Captain Cicero stares at the advancing ice. It was a majestic sight but the veteran knew the implications of it reaching so close.

Never in history has the ice breached the Sentinel’s walls — it hasn’t even come close. Now the ice was nearing the walls of the fortress — and winter was two months away.

“It’s unnatural,” whispers Melchor. The old soldier approaches the ice, stooping low to touch its surface. “It isn’t even cold.”

Dark magic.

It was the only explanation the captain could think of.

Throughout history — or at least the ones he read in the Sentinel’s library — the Ice gave rise to monsters. With its dark power, it sustained orcs, trolls, undead, and even dragons. The Ice was no natural phenomenon. It was the work of powerful spellcasters or maybe even a god. Its only aim — the destruction of all sentient life it didn’t control.

Hordes of beasts would assault the fortress during long winters, venturing beyond the ice to hammer at their walls. None of them have succeeded — but now the ice was at their doorsteps, and the monsters would not need to venture far.

He understood the fear in his men’s hearts. The monsters of the Ice took no prisoners — not even for meat. Those who fall to their advance are consumed by the ice, only to rise as mindless — but driven — undead. The ice, so near their walls, meant their dead were all but guaranteed to rise as enemies.

The monsters were easy enough to kill — even trolls or dragons would fall to a well-aimed javelin fired from one of their ballistae. The undead were another thing. Their usual weapons were ineffective against the shambling abominations. Sword would not cut them, javelins would not pierce their flesh, and most magic would have little to no effect.

It took fire — and oddly, daggers — to destroy their unholy parody of life. Wizards believed it had something to do with sacrifice — furthering the belief that it was a god that drove the Ice.

“Call a rider.” Cicero orders. The captain locks his gaze on the horizon, expecting to see movement any time soon. “We need to send word to the capital.”

***

It took Siege a couple of days to get his hands on proper steel and enough mithril to forge a few weapons. Favors were called, threats were made, and gold passed hands.

It was all due to a strange dagger he saw at the Corner Shop™.

Sebas, the shopkeeper, dismissed it as a paltry toy — but the dwarf knew better. That dagger was at par with weapons of legend, or at least its enchantment was. The dagger’s blade barely had an edge, as if made by the most inept of smiths — but it had a hunger, a need to kill. It was a true weapon of the battlefield.

The shopkeeper’s demonstrations all but confirmed the dwarf’s inkling. The dagger flew out of his trained hand as he attempted a strike at the wall, hitting Sebas at the center of his chest. Had it been a proper smith who made the blade, it would have been a fatal blow.

The dwarf promised the shopkeeper a few swords of dwarven make, in return for a sword with a similar enchantment. While he was more soldier than craftsman, Siege could certainly make a passable sword to dwarven standards.

Mithril to line the edge and proper steel for the rest. No dwarf would use pure mithril for a weapon. It was a waste of the metal — and pure mithril weapons tended to be light. He knew of pure mithril spearheads and daggers, but no swords or axes. Most weapons needed weight to cut or pierce — especially against armored opponents. Mithril weapons lacked the heft of a proper sword or axe, but using mithril and steel together eliminated the problem.

He had a few pounds of steel and mithril in his pack — enough for two or three swords. Metal on hand, the dwarf feels the call of the forge. He would meet with his party first before taking the trip to meet Sebas — either tomorrow or the day after.

***

“They live!” Jeremy roars in glee seeing his complex creations moving about in the garden.

Clad in leather armor and ornate helms, the skeletons astral golems could easily pass for humans. That is, until someone takes a closer look. For behind their helms are blue featureless faces.

Sebas suggested the color change. He reasoned it would make them look like proper automatons and the color seemed apt since they were obtained from the Astral Sea. Jeremy approved the suggestion, thinking blue subordinates were certainly rare.

Perhaps in the future, they would make golems with human features. The first batch didn’t need such detailing — especially since they would be serving as test subjects and improved upon with time.

