The days following Zach’s visit were full of activity. On the first day of the three given to prepare the exploratory force that would investigate the source of the strange weather, the last army returned. The Northern Devil had suffered as many losses as the duke’s eldest, coming back with a fraction of the forces he left with. Worse, he had severe injuries, including a missing hand and a broken leg. Like the other armies, they ditched their wagons to save time and the field commander was tied to the back of a grimgar, the long-haired mounts preferred in the north. An inglorious way to return home but form all appearances, the man was lucky to have survived.

Lancecain didn’t witness the event personally as the Devil was immediately whisked off to a healer but from what he heard, the injured field commander was not happy with the temperamental weather and made his feelings known to anyone within range of his shouting voice. He was even less happy when he found out that the storms that had devastated his forces were the result of something’s or someone’s interference. His mood plummeted further when he was told that he could not join the force that would investigate the matter.

What made him blow out a piece of the wall was being told that his wife had left Victory with her sister, taking their son with her.

According to witnesses, he calmed down by nightfall with some time to think and a few drinks in him, thanking the ancestors his family was out of harm’s way while the north battled strange circumstances. Lancecain sympathized with him. It had to be a shock to return from what had to be his worst campaign to find his “pillar” was nowhere to be found. All of Victory knew how much the knight adored his beautiful wife. Few knew how much he relied on her.

The second day was the opposite from the first. A tense silence claimed the fort, similar to the moment of stillness between two fighters before they engaged. Northerners were a people of action. When faced with problems, they faced them fearlessly and recklessly, throwing their full might in opposition of obstacles. A storm couldn’t be defeated with strength or steel, what the people of Victory excelled at. There was nothing they could do. It left the people on edge, waiting for a sword they couldn’t see to fall.

Despite living with one of the members of the exploratory force, Lancecain was also left in the dark. That night, Sir Polluck went to dinner at the duke’s estate. When he returned, he waved off his protege’s questions. The duke didn’t want the details of their expedition spread, for reasons Lancecain could only guess. He didn’t ask questions, but he hoped the James family didn’t insist on silence for long. Such a large issue was better not left to imagination.

He needn’t have worried. On the morning of the third day, rumors of the Devil’s tantrum had faded, replaced by fresh rumors regarding the expedition. Unsurprisingly, no field commander had been selected to join the team. The north prized strength but leaders weren’t necessarily the strongest. They certainly weren’t specialized, which the mission called for. If possible, the team wouldn’t be fighting at all. That didn’t give priority to the commanders whose strength lay in leading armies to take down hordes of monsters.

Along with Sir Polluck, the five-person team chosen for the expedition contained a scout from the Waking Beasts, a knight who spent more time researching monsters than fighting from Winter’s Bounty, a knight from the Bleak Moons who would be leading the mission, and a healer attached to the Paradise Seekers. A team that involved all groups in the north, so they could all feel they were doing something to protect their home. The kind of subtlety that always surprised Lancecain coming from the James estate.

The duke presented as a blunt weapon but he could be flexible when the moment demanded it. Or, at the very least, he could listen to a more flexible advisor. A noble didn’t take advice lightly but one of the duke’s bannermen had survived their long years of campaigns. He’d made the man his head servant and he was rumored to be a level-headed man. Someone who could think beyond tradition and reputation it seemed.

The rumors also included the facts as they knew them. The spring storms had come early. The cause was most likely a sudden rise in the north’s temperature. An artificial cause that had to be magic, whether a spell or something else. Wielded by someone or something that had yet to be identified. Far to the north, farther than any team had gone, as no one had spotted any sign of something that had to be quite noticeable to have such a profound effect.

The mission would be arduous. Five men were tasked to travel further than any army had ever gone before. A small team wouldn’t draw the attention of titans, but they would be more vulnerable to regular monsters, a very real, if not equivalent, danger. They didn’t know what they were looking for, but it was most likely a powerful enemy they would have to dispatch if they wanted to end the collapse of the north.

Marching through powerful storms, fighting countless monsters, slaying a great enemy. It was an impossible task. The start of a legend.

What should have been depressing news had the fort in a positive uproar. The people of the north had learned to thrive on challenges and had cultivated a heroic spirit for generations. Their only complaints were that they weren’t the ones saddled with what was almost guaranteed to be a death sentence.

The wheels of war continued to turn and the tension over the fort turned to excitement. There wasn’t much the orders could do to help the mission but there were plenty of things to take care of in the aftermath of the campaigns. Normally, that meant dismantling corpses, packing alchemical ingredients, and passing out coin. Along with preparing the list of casualties and preparing Last Rites for each army.

With the armies having left behind their heavy spoils, most of the usual processes weren’t necessary but that didn’t lessen the work. Processing the dead was an enormous task given the losses. A distinction also had to be made between the confirmed dead and the missing, something complicated since no corpses had been brought back. Memory couldn’t be trusted alone. Even the minds of knights used to losing comrades could be confused by too much death and too many days fearing for their lives in a storm.

The Rites for all the armies would be a massive undertaking. It wasn’t something that could be handled in a night. Closer to a week of nightly celebrations would be needed to properly honor their dead. Celebrations that would be bereft of their usual bluster with the north lacking supplies from the campaigns. The organizers would have their work cut out for them.

With a plan in motion, Lancecain let his concerns over the situation rest. There was nothing he could do so he turned his attention to his own responsibilities, meager as they were. As a knight of the Polar Duelists, he had obligations to the order. The head of the order assigned tasks based on the strengths of the members. For Lancecain, that meant assisting the trainees, as he got along well with the younger men. The rest of his responsibilities were to himself, cultivating his own strength.

By noon, the fort was buzzing with activity, purpose dispelling the dread of an omnipresent threat. By evening, the fort had come to a screeching halt. Thousands of gazes turned to the Bleak Peaks, including Lancecain, as the side of the mountain moved, accompanied by an echoing whuff. He watched in wide-eyed disbelief as centuries of snow and ice that had never moved slid down the steep slope in a wave that rapidly grew in size and speed.

For a moment.

Then he moved, running to his master’s house.