"How many Outcasters seek refuge this week?"

  The question came rough, as the Warden poured steaming water into a bottle forged of Koruzghtor — the phoenix's metal held warmth or chill for hours.

  "More than a hundred, m'lord," replied Mikye, the young squire who never left his side.

  "Today we find why they're doubling by the week — and hopefully where the others have gone."

  He sealed the vessel with a cork and fastened it at his hip, opposite Firecutter, his longsword — weight balancing for their journey beyond the rift, into the Valley of Ice.

  "Are the Michtleaves secured for next month's powder?"

  The Lord Warden seemed more concerned with his tea than with the pleas for asylum.

  "Aye, m'lord." Mikye nodded. The Sunmicht would never run thin.

  The tea was the greatest cultural heritage of the Sundorlic, the first humans who reached Easeror, and the product of a forbidden love, according to folklore. Before everything, the sun and the moon fell in love, though heavens forbade their union. Helplessly in love, each night the Sun tried to reach for his beloved with its golden rays.

  One night, a fragment of his essence fell from the skies of their ancestors. Where his light touched the earth, the Micht tree took root. The brew is said to bless the drinker with the same vitality that once drove the Sun across the heavens for love.

  It was a custom in the South to share the drink — a gesture of unity. After savouring it, the Warden passed the Curfyet to Mikye.

  "Now we may proceed." He strode toward Fortdon's elevator. "Is Talon ready? The others?"

  "Waiting for you, m'lord!" Mikye hustled to keep pace in the dark snowy morrow where frost crept in from the pillars, carrying the scent of struggle.

  The Warden's arms spread wide as he reached the platforms, his four elite rangers in formation. "You didn't think I'd let you ride without Sunmicht, did you, lads?" He grinned. "Let's whore ourselves to that bloody snow until we find out what's been happening."

  "Whore ourselves?" One of the men raised an eyebrow.

  The Lord barked a laugh. "What do you reckon a whore's day is like, Syrs?"

  "Fucked," Talon said cheerfully, drawing laughter from the men.

  "Aye," the Warden replied, though his grin did not reach his eyes. "That's what awaits us. Deeper in the Valley we ride, the colder it gets. Hasten up, ladies."

  The laughter was gone by the time they descended the ramp beneath Fortdon's great statue — a figure carved into the cliffside from base to the keep's single tower.

  Throughout the rift's length — too wide for any man to leap across — passages had been hewn into rock and ice on both sides. Bridges were wrought for the transit; some hung suspended, others were sturdy wooden structures driven by lateral gears.

  The rangers rode in ivory leather, quilted tunics and ebony belts, cloaks of white wool trimmed with bear fur. Only the Warden's mantle bore black flecks, like a snowy owl's plumage — giving life to the reason they were called Owls of the White Horde.

  The metal gate rose. The thirty-metre bridge unfurled. Mist swallowed the world below.

  Seven hundred metres of nothing but cloud and cold air, plunging into the unseen depths of the rift.

  Mikye shut his eyes and let his horse carry him forward.

  On the other side, a dense copse of pines waited — thirty kilometres of woodland stretching south, the bucolic view broken only by a lone sentinel on their left. A Fortdon tower welcomed a tread of Outcasters in procession toward it.

  Time stretched as they rode deeper.

  Long after the last sip of Sunmicht, the forest had changed. Silence thickened and trees gave way to a vast expanse of snow.

  "Did you hear that?" Mikye whispered.

  "Why in the depths of Thar is he here?" muttered Alwin, a black-haired ranger.

  "He must conquer fear." Talon's gaze bore into the recruit. "Not hide from it."

  Mikye said nothing. Fear gripped him so tight that imagining what lay ahead threatened to buckle his legs.

  "You won't find death here, Clarfskin," the Warden said, studying the boy. "Yet it waits for us all — why fear it so much?"

  The question hung heavy. Not just for Mikye.

  "It's impossible you're not hearing it," the recruit insisted.

  "Hearing what, Mikye?" Taldryn — hair kissed by fire, eyes pale as snow — demanded.

  "A song. Hashyew. Unmistakable." Mikye whispered.

  Ice crept down the Warden's spine. His hand tightened around his wand.

  "What does it sing?"

