Argrave awoke with a song inexplicably stuck in his head. Midday sunlight poked at his eyelids, forcing him to turn. The action woke him further and he sat up. He conjured simple water magic, cleaned his hands diligently, and then rubbed his eyes. The cold wetness brought him from the dreamworld. He blinked his eyes a few times, and then slid off the bed.

“Ooh there ain’t nothing you can do; I got, I got my eye on you,” Argrave sang the chorus quietly, humming the words he forgot to the rest of the song. He went to his luggage and retrieved a pair of gloves, slipping them on. His sickness felt mostly gone. He still felt a bit weak, but then he always felt weak.

Argrave channeled half of his magic into Blessing of Supersession. The magic debt he’d accrued in the fight at the druid’s camp would probably not be alleviated before the invasion occurred. It made him uneasy. That said, one’s magic pool was like a muscle. In order to train it, it needed to be exhausted. The more he drained his magic, the more he would be able to hold. It was the closest thing to ‘training’ Argrave could perform. One push-up would probably break his wrists.

Argrave cleaned his teeth with a cloth and some water, and after washed his hair in the washbasin. He combed his hair back neatly. It was getting long—it fell a little past his ears. Argrave’s chin was still smooth, though—he was too young to be growing even peach fuzz, it seemed. Argrave frowned. Come to think of it, I’m not sure how old I really am. I certainly look fully grown, judging by height alone…

The thought passed, and Argrave reprimanded himself for worrying so much about his appearance. Should probably go meet Nikoletta, talk to her father as she wanted… He straightened his clothes and made for the door, still singing.

“Some girl, old flame, jumps the stage cursin’ her name… tells her just where she oughta go…” Argrave pulled the double doors back. A maid standing in front jumped back. She’d clearly had her ear to the door.

“F-forgive me, lord. I was just instructed…”

“You’re forgiven. I know, I’m a saint. Anyway…” Argrave waited for her to speak.

“The Duke is looking for you, sir,” the maid curtsied quickly. “I hadn’t intended to… I was merely checking if the lord was awake.”

Argrave put his hand to his chest. “And instead, you were enraptured by my soothing serenade. I understand completely.” Argrave smiled genially, and the maid’s tense shoulders dropped. “Well, where is the Duke, then? I have never actually spoken to him before. This will be a new experience.”

“He is in his study with the young lady Monticci. I can guide you there, if you wish…?” she began to ask.

Argrave held his hand out to stop her. “I know where his study is. I am sure you must be busy with other things. Do not let me keep you. Have a pleasant day.” He bowed and then walked past her in long strides, humming the tune now that he was no longer in private.

The extent of what Argrave knew about Duke Enrico is what was written. Without fail, he died in the beginning of the game to the snow elves. The player could find his corpse, and some of his stats existed in the game files, but his personality was mostly unknown to the player beyond what Nikoletta said about him while playing as her. The bulk of it could be summarized as ‘pragmatic.’ He was also a widower; his wife died giving birth to Nikoletta.

“Had no idea you were such a flirt.”

Argrave jumped at the voice, turning around to where it came from. Mina materialized, starting with her short yellow hair. Another illusion spell.

“Hah! We’re 1-2 now,” Mina taunted, pointing at him. Argrave was confused for a second, but he remembered that he’d found Mina twice while she was hiding invisible.

After Argrave straightened his cuffs and regained his composure, a rhyme came to his head. “Who keeps score? You’re such a bore.”

Mina ignored him, her eyes veritably glinting. “Should have heard yourself. ‘My soothing serenade,’ all smiles and bows…”

“You think that’s flirting?” Argrave asked incredulously.

“What else would it be?”

“General propriety,” Argrave countered, walking down the hall again. “Gregariousness.”

“Sure,” Mina agreed sarcastically. “You’re real polite. You never make fun of people to their face.”

“I hear the dripping jealousy. ‘Argrave, how dare you use honeyed words to a woman besides me?’” Argrave mocked.

