Lyse carefully sheathed his sword. He had not fully recovered from the battle yesterday, and he doubts he can take on ten more golems with a hyperborean who actually managed to get the drop on him. But he got the feeling he did not need to be afraid. The fact that this Frostlander actually stopped to talk to him tells Lyse a few things. They are not hostile to him, or likely the Empire for that matter. The fact they are hiding means that he is merely a protector. And the expression he wore tells him that he is wary of him but confident that if Lyse decided to show aggression, he could deal with him. But at the same time, that wariness was stillborn from fear. Lyse may not be alone; he may be waiting for reinforcements. Or he alone may be enough to break whatever facade they are hiding within.

"Speak warmblood," the Frostlander said in his broken rekeg speech.

"As I said, I am a knight of the empire," he said. "I did not mean to disturb you, and I mean no harm," he said defensively.

"You say this," the Hyperborean gestured with his staff. "Yet you offer titles. Do you wish to placate me with the thought that you can single-handedly wipe out my village?"

"No, no," Lyse said. "I . . . I wish to speak with you."

"I have no wish to speak with you," The Frostlander said in warning. He turned back to the village, but the golems still looked upon him as if waiting to crush him without thought. Lyse had to think fast. Why was he here? That thing, that wisp of fire that seemed alive and not, leads him here for a reason. And he happens to run into a Frostlander at this time. But where does he goes from here? The Frostlander approached the veil he had created. With a wave of his hand, Lyse could see a shimmering green aura spread through the illusion. The faint traces of trees and shrubs, the artificial darkness, seemed to strengthen and once more become tangible. The FRostlander, sighing raggedly, turned to him briefly before adding into the illusion. But before he was too far in, Lyse spoke hurriedly.

"I killed a Frostlander yesterday, sir," he spoke quickly but softly. He felt suddenly ashamed. It was strange; he was celebrated for the action all up until now. But to admit to this atrocity before one of their own was a surprisingly easy yet shameful experience. So, as taught to him, whenever he must condone a wrong action, he prostrates himself in the snow, both hands before him in a non-aggressive action. This is not something to be taken lightly by anyone. A knight must only bow to their king. Not been the paladins can be treated to such an expression of sincere devotion. And this gesture can be recognized by any creed. And as Lyse lifted his face, he saw the surprised expression of the Hyperborean looking down at him, halfway through his illusion. His weathered fellow eyes, seemingly seeing something alien, far more confusing in Lyse than he had seen before. Then he narrowed them and then looked away as if he just had his own shameful experience play out in his mind.

"We were in the midst of battle," Lyse said. "A force of Frostlanders who hailed from Re'Este threatened to attack that day, and we acted quickly. Many men died on those soggy banks, and I had to kill a hyperborean to save my brother."

"Why do you tell me this," his croaking voice had grown low and cold.

"Because I felt guilt and shame for my action," Lyse said. "Till these days, I have thought your people merely an obstacle, people just as evil as the creatures I have struggled against till now, horrors you will not believe if I described them. And I understand this assessment to be unfair. I do not think of what I had done as wrong, for it was to save the life of my brother. I ask not your forgiveness but your understanding. Please, here my questions. And I may offer to carry out any request you offer."

The Hyperborean's eyes once more widened, though it was covered in a stern expression once more. He considered this proposition laid before him as if a master gambler. But he seemed all the more troubled.

"You say that this army you faced was from Re'Este, correct young man?" he asked finally.

Lyse nodded.

He sighed, looking up at the sky with a bitterness that seemed far-reaching. "Re'Este was once a small conglomerate of three smaller Volkf . . . kingdoms-really small kingdoms. Among our people, we have what we call the Dretvar, who is one with the winter. They arrive once every solstice and blesses those of us who share their blood with power and long life."

He looked down at Lyse, trying to gauge his response. Lyse has never heard of such a legend, nothing of the sort in fact. In fairness, until recently, the Frostlandian people have been an enigma, thought to be primitive people with a high affinity for magic, like Torlak. But only in the past hundred years have the clans been prompted to learn more about their culture and ways of life, to tear them down better. But these Dretvar, he has never heard of them before. They sound much like gods to him, but he knew this could not be the case. Maybe they come from the outer planes or dimensions; maybe they were elementals. Whatever the case, Lyse had a bad feeling when the Frostlander looked at him. The look, in fact, seemed accusatory. And if these Dretvar are somehow related to the Hyperborean, they must have a very, very sacred station in this culture.

