At Zecto Heldos, the imposing grey stone fortress amidst the vast Bafect steppe, the atmosphere lacked the strong wine-like scent of the capital, instead permeated with the dry grass, leather, and the harshness of the west wind.
In the largest room of the main tower, the fire in the fireplace danced solitary, casting strange shadows on the enormous animal skin map hanging on the wall.
Lord Trithor Tarkrie, the old lord of the steppe, now leaned against the thick fur of his large, dark oak throne.
His face was gaunt, his breathing heavy and ragged, but his eyes—the sharp eyes of the Tarkrie family—still shone with an unyielding will.
Around him, the most loyal officials and generals of Bafect stood silently, bowing their heads, awaiting the words of the "old warhorse."
"Gentlemen..."
Trithor began, his voice hoarse but still possessing an awe-inspiring authority.
"Don't look at me like I'm about to leave this world.
Look out there, look at Aerindor bleeding under the cruel heel of the depraved Thavadas.
Starryn no longer rules by law; they began to rule by madness when Robben III ascended the throne, and now he leaves that legacy to his grandson."
He coughed a long, drawn-out cough.
A servant hastily offered him a cup of lavender and raspberry tea, but he brushed it aside.
Trithor looked to his son, Varact Tarkrie, his eyes reflecting a final glimmer of hope, who stood as tall as a steel spear beside his father's wooden throne.
"Varact, come here," Trithor beckoned the frail arm of an old man weary with age.
When his eldest son knelt beside him, he placed his thin but strong hand on his shoulder and uttered words that commanded everyone's attention.
"This Bafect plain needs a strong young warhorse, one who dares to stand up and choose the path of justice for its people, one who not only follows the herd but leads it.
I cannot stand by and watch the noble families tear this continent apart any longer.
Nytharion has ancient dragons, but they need our horses; they will seek to obtain the firmest footing on the continent—ours, Tarkrie, Bafect.
They have the sky, but they need us, those who hold the earth."
Varact bowed his head, his voice choked with emotion: "Father, you will surely recover quickly!
Bafect still needs your leadership, and so does Nytharion."
"No, my son!"
Trithor smiled bitterly.
"My era ended when Liewind departed this world!
But your era and Karonia's are only just beginning.
Listen to me, son, from this moment on, I officially pass this noble title to you.
You will be Lord of Tarkrie and Lord of Bafect.
Hold it and, in my place, bring peace and prosperity to our homeland.
Do not follow in the footsteps of that tyrant.
The sword Lorfen of our ancestors now belongs to you."
Turning to the officials in the hall, he raised his voice: "Pass on my orders, gentlemen!
From today, the Tarkrie family officially accepts the Nytharion family's invitation to join their alliance.
Don't wait until the dragons fly in and burn us before you bow down; proactively mobilize your troops at the command of Varact Tarkrie and Karonia Nytharion.
Prepare 3,000 of our heaviest cavalry, ready to march towards the Central Plains to join forces with the fire-dragon clan.
Let the entire continent know that when the dragons roar in the sky, the warhorses of the steppe will answer them."
Varact looked up at his father, his eyes burning with a new, incredibly strong and resolute determination.
He understood that this was not just a military order, but a gamble, betting the future of his family and the people of Bafect on Karonia and the dragons.
"I will not disappoint you, Father," Varact declared, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
"The Tarkrie cavalry will be the strongest shield for this alliance.
We will march as soon as the dragons' orders arrive."
Trithor leaned back against the sheepskin cushion on his wooden throne, a long sigh of relief escaping from his thin chest.
He looked toward the window, where rays of sunlight began to pierce through the stained-glass panes, illuminating the endless meadows of Bafect.
"Good... good..." he whispered.
"Karonia carries the blood of Myrra, Tarkrie carries the blood of our family.
My sister is probably celebrating in heaven with the gods!
She is an indispensable part of us; her blood flows in the veins of Tarkrie.
I cannot betray my bloodline.
Fight not for a new throne, but for an Aerindor free from silent weeping in the night and prayers filled with fear for tomorrow.
Ready, son... show Starryn the power of the steppe horses."
The north wind howled along the massive stone walls of the Bastion of Veallor, seeping through ancient cracks like the whispers of buried souls and their millennia-old vows.
Above, the sky no longer bore the rich blue of the South, but a heavy, ash-gray, as if the heavens themselves were bearing the weight of those who had stood there for millennia—unwavering, unyielding, belonging to no throne.
News from Bafect arrived at a chilling twilight, the last rays of day stifled by thick, leaden clouds.
A Skyrend Raven swooped down from the swirling mist, its black wings blending into the gloomy sky above.
It landed atop the central tower of the Gaddent fortress, its claws gripping the carefully fastened animal skin—the mark of the Tarkrie family etched into its worn surface.
The message was brief, yet enough to shake Veallor.
"Lord Varact Tarkrie has succeeded Trithor.
Bafect has chosen his side.