“Y-you’re ridiculous. I had no idea you were this shameless,” Mina refuted, sputtering. “Well, if you’re in these high spirits, I can assume you’re feeling better?”

“Changing the subject, I see,” Argrave answered without committing.

“I don’t like…” Mina trailed off. “Never mind. Pointless to argue with someone like you.”

“I know you don’t like me. Not romantically, at least.” Argrave said. Mina nodded in satisfaction now that he confirmed it. “Instead, you much prefer Nikoletta, don’t you?” Argrave brought up a fact he knew from the game, seeking petty revenge for being frightened.

Mina went white as a sheet, and she anxiously said, “That’s not… what are you… Nicky’s…”

“No need to get flustered,” Argrave assured, enjoying this very much. “Romance is a natural part of life. Though, one wonders why you’ve left your affections unvoiced.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mina answered, regaining her composure quickly. She was good at acting, as ever.

“Sure, sure,” Argrave nodded. “Keep quiet, subdued, when an invasion is coming at any time. Leave that burning question unanswered. Very prudent. Brave.”

“Nicky’s also a woman,” Mina bit back, his jabs inciting a reaction precisely because they were the truth.

“That’s no reason. The heart wants what the heart wants.” Argrave stopped in the hall and turned to Mina now that their conversation interested him. “Believe me, I know.”

“Then you…?” Mina looked at him with wide eyes.

“Me? No. But my best friend since childhood swings that way. He ended up fairly happy in life,” Argrave smiled as he recalled things.

Mina seemed hesitant to speak further, but she eventually asked, “What happened to him?”

“Henry? He…” Argrave trailed off as his mind went back to the life he left behind. “He died. An accident,” the lie came smoothly. In truth, it was Argrave who had died and come to this hellish place. “But…” Argrave tried to dispel his errant thoughts, shaking his head. “He and his partner were happy. They died together, at least.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Mina quickly said.

“As am I,” Argrave agreed. “Anyway, I should be off. The young lady Monticci and the old gentleman Monticci await me. It’s sure to be a blast.” Argrave turned to leave, then stopped himself.

He pointed at Mina. “I want you to think of what I said. Remember this; the worst that can happen is that she says no. She probably won’t, though. I know these things. Trust me. Have I ever been wrong before? Think long and hard.”

“You keep…!” Mina started, but she deflated quickly. Argrave turned and waved as he walked away.

#####

The winds of the north roared fiercely as they travelled across the icy landscape. The fierce tempest carried snow enough to conceal distant mountains and vast forests. A great wall stood tall against it all. It was made of ice that had been carved out by hand. The wall was near a hundred feet tall, and no snow passed above it, instead blanketing the icy peak just above that shielded the city like an umbrella. The city beyond lay untouched.

The buildings were simple and long, made of stone and held by pillars of the same material. Carvings stretched across most of the city, making it appear more like a ruin than an inhabited place. The people walking about were tall and formidable. Their skin was as pale as the snow outside the city’s walls and their ears came to sharp points. They wore dense fur clothes, and many walked about with a bow or an axe.

Opposite the ice wall was a sheer gray wall carved from stone. A great structure jutted out of the front of it, overlooking the city. It was a formidable keep, gray smoke rising from the black fires atop the towers. The tusked skull of a gigantic creature hung from the keep, its empty sockets forever staring menacingly at the wall of ice. At the foot of the stone wall, a large passageway led to a spiral staircase winding up into the keep.

The keep was filled with Veidimen. Barring the lightly armored spellcasters, the bulk of them were warriors. Their armor was plate, but it was all covered in dense fur to ward from the penetrating cold. In the heart of the keep, the throne room, a great assemblage of fierce-looking snow elves had gathered, each sitting at one long rectangular table that stretched to the end of the room. Each of the people sitting had a few behind them, stance polite as though waiting to serve. They seemed to be men and women in equal numbers.