The shambling golems go through several motions dictated by the wizard. Sebas takes note on the side, scribbling potential problems and improvements for future golems.

Jeremy takes out his scythe from the house and uses it to demonstrate how to cut grass. The golems easily understand the basic directions, with all of the mimicking the motions to perfection.

Now all I need to do is teach them how to farm, mine, and maybe make more golems.

The wizard beams at the thought of his tireless workforce. They could venture into the more dangerous parts of a cave, unheeding of the dangers involved. Jeremy knows they could survive the poisonous air that sometimes fills certain caves, but he wonders if they could claw their way out of a collapsed shaft — he should probably teach them how to do so.

He notices the stares of a group of children — the farmhands sent to harvest his dandelion roots a few days back.

They’ve started coming over more often to his and Sebas’ confusion. He remembers Shelby telling him about teaching the kids about earth magic and her concern over their use of tainted mana.

Shelby’s worries prompted him to infuse infernal mana on a few pieces of godstone. Now the boys had stone necklaces aside from the gems that Shelby gave them.

Wait, gems?

If only he knew his beloved mount had those gems with her, he could have made better use of them.

Probably not.

Seeing the kids happily attending to Shelby brings joy to the wizard’s heart. The gems were Shelby’s to give, and using them to further his plans felt like cheating.

He would rise on his own abilities. If he could forgo the help of his adopted family, what more the help of his snail?

The blasted farmhands aren’t even using the stones I gave them.

He stares at them intently, trying to trace the path the mana was taking — only to find out a surprising detail.

The kids aren’t using mana.

He sees the earth changing to suit the kids’ whims — shaping itself with no trace of mana.

His observation makes him ponder. He knew the Ice sustained monsters through unknown means — is this the earth doing the same thing for the group of farmhands?

He plans on having a long discussion with Shelby regarding the kids — as well as the three snails he often sees gliding about.

***

Joric felt the weight of his new position. The previous head of the spies tasked with observing the Scourge died a horrible death — for his failure in confronting the Scourge’s snail guardian.

He was vocal on destroying the beast — they had the numbers, and they were given the option of just eliminating the wizard.

Lendris, the previous head, was just too cautious. His face after his confrontation with the snail told a tale of cowardice and indecision.

It was good that Lendris died. Now, the Serpent’s spies had a proper leader in him. He would deal with the pretentious wizard properly — but an attack at his home might not be the best way to go about their task.

It was better to draw the Scourge to them, or perhaps have the city deal with him on their behalf.

Oh, he had such plans for the wizard.

“Assemble the men,” he barks at a subordinate. “It’s time to deal with this so-called scourge.”

The man bows before leaving.

Soon, Joric hears the sound of a dozen footsteps — his men have arrived.

He stares at his men, seeing their looks of doubt and hesitance.

“I know some of you have had encounters with the snail.”

His words draw a few sighs — with some of the men drooping their head in shame, while some freeze in remembered fear.

“We will stop our investigation of the wizard’s shop,” Joric assures them.

Through his contacts, he found out that they were not the only ones investigating the scourge. If the city’s men and the mercenaries hired by the guilds couldn’t discover anything noteworthy — it was unlikely that they would.

“We will draw the Scourge to us —”

“Through his loved ones or companions,” prompts a voice in the crowd, “perhaps the butler, Sebas.”

Joric seethes at the interruption. Sebas was a good option, but there were other forces gunning for the butler.

“Nothing so obvious,” he hisses, the venom in his voice apparent to everyone in the room. “We will wait until the Scourge heads to the city —“

“And then dispatch him on the read,” offers the same voice.

“I swear,” Joric seethes. “another word from you and you will wish Malice was the one you irked.”

The room goes silent, the silent voice beaten to submission with the threat of violence — or worse.

“As I was saying,” he continues. “We will wait for the Scourge to head to the city, then we will burn the city with hellfire.