Lord Commander Aargon Narage wakes in a cold sweat. He sits up from his bed and examines the darkness around him. Nothing stirs, save for the faint tapping of something knocking against his window. He listens to the sound, knowing already who – or what – is causing it.

He gets out of bed and goes over to the heavy curtains by the windows, yanking them open swiftly.

The North Gate is ablaze. Red and orange shimmers make patchworks in the night sky, and when Aargon pushes the windows open the smell of fire purges through the air. Plumes of smoke rise up into the stars, joining with the clouds. It seems a whole section of the northern sector is burning.

Cathra.

The thought both enrages Aargon and worries him, but another bout of sharp knocking pulls his attention. He tugs the rest of the drapes open to reveal a crow perched outside on the sill.

At first, Aargon does not even see the crow. It is so small it can be easily mistaken for a raven’s chick, and is scarcely more than a snack compared to the hawks used by the Guild. Yet, there is something alarmingly intelligent behind the bird’s black eyes. As Aargon studies it through the glass panes, he is hit with the disconcerting sense that the crow is watching him too.

Aargon opens the window wider, letting the crow in. Moonlight bounces off the bird’s sleek feathers, coloring them in shades of the night. The crow’s black eyes glisten as it surveys the sparsely decorated chambers, almost as if looking for something. Then, when it seems to be satisfied, the crow turns sideways to display the black canister tied to its claw, flaps its wings sharply, and begins to groom itself.

With one careful finger, Aargon pops open the bottom of the canister, catching the roll of paper in his palm.

Two words, hand-printed with the utmost care; the message reads simply,

'Mischief done.'

Aargon turns to the crow. “The payment has already been placed in the agreed spot,” he says, then adds, “I know you do not do this kind of work often. You have my thanks.”

It may be a trick of the light, but Aargon thinks he sees something change in the crow’s eyes as if a screen has shifted behind those glassy fronts. But before he can be sure, the crow is flapping away into the night just as a knock sounds on his door.

He shakes away the discomfort of the previous encounter and turns his attention to the new visitor.

“Enter.”

A young knight stumbles in. “Lord Commander,” he pants. “Fire in the northern sector.”

Aargon closes the window, shutting away the smell of burning timber. “I trust Sir Gregor has been informed.”

“Yes,” the knight answers. “He’s already sent men.”

Aargon nods his approval. Better for the old knight to send one of his assistants than hobble down there himself. “I want a full report by the morning. If the situation worsens, wake me again.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” The knight salutes, but doesn’t leave. “There’s something else, too, sir.”

“Speak,” Aargon commands, and waits while the knight shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

“Cap- I mean Cathra Stelias has been found at the scene, along with Gate Knight Kyros Argonston.”

Aargon frowns. “You are certain of this.”

“Yes, milord.”

Cathra and Kyros, together in the burning northern sector. It can only mean one thing.

“Send her to me at once.” Aargon strides over to his armor set by the door. Then he pauses suddenly and turns to the knight. “Is either of them hurt?”

The knight looks alarmed by Aargon’s haste. “I-I do not know, milord. I was not told.”

“Then find out,” Aargon tells the knight. “And order them to see me in the sovereign hall after sunrise.” He waves a hand. “Now leave me. I wish not to be disturbed unless the fire cannot be controlled.”

The knight salutes once more and hurries away. After he leaves, Aargon goes back to the fire outside his windows. From his vantage point, he can see clearly each of the city’s four walls, lit up with torches like an ending snake of fire. Only tonight, one section burns considerably brighter than the other three.

Aargon watches the glow from the unseen flames illuminate the pythons of the North Gate. He sees the other three protectors too; the griffons of the south, the eagles of the west, and the lions of the east. Each pair of guardians stand strong in the dark, their steel iron gates protecting Kesrock’s citizens from the dangers lurking beyond her walls.

Sleep will likely be impossible tonight, Aargon decides, and heads out the door of his chambers.

The coldness of the study room slaps against Aargon’s bare chest with icy hands. Devoid of light from the day, the underground sections of the headquarters are always freezing, even in summer. And the tiny library room in which Aargon has made his study is no exception. Recently, Aargon has found himself visiting this place more and more. At first, it was because of how cold it is. Now, it is to think.