At the throne, a short yet fiercely scarred man sat casually. His head was cleanly-shaven, but a crown of iron, fangs, and claws all arrayed with points upwards decorated his forehead. He kept his eyes fixed at the foot of the stairs. There, a badly burn-scarred Veidimen was supported by a few snow elves. Though the burns had been treated, most of his body was badly affected. His pale white skin served as a harsh contrast to the red and black scars.

“It was Galamon ‘the Great?” the man on the throne asked. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, Patriarch.” the burned elf answered hoarsely.

Patriarch Dras shifted on his throne, obviously discomfited by the news. “How could you tell when the attack was so sudden and swift?”

The burned elf swallowed, and then took a deep, wheezing breath. “We had confirmed Galamon’s presence….” The elf paused for another wheezing breath. “…in Mateth many months ago, my Patriarch. I had seen him at times, while using the pigeons…. to scout. The appearance was identical.”

The Patriarch leaned back in his throne. All of the snow elves arrayed kept quiet, waiting for their leader to inquire further. “If he opposes the invasion… Galamon would know more about our military than anyone save me. Since he’s behind the attack, it’s safe to assume that most of our military secrets will be leaked.”

“That’s assuming the humans will even accept his aid. They are wary of us Veidimen. Even possessing the scout’s reports, he will not be able to reach anyone,” one of the people at the table spoke.

“He was with a man,” another commented. “If he’s enlisted aid in this battle of his, he can likely use them.”

“But Galamon, even after being exiled, still follows the teachings of Veid,” Patriarch Dras said, voice low and frustrated. “He may as well be my brother. He firmly believes in Veiden, even if Veid has stricken him with the Curse of Bloodthirst. Something is off.”

“Maybe he is not the leader in this scenario,” a woman’s voice said. She was quickly interrupted.

“Be quiet, Anneliese!”

Everyone’s heads turned to two near the end of the table. An aged elven woman sat at the table, wearing mage’s robes. Another woman stood behind her, tall and skinny, with silken white hair descending down to her knees. Her amber eyes stared ahead, unshaken.

“My apologies,” the old mage sitting said. “I brought her here to learn. She forgot her place, Patriarch Dras.”

The Patriarch scratched his chin. “We are all children of Veid. Let her speak,” he dismissed, waving his hand.

Anneliese turned her head forward and opened her mouth, before pausing to gather her composure. “…if Galamon did not lead the attack, and was instead under contract of a human, his actions would make sense. Galamon would never break a contract, no matter the enemy.”

“But the battle was said to be quick and decisive,” someone quickly refuted. “Two took on twenty druids, including Tirros. From what was reported, the mage could not have been especially high rank, either. If Galamon was not leading, such a result would be… unlikely.”

Anneliese turned her amber eyes to the one who had spoken. “Patriarch Dras led our tribe of Veiden, yet Galamon devised all of the strategies that led to victory in war.”

Some people were taken aback by the comment which implied Dras owed his Patriarchate to Galamon. Many heads turned to wait for the Patriarch’s response. He had his mouth hidden by a hand. Eventually, he lowered it. He was smiling.

“True. The strategist need not be the leader,” Dras said calmly. “My own past has shielded my questioning, though. Getting lost in conjecture does Veiden no good. The simple fact is this; we are to head to Berendar. Any chance we had to wait for a good time to assault has been lost, and they will prepare for our coming.”

The Patriarch stood and walked to the top of the stairs.

“For unending centuries, the Veidimen have endured the frigid winds of the north!” he shouted. “We were born in the fires of Veid’s creation, and over the passage of time, the cold has tempered our rough iron will into a fierce warrior’s steel.” He paused, stepping about. “Now, we must come from our sheathes and unleash ourselves upon the world! It is time for us to embark from the shores and make ourselves known as the tool of Veid’s will!”

The room erupted into cheering. Axes were raised into the air in fervor. The Patriarch continued his speech, and it echoed throughout the great keep. Though the words spoke of war and battle, none seemed tense. Instead, nearly all had expressions of anticipation, like the time had finally come to fulfill their life’s dream.