"What happened?" he asked. "I am unfamiliar with this."

The Frostlander looked back to the sky. "They met in the center of Re'Este, the city of frozen groves. There, we who carry their blood met to receive our gifts. I remember it that day. The winds were not as blessed as before, and the sun more bearing upon that day. The leaders of Re'Este have grown far more reclusive from the others, and word had spread that they were planning on taking more land from smaller volkf. But then, they appeared. Always three before. Always three. But now, only two had come. And never before had they spoke. Never have they instructed us when we received gifts. But this day was different. They spoke within us, tells us that those who revel in the sun's rays have stolen from them one of their kind, and we must retrieve them. That they must covet what was lost and restore order. Their words, so brief and so confusing. But I knew that day that it would mark a new era for the Frostlands. Our people had been divided unlike ever before. Some interpreted their words to mean some group, some antithesis to our own people have stolen something from them, and we must find and destroy them to retrieve it. But others, those who had allegiance to Re'Este especially, proposed that this enemy was you. The warmbloods who inhabit the lands south of us."

Lyse thought deeply, taking in all his words, what they mean, and why he speaks them. "This divide still exists."

"We did not create this barrier for you," the Hyperborean said. "But to protect us from our own. Kingdoms like Re'Este have grown more common, while smaller Volkf have grown scarcer and increasingly harassed. They take our strongest men to wage war with you, take food.

And sometimes, take life from those undevoted."

"Why not ask them of their meaning then?" Lyse asked them. "The Dretvar, I mean. Why not ask for their true meaning."

That bitterness in his eyes came back, and now Lyse understood what exactly it aimed at. "Because they have not returned in the last hundred years. My years tell this well. They gave the last of their power to a select few and then left us."

"Why?" Lyse asked.

"There is no use questioning," he said. "We have asked these questions for countless years. Those who wish for this crusade reconcile this with a further need to retrieve this relic, this relic merely being the entire world south. And then, they will return to grant us our elongated life and our power."

"So you wish not to go to war with us?" Lyse asked him.

"No, I do not," he said softly. "I have spent my years protecting my home: all my effort, every last moment to keep ourselves separate from the harms that roam near us. We are in the luxury that our Volkf is small, but all it takes is one to reveal us. You wish to answer questions for you, warm blood. Then I do indeed have a request."

"Are you sure?" Lyse stood. "Are you sure, sir?"

"The true question is, are you?" he shook his head. "I wish for my people to be safe. I want your word that you will do all in your power . . . no, in your nations power to do just that. We wish for sanctity in the protection of the clans from our brothers till things can be resolved."

Lyse considered this gravely. To swear to such a thing is simply outside of his power. He was a mere knight. Even if he has some small thread of connection to the king, he is far from influencing at all in the tumultuous and strict upper class of their country. He was a nameless sword who disappeared from his duties soon after achieving title. What argument could he make to protect one small little village out in the middle of the Frostlands? Could such a thing even be achieved? The eyes of the Frostlander, still intent and clutching his staff, examined his hesitation with a determined wariness. He loses nothing in this exchange, in his eyes. These frozen days will not change. The burdens he has endured will only continue, and he will do what he must until his inevitable end. But beyond this wall of hard stone that this Hyperborean sat upon, Lys saw some small sliver of hope for a different outcome.

"I will do my best so that this is done," he promised. "This is a promise."

"No," the Hyperborean lowered his gaze. "You will not try your best. It is not your effort that I am concerned for. I wish for your kingdom. Your empire to agree to these terms. Otherwise, this deal ends here, and you must die here, knowing the secrets of our people."

"I am not compassionless, nor a fool," Lyse balled his fists in frustration, finally giving in to need and desperation. "Very well. I shall call upon my people to bond my words to you. Is that adequate Borean, or must I call upon higher forces?"

He waved his hand, satisfaction in his expression as he then gestured to the golems that surrounded them. Each one of them crumbled into their respective elements, falling into the ground surrounding them and become mere piles of snow and rock mildly out of place from the scenery. Lyse was a bit amazed. Trust in words seemed to be something held sacred amongst these people. Lyse must handle this carefully, otherwise face a terrible consequence.

"Before we begin," he said. "I will grant you an honor none of your kind has been privileged to," he said. "The name of a 'hyperborean' is a sacred thing, only to be given to those who have earned deep respect."

"Really?" Lyse asked. "I met one who called himself Vetrajt and his temple of Ignor, I believe?"

