More than a hundred miles north of Caelid, a secluded valley flickered with the light of a thousand fires, the night wind carrying a constant, restless clamor. Across the gorge, hundreds of military tents sprawled like a dark stain on the earth.
Most were little more than rags—tattered burlap sacks stained with the grease of a dozen campaigns, stretched over dehydrated branches. These were the hovels of the Demi-humans and the Misbegotten. Occasionally, a towering Mountain Demon would lumber through the camp, clad in rusted plates and carrying machetes that looked like oversized butcher knives. To a noble of the capital, this was a den of filth; to those within it, it was an army of the desperate.
Strangely, the central command was an island of order in a sea of chaos. The tents there were asured and spaced, protected by visible sentries and hidden lookouts. In contrast, the outer 70% of the camp was a riot of noise—warriors roasting scavenged at over open flas, gulping cheap liquor from patched flasks, and descending into sudden, violent brawls.
High on a plateau overlooking the valley, an old Misbegotten stood. His hair and beard were a tangled gray, his face a map of deep-set wrinkles. Kruger, the High Priest, stroked his beard with trembling fingers, his cloudy eyes heavy with worry.
"High Priest, the wind is turning cold. You should be inside," a guard whispered from the shadows.
Kruger didn't move. He simply stared at the fires below until a heavy robe was thrown over his thin shoulders.
"Stop worrying about things you cannot change, Kruger," a voice bood behind him.
A tall, robust Demi-human stepped forward, helping the old priest straighten the cotton robe. Soreto, the General of the Northwind, was several sizes larger than his kin, possessing a strength that commanded imdiate silence. He waved the guards away. "Go. Eat. We bleed tomorrow; don't et the dawn on an empty stomach."
Once the guards vanished, Soreto plopped down on the dirt. "Why aren't you with the vanguard, Soreto?" Kruger asked.
"And watch them salivate?" Soreto rolled his eyes. "Caelid City is a piece of fat at dripping with oil, and our boys haven't eaten in a week. Even the Northwind warriors are losing their minds. The Rono boys? Their family lost everything to the hailstorms this spring. They're counting on this loot just to survive the winter."
"That is no excuse for a lack of discipline," Kruger snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "And I will not say it again: we are targeting Hectov's forces only. We do not set foot in the city."
Soreto's face darkened. "All for that scrap of paper with Clavell? Once Hectov is dead, the city is ours. What can a disgraced Perfur do to stop us?"
"You are being superficial!" Kruger glared at him. "Do you think I fear Clavell's power? I fear the shadow behind him. If we take Caelid, how long will the Golden Dynasty tolerate us? The Grand Lift of Dectus is two hundred miles away. They would only need fifty Rodel Knights to turn this valley into a graveyard."
Kruger leaned in, his voice a harsh whisper. "The Demi-humans would be poisoned and worked to death in the mines. The Misbegotten would be thrown into the arenas to die for the amusent of silk-clad nobles. And the Mountain Demons? They would be bound in anchor chains and golden armor, used as beasts of burden until their hearts burst. Is that the future you want?"
"And if we don't take it?" Soreto shouted back. "Can you guarantee Clavell will keep his word? That he'll send the dicine and the grain once he's Regent?"
"I can't," Kruger admitted, his eyes wide and haunted. "But what other choice do we have? If we sack the city and flee to the mountains, the Dynasty will hunt us until the last child is cold. We are already treading on the toes of the gods—an Ancient Dragon Prince just passed through those gates. To sack Caelid now would be to spit in the face of Leyndell. We wouldn't last a week."
Soreto stood up abruptly, unable to find an answer. "I'm going back to the front. If Turak returns, I'll send him to you." He turned and vanished into the dark without looking back.
Kruger watched him go, a deep, bone-deep weariness settling over him. He and Soreto had built the Northwind together, uniting the scattered tribes through blood and grit. But ambition was a rot, and it was spreading. Kruger knew his body was failing—years of hunger and war had seen to that. He needed this transition to work. He needed Soreto to learn to lead with his head, not his gut.
A cold gust of wind tore through the plateau. Kruger coughed, a wet, painful sound, and tightened his robe. He looked up at the sky, where the cold Full Moon stood in silent judgnt alongside the dark, distant Black Moon.
He did not pray to the Erdtree. The Golden Order had no place for his kind, and the Erdtree's Grace was a light that only blinded them.
"May the stars watch over us," he whispered into the dark. "For the sun certainly won't."
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