  They never found out.

  Alwin was ripped from his saddle, hurled sideways as though struck by an invisible fist. He hit the ground violently. Panic spread among the steeds, his own vanishing the way they had come.

  Talon dismounted, reaching for Alwin. When he turned the man over, shock gripped the White Owls.

  The ranger's eyes had rolled white. His mind was not with them anymore. A smell rose from him — copper, as if magic had crawled inside.

  They closed in around him, forming a shield of bodies. Taldryn invoked the ancient prayers, pleading for mercy, for Her to keep the same fate from claiming them all.

  Alwin twitched.

  Then he began muttering incoherent words as he crawled between the horses' legs, causing panic in the animals, endangering his life — an animal desperate to break free.

  For a heartbeat, he stilled.

  Then, with unnatural agility, he rose.

  The Warden and Talon raised their wands and cast — but Alwin slipped through the flaring lights.

  "Bloody Thar, what just happened?" Talon mounted his horse and spurred forward.

  The Warden wasn't the kind to surrender. He brandished his wand once more, in a half-square gesture. "Tugave Eegah Agisun!"

  Azure energy struck Alwin between the shoulders. He collapsed — then lurched back to his feet, limbs jerking as if commanded, broken movements carrying him into the mist.

  "Ancient magic," the Warden breathed.

  He unsheathed Firecutter. The blade, forged of Koruzghtor, had been with his Dom since it was crafted.

  "Mikye." His voice hardened. "Return to Fortdon. Tell them what happened. If we are not back by dawn, send no rescue. Send for the Queen."

  The frightened boy was already riding back before the Warden finished.

  The company pressed into the fog.

  The fog whispered to them. Something coiled through the Owls — the cold no longer bit their skin. It bit their thoughts. Thoughts drew to the past. Fears long forgotten crept forward. Guilt stirred where it had long been buried.

  "What sorcery is this, m'lord?" Talon's voice echoed.

  "Are we oathbreaker Owls?" The Warden rallied his men.

  "No, my lord!" They screamed in unison.

  "Then ride!" the Warden barked. "The longer we linger, the deeper it takes hold!"

  They pushed on, though every instinct screamed to turn back, though their eyes no longer saw the mist or the snowy clearing — only the moments they regretted most.

  Amidst pleas for the Goddess and cries for mercy, focus came.

  A vast throng loomed into view — hundreds of people moving in slow, synchronised rhythm, as if guided by a single will.

  "Chaos," Taldryn breathed.

  The fog thinned enough to reveal the pattern, ancient and unmistakable: ??

  The Warden raised his blade, jaw clenched. "We retrieve Alwin and return to Fortdon!"

  "M'Lord…" Taldryn's voice cracked as his horse reared. "Something is pulling me. I can feel it—"

  The horses whinnied, disoriented.

  "We leave no Owl behind." The Warden's voice cut through. "You are among my elite for a reason. Prove my faith is not misplaced."

  As one, the three remaining rangers traced their fingers along their Koruzghtor swords, invoking the sacred protection:

  "Tuhedon Sheigha, Tugalve anjum—"

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Their voices joined, potent.

  "Tuhedon Sheigha, Tugalve agisun.

  Tuhedon elafron, Tugalve agisun elafron!"

  The phoenix steel awakened.

  Energy surged along the blades, igniting them into living flame. Hashyew runes blazed sapphire — hotter than any fire known to men.

  As they drew nearer to the symbol carved by the swaying bodies, the pull intensified, dragging them forward.

  "I can't see Alwin!" Talon shouted, his voice trembling.

  "There!" Taldryn pointed at a pale shape among the black-clad figures — Outcasters.

  "Bloody Thar — how do we reach him?" Talon swore.

  "He'll move with the current. Straight to him." The Warden commanded.

  They veered to the edge of the rhythmic motion, horses fighting the drag that clawed at their hooves.

  "We won't make it, m'lord!"

  The Warden guided them back, widening the gap to weaken the force's hold.

  Only then did they see it.

  Two vast wounds in the snow — dark chasms, bottomless.

  The force emanated from them, wrapping the air.

  The Warden waved them away. "Too close," he barked. "The nearer we go, the stronger it grows."