The man flinched at those names, but he seemed merely curious of what Lyse had said. "That name is a name of war. Only those who take the blade into battle are given such a name. That temple is likened to a school and a Volkf. My own name, however, bestowed upon me when I was conceived in the mountains is Terävä. That is the name you shall address me as."

"All right. . . Terävä," Even Lyse was embarrassed in his own pronunciation, and the Hyperborean seemed to take more offense to it than Lyse invading his home. "So, I have a few things to ask of you; then I will make sure to leave your peoples undisturbed."

He nodded.

Lyse took a deep breath. "There is a city. A ruin of sorts of a city northeast of here. I do not know its name, but . . . "

"I know of the city you speak of," he said, looking in that direction as if he could see it all the way from here. His sight once more grew distant. "Strange creatures and happenings are said to come from there. Beasts of metal and fire. No effort has been to covet that city, as it is seen as an evil thing of nature."

"Can you tell me more?" Lyse asked. Creatures of metal? Does that allude to the fact Nemean lions live this far north? That's impossible, as far as he is aware. The metal lions of the plains have little tolerance for the cold, even hibernating till the colder season ends. Those who are exposed to the elements too long even die from the cold. These metal creatures must be something else entirely then. Some defense or machinations strung by the gods themselves to protect whatever relic remains in dormancy."What kind of creatures exactly. And what is the path to get there like?"

"They appear of animals who roam these lands, but with twisted forms that require metal and heat. They melt the snow where they walk. They have ben benign to some, but those who get too close to the city's center will be charred before they know it."

"And the path?"

"If you are coming from Mer'Dith," he made a snaking motion with his hands. "The path you take will lead to the jégfogak . . . Ice fangs in your tongue."

"Ice fangs," he repeated. "Is it dangerous?"

"Very few people travel there," he said nearly silently. He grabbed his staff with both hands in a gesture similar to when he first approached Lyse. "It is known to be a birthplace for Dragons that live within the ice and glaciers. Though none have lived there in two hundred years, you must be careful, for their wrath is mighty."

"All of these dangers," Lyse said to himself. Though, he'd be remiss to say that he was unprepared. He wouldn't have brought himself here if he was at all in conflicts with their goals. He is afraid. He is uncertain of the path that he leads others now. But he must look beyond such things, push them to the periphery of his objectives because they will only get him killed. Hesitation gets people killed. It's not a choice to be prepared or not. Not to him. As long as he can plan ahead, as long as he can trust this keen mind he wields. A dragon, the notion was becoming more and more of a mundane venture for him.

He smiled, more to reassure himself than any outward affection. He bowed his head once more to Terävä, who nodded back in mimicry. "I thank you for your warning. May the land treat you well."

Terävä seemed a bit confused by his blessings but took it as it was. A farewell. He watched as the young warm-blooded man bounded off into the darkness. And he let loose the tension in his body. He did not know what to expect seeing a knight so close to his home. His first instinct was to immediately kill the boy, as he usually treats many others who attempt to invade his home in the past. But it has been a many years since last he last encountered a knight. And the last encounter he was treated to nearly reinforced his judgments. But when he saw this boy, this Lyse fellow, something on his face, innocent curiosity, and awareness caught his own interests. He was guided not by search nor seeking of reward. It was that, and only that, which spared Lyse. The Hyperborean sighed, looking back at his home, not too far beyond this magical veil he conjures. He questions whether or not this Lyse fellow will make good of his promise. In honesty, he did not expect the boy to take it at all seriously. But he was earnest, and perhaps that is what surprised him the most.

He walked back into the village and to the small cot that he has spent his nights countless times over. The breeze of the familiar cold winter nights was nicely harsh and pelted his bare skin with rejuvenating flecks of ice and snow. The town still slumbers, and none know of what had transpired. The town will go on as if nothing had happened the previous night. And that was the only outcome he could wish for. He closed the door to the small hut and sat at the table in the center, setting his staff down. The darkness that surrounded him comforted him more than the luminosity of the moons. A fresh layer of snow was settled on the smooth stone floor, and the walls were covered in patches of ice from water that had melted through the day. He thinks briefly of the information he had given away. Was it wise telling warm blood of the Dretvar? No ruling ever disallowed an elder not to teach their ways to those unfamiliar already with their culture. But he knew that such information would somehow become put into perspective this war with this lad. Maybe, just maybe, the warmbloods can come to understand why this war is waged. And maybe, just maybe, the warmbloods can find a solution that they all have become too blind to grasp.