Days Before the Blood Moon**
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The wind had changed.
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It slipped through the walls like it knew where to find the cracks—old mortar, frostbitten stone. Marcas stood near the war-room hearth, though the fire had long since died. The map on the table before him had curled at the edges, stained with the fingerprints of too many sleepless nights.
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The girl—no, the **Queen**—had vanished into the mountains nearly a month past. Her trail was cold. Her companions most likely scattered, presumed dead. And yet…
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Whispers.
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At first, they’d come from the northern shepherds: talk of shadows in the snow, of songs sung in no tongue they knew. Then came the traders, wide-eyed, reluctant to speak too loud. They said the mountain moved—that figures with crimson brands etched into their skin had passed through the high passes, untouched by storm or beast.
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And now, his latest report.
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He ran his thumb over the parchment, though he had it memorized already.
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> _Two hundred strong, if not more. Painted and cloaked. Bearing a banner red on black._
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> _No sign of siegecraft. No mounts. But they move like they do not fear the land._
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> _Villages emptied before them. No deaths. No signs of looting. Only silence._
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Marcas exhaled through his nose, slow, measured. No deaths. No looting.
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That was worse.
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He looked around the war room—what passed for it, anyway. Half the maps were outdated. The supply ledgers were optimistic fictions. Winter’s Edge had never been meant to hold under siege. It was a forward post. A symbol.
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Now it was a trap. And he was its keeper.
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His second-in-command, Bera, leaned in through the half-open door. “Another rider came in from the south. They’ve spotted something near Ashpine Ridge.” Her voice was rough, but she didn’t look shaken—yet.
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“Another?” he asked.
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Bera nodded once. “Same banner. No attempt to hide it.”
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Of course not. There was no need.
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Marcas dismissed her with a gesture and walked to the narrow window slit above the courtyard. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals. Below, a handful of boys—barely old enough to hold spears—stood post in borrowed armor. They looked up at him like he might give them hope.
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He had never seen the princess. Not truly. By the time the Legion claimed Winter’s Edge, she was already gone—vanished into the Mourning Peaks like smoke on the wind. But he’d read the dispatches. He’d studied the scribbled notes left behind by frightened officers and deserters. A girl. Bloodied. Barely breathing. Setting out to seek… *something*.
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He’d scoured every record since. No image. No confirmed sightings. Only words. _She was fire wrapped in frost._ _She spoke to the spirits, and they listened._ _She was born of Talpis, and Talpis does not die easy._
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He had never seen her. But he started to fear her just the same.
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Marcas poured a finger of the last decent wine from his stores. Let it warm in his palm. Stared at it like it might offer prophecy.
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*What are you now, Telaryn?*
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He didn’t say it aloud. He wasn’t sure it was her name anymore.
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The blade she carried—Ashmire, they called it now—belonged to the stories the old men whispered after dark. It drank blood and memory, left nothing behind but loyalty or ruin. He’d hoped it was just myth. But myths didn’t raise armies in the snow. Myths didn’t send heralds to the edge of the world with no mouths, just spirit-marks branded across their faces.
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And yet, one had come. Just yesterday. It hadn’t spoken. It hadn’t _needed_ to. It simply knelt in the courtyard, lifted a hand, and drew a line across its palm. Red spilled onto the ice like ink. Then it turned and walked away.
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A message, clear as bells. *She was coming.*
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Marcas sat, slow and deliberate, and let the silence build around him. There was no victory here—only the question of how long they could hold. And what it would cost.
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He reached for a fresh scrap of parchment. Inked a short, bitter line across the top:
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_To the High Command: Prepare for Winter’s Edge to fall._
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He paused. Tapped the quill once, twice.
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Then added, beneath:
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_But she will not take it quietly._
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Outside, the wind howled low and mournful, as if the mountain itself were remembering.
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Marcas stood one last time at the window, watching the dusk thicken. Far in the distance, where the road vanished into white, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Just a ripple. A banner, perhaps.
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Black cloth. And red.
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He pressed his hand to the cold stone.
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“She’s coming home,” he whispered.
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Then he turned to light the signal fires.
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