The candle flickers as Aargon sets it down on the table farthest from the doors. Here, surrounded by bookshelves on either side, anyone who enters will have to travel the length of the study to find him, and see what he is doing.

From the topmost shelf, Aargon picks out a heavy book of maps. He flips through to the page he’s marked and Gandolia spreads out before him.

Except this Gandolia is different from the maps in his war room and on the walls of every captain’s chambers. This Gandolia is old, inked by hand by the very first discovers of the realm. Here, no cities or towns are written down, and many rivers and lakes are in places they no longer are. Aargon prefers this map for his thoughts, for if the secrets of the kingdom really do go as far back as he suspects, then a map like this may offer the clearest views into them.

Picking up a thin charcoal stick, Aargon marks a black ‘X’ at the place where Kesrock City is. The map shows nothing but a vast uninhabited land, but Aargon has long since memorized modern Gandolia and all its landmarks.

Under the ‘X’, he writes the date and the words ‘Cathra’s princess.’

“The third,” he says to himself. Then following with a finger, he finds another ‘X’ already drawn. It is further south, where Oakroot village is, and has the words ‘Healer’s Wife’ under it.

“The second.”

Then following that, his finger reaches one more. “The first.” This one has only the word ‘boy’, to describe it.

Using his charcoal, Aargon draws a straight line through all three crosses.

It’s as if they are all drawn towards the same direction. North.

He inspects the map, looking for clues in the mountain structures or rivers that once were.

“How many of you are there?”

He stands, but even from a higher vantage point, the map looks no different than before.

“And who are you?”

Aargon stares at the map for a while longer, but nothing comes to him. No epiphanies or breakthroughs. Sighing, he sits back down and flips through the book to a page near the back.

Stuck between two pages is a single piece of folded parchment. He unfolds it, revealing a hand-drawn picture of the target of his second reported sighting.

The Healer's Wife.

Staring at the beautiful face of this woman who Aargon never knew the name of, he can almost hear her melodic voice echoing through the empty halls outside.

“Love doesn’t have to wait for opportunities,” was one of the last things she told him. And how right. Only that her opportunities were all taken away from her, by something powerful enough to cut down entire sections of the Whispering Woods in its attacks.

“Who in Nranhana’s name are you?” Aargon asks, but the only reply is an empty ringing from the cold stone of the room. Aargon touches a finger to the woman’s cheek, denting the parchment but still unable to grasp any of her details.

Aargon had a painter draw her how he remembered, but even then he knew he was missing too much. Her eyes were blue, he knew, but couldn’t come up with the words to describe how they haunted him with their hunger for life. He remembered how she liked to laugh, but couldn’t recall how it sounded or why it made so many of his soldiers stare.

In the end, the picture he got was a shadow.

But shadows are enough for Aargon.

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he whispers to the Healer’s Wife. “But I have orders I must follow. Orders that will protect this realm, and my niece.”

Orders I do not understand, and cannot imagine how they will keep the realm or Cathra safe.

Aargon folds the picture back up and tucks it neatly between the folds of the book, then rises to go.

Back in his chambers, Aargon watches the rest of the northern fires get put out. With a guild situated right within Kesrock’s walls, any such disasters are short work for any mages or grunts the guild can spare. Aargon pushes open the windows to let in the wind. It comes like a lumbering creature, rustling the curtains and tossing his bedsheets to the ground into a heap on the floor. This time, the scent of fire is overpowered by the metallic smell of blood.

It comes from the north. Aargon looks out into the distance, at the shapes in the night sky. There, inside red-stained snow is Maria’s Battlefront, where Gandolia has been sending her scum and villains for the past century.

And it is there Aargon must send his only niece.

“Forgive me, Valdak,” Aargon whispers to the quiet and the cold, “brother of my blood. Forgive me, for I can no longer keep your daughter safe within these walls. But I fear that even the four twin beasts of the goddesses will not protect us from what is to come.”

Aargon turns his gaze to the sky, at the round moon looming above the world like a silent guardian, and says a silent prayer.

He prays for the safety of his city, the realm, and of Cathra, the heir to the empty throne within the snow.