  "We'll have to snare him!" Taldryn said, already unwinding rope.

  "Aye." The Lord Warden took it from him. "If I falter — cut it."

  Taldryn hesitated. "We won't cut you loose, my lord."

  "Son." The Warden laid a hand on his shoulder. "That choice isn't yours to make."

  He paused.

  "If the worst comes, ride for Inverdon. Tell her she was the light of my days." He swallowed. "And tell Rezal… tell my boy I loved him. Even when I failed to show it."

  The rope was fastened.

  The Lord Warden turned his horse toward the pull.

  He couldn't understand how the Outcasters remained standing instead of being swallowed into the void.

  The pressure grew unbearable. Reality shifted.

  The Outcasters vanished. The cold vanished.

  A strange calm enveloped him.

  Inverdon. His nephew knelt before him, tear-streaked and trembling, begging for his parents. And he — he had turned away, forcing the boy back to his lessons, aggressively denying the child the comfort he needed.

  "This isn't real," he gasped. "My judgement lies with the Goddess alone!"

  The vision tore apart.

  Alwin stood where his boy had been, just a few metres from him.

  And something spoke into his mind: 'Guilt shall drive you mad, Lord Warden — where this memory stands, there are plenty more.'

  The pull dragged his horse violently toward the abyss. The beast screamed and collapsed, throwing the Warden onto the snow.

  The rope burned around his torso as his men fought to hold him back.

  Ice filled his lungs. Blood coated his cheeks.

  They would not cut the line.

  "Lafughurvard Gurthaw."

  He breathed his farewell, then flashed Firecutter. The rope parted.

  For a breathless moment, he hung above the void.

  Steel screamed. His body jolted. He had driven his blade into the ice.

  Half of him dangled over nothingness; the other clung to the blade driven deep into frozen stone.

  No magic could save him. Not from the pull.

  No prayers remained. Struggling would only delay his fate — delay enough to make peace with it.

  He exhaled slowly and loosened his grip.

  "Gurthaw Attha."

  For a heartbeat, the Warden thought the old-greeting was an echo in the afterlife — that the grip around his wrist belonged to whatever waited in the abyss.

  As he dared to open his eyes, an inhuman strength lifted him, flinging his body back across the ice as though he weighed nothing at all.

  "Lafughurvard Gurthaw." He didn't hear himself say it — only the hammering of his heart in his ears as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

  If he hadn't seen Alwin still circling among the bodies, he wouldn't have believed his own eyes.

  Two thousand years, living in hiding. No single soul had witnessed them. Enough time for the Goddess's shield to become legend, then myth.

  Yet they revealed themselves before him as if divinity had taken form, the air turned sweet and fresh — lily and dates — wrong for a place of ice and death.

  They surrounded the swirling mass of Outcasters.

  Twenty towering beings draped in flowing silk, edged with the pelts of extinct creatures. The strongest presence ever witnessed — they bent the air, warped light itself, as though the world strained beneath their existence.

  The eldest — distinguished by a staff tipped with a crimson stone — had braided locks cascading down his back.

  As he struck the earth with the staff, old-Hashyew fell from his lips:

  "And unto the depths the Goddess sent thee. There thou shalt remain, until Her blood calls thee forth once more."

  The B?llards.

  The primordial ancestors of all Khasuh. The Goddess's protectors, who fell for the Sundorlic and allowed their blood to run in their veins — the blood that saved them from the age of chains.

  Before the Warden could fathom why such beings would appear before them, the staff flared.

  Light tore through the air. The ground convulsed.

  The twin chasms collapsed inward with a roar, sealing themselves shut. The pull rippled out, and the Outcasters fell where they stood — Alwin among them — breathing but unconscious.

  One of the B?llards approached, moving with unnatural grace, bearing the Warden's wand.

  The Owls dropped to one knee in instinctive reverence.

  "You will return to the hallowed lands," the being said, voice echoing as if spoken through stone. "Your Queen must gather her faithful. The continent must know."

  "Know of what, my lord?" Talon asked, awe cracking his voice.

  Another stepped forward.

  Her beauty was unearthly — hair black as night, eyes the softest shade of rose, skin pale as frostlit glass, veins glowing faintly beneath like carved crystal.