Three thousand cavalrymen are ready to march south—towards Elenvar—towards the dragons."
The news spread like a small spark in a sea of ice, not blazing, but smoldering and dangerous.
And that very night, for the first time in nearly a century, the Council of the Wall was convened.
The Great Hall of the Gaddent—the heart of Veallor—was bathed in a strange, pale blue light emanating from cisterns of Wild Water.
The flames didn't flare up like ordinary fires, but burned silently, slowly, carrying a bone-chilling coldness.
Its light reflected off the ancient suits of armor hanging on either side of the walls—testaments to countless generations who had lived and died for this wall.
Nine Houses were present.
The Gaddent stood in the center, guarding the main gate of Veallor. .
Hamorrys guarded the west, where the winds were strongest.
Tharenvys guarded the high towers, bracing against the blizzards.
Tullenne managed the ancient arsenal.
Reffinter preserved history with ink and blood.
Wheerofia maintained rituals and oaths.
And the three ancient houses of Elritian—Fingolrie, Dannior, Ollenin—who carried within them the memory of a civilization swallowed by the sea.
In the center, Lord Arkhavel Gaddent stood motionless like a statue.
A wolf fur cloak draped over his shoulders, his face as grim as the wall behind him.
When the letter was handed to him by the messenger from Skyrend, he read slowly, each word heavier than solid steel.
“The Tarkrie have sworn allegiance to Nytharion…
Three thousand cavalrymen will march on the Central Plains at any moment…
The war against Starryn has begun.”
The silence was long and heavy, so oppressive it seemed capable of suffocating the very air.
The first to break it was Lady Virellia Tharenvys.
Her voice was sharp as a well-sharpened sword.
“We have stood here for five thousand years… standing here looking south without ever interfering in the very complexities that Meavys I Starryn brought upon us in this desolate place.
But if Starryn were to fall… and if Nytharion were to begin unification… would they leave Veallor alone, as Meavys I did to us?”
A soft, cold, and contemptuous laugh echoed from the shadows.
Lord Kaedryn Dannior emerged, his silver-gray eyes reflecting the bluish fire of the strange torches.
“You still don’t understand, Lady Tharenvys?”
He spoke slowly.
“The South has changed over the centuries… but North Veallor—”
He raised his hand, pointing directly at the wall.
“—has never changed.”
His words fell like ice.
High Keeper Selmora Wheerofia stepped forward, carrying an ancient parchment scroll bound with black silver thread.
When she unrolled it, ancient characters appeared—characters that even many in the hall might not fully understand.
“Have you… forgotten?”
Her voice rang out, deep and heavy like history itself: “We belong to no throne.
We bow to no king.
We will not leave the wall… until the darkness of the North is gone forever.”
No one objected.
No one dared.
But then Lord Brennor Hamorrys slammed his hand down on the stone table, shattering the silence.
“And what if Vorynth returns?”
That name plunged the entire hall into a different kind of silence—not the silence of thought, but the silence of fear.
No one wanted to mention them.
But no one forgot.
Lord Arkhavel Gaddent approached the large map.
The North was just a blank space—no name, no symbol, as if the map itself refused to acknowledge its existence.
“Three weeks ago,” he said slowly, “a northern patrol did not return from its regular patrol.”
No one asked any further questions.
Because everyone understood.
The debate continued throughout the night.
Voices clashed, opinions diverged, anxieties about the South and fears of the North intertwined like two blades cutting into the same wound..
But finally, everything stopped when Arkhavel rose.
“We are not men of the South.”
His gaze swept across each face.
“We are men of this wall.”
He placed his hand on the ancient sword between the tables, its blade having been dipped in Wild Water since the dawn of time.
“Trithor Tarkrie has chosen his own path.
Varact will ride forth into the war that is brewing.”
He turned toward the North, where there was nothing but endless white shadows.
“And we, the people of Veallor… will continue to stand firm here to fulfill our mission, to fulfill our family oath.”
Orders were given that cold night.
Double the patrols outside the walls; all nine Wall houses had to send troops to Frostreach for regular group patrols.
Reinforce the catapults and ensure sufficient Wild Water was available for all eventualities.
Re-examine all the ancient communication crystals beneath each castle.
Not a single soldier was to leave Veallor, not even a single step.
And most importantly—no Veallor clan was to participate in the Southern War; rebellion would be met with execution.
When the council adjourned, the lords departed in silence, carrying the weight of the decision just made.
Only Arkhavel remained.
He stepped out onto the balcony.
Far in the distance, beyond the northern wall, the Frostreach Expanse stretched endlessly—a vast, unruffled ocean of ice.
The wind grew stronger.
And for a brief, very brief moment… he thought he saw movement.
Something.
Not the wind.
Not the snow.
But… something watching.
His hand tightened its grip on the hilt of his sword.
His voice, low and heavy, rang out:
“We’re not finished yet…”
A pause.
“…Not with the cowardly Southerners.”