  "We are no lords or ladies." She smiled. "The forgotten stir. They hunger once more. They seek passage through the First Gate of Thar. The chains that held them for thousands of years weaken as Mother's blood draws near."

  Yewsia's bloodline. A myth until now.

  They exchanged glances. None dared speak.

  As they prepared to ride, a majestic white unicorn appeared, its horn gleaming with radiant silver. The leader mounted with an elegance no human possessed.

  "How do we find you again?" the Warden called.

  "You do not, Magical. Yet the B?llards shall never abandon their kin."

  Without another word, the beings who had appeared in silence vanished just as swiftly — merging with air as if they bore the same essence as nature.

  When the light dimmed, the Warden felt the silence of the Goddess — and the promise of something far worse made the hairs on his neck rise.

  For a long moment, no one moved.

  “Did that…” Talon’s voice came out hoarse. “Did that just happen?”

  They stood with eyes widened and mouths half-open.

  Taldryn swayed, hands trembling as he steadied himself. “They’re real,” he said. “They’re real.”

  “Two thousand years,” the Warden breathed. “Two thousand years in hiding.”

  “The greatest honour of our lives, Owls.” Talon dragged a hand across his brow, then added more quietly, “Though… why now?”

  No one answered. No one wished to give voice to another myth.

  The question hung in the frost-thick air.

  “If they’re real, then you know what else must be,” Taldryn said at last, his gaze flicking from face to face. “What does that mean, m’lord?”

  The Warden stared at the ground where the chasms had been. The snow lay smooth and unbroken — as though the chasms never existed.

  “They were clear,” he said, swallowing. “It means the waiting of the Khasuh was not in vain. The hatred born after the Goddess’s son fell was not in vain.” He leaned on his sword. “But it also means—” He passed his hand through his low shaved head. “The tales meant to frighten children into mastering their minds, were never tales at all.”

  Silence claimed them again — not the silence of awe, but of dread. The dread of men who understood that the world had just been pierced by the worst threat ever whispered of.

  "Taldryn — put Alwin on your horse. I'll guide the steed. Talon, take Taldryn." The Warden didn’t wait too long to lash his commander.

  "What about them?" Taldryn glanced at the Outcasters scattered across the snow.

  "Today, our duty still lies in keeping them from re-entering the continent." The Warden's voice came hollow with grief for his fallen horse. "Their survival was never the Horde's concern."

  He took hold of the reins and led them toward home.

  The ride back passed without words, only the crunch of hooves and the distant howling of direwolves — perhaps werewolves.

  Until Taldryn couldn't bear it any longer.

  "What do we do now, Lord Warden?"

  No one answered. Gazes fixed on their surroundings, senses alert for any threat.

  For the first time in decades of command, the Warden had no command to give.

  The B?llards had emerged from legend and delivered a warning. A sentence, not a solution.

  "We heed the call of our ancestors," he finally said. "At dawn, we ride for Inverdon. The Queen must know."

  He took his time.

  "You must discipline your thoughts," he continued. "Darkness is coming, and what you felt out there will try to break you. We shall not break."

  They nodded. Each of them had felt it. The whispers. The way the world had tried to fold them inward.

  All of them nodded.

  Nearly ten hours later, as dusk descended slowly over the south, the rangers sighted the rift's edge. Mikye stood on the continent, his shoulders relaxing as he ran to command the bridges for the rangers.

  As they passed through the final barrier of pine trees, a rumbling cacophony resounded from the eastern expanse of the peninsula. Every man glanced over his shoulder.

  The Warden felt Alwin stir in the saddle. A faint murmur slipped from the ranger's lips — incomprehensible at first, growing louder as they approached the iron gate.

  The suspended bridge reached them slowly.

  Halfway over, Alwin convulsed. The Warden barely caught him as the man thrashed, threatening to send them both to the bottom of the rift.

  A deafening blast pierced the air as the wooden floor beneath them trembled.

  All rangers turned, sweating despite the snow.

  A woman — an Outcaster woman — stood at the bridge's edge. Thin. Hollow-eyed. One arm clutching a child to her chest. A girl.

  She did not scream. She did not beg. She simply stepped forward — and both vanished into the rift's void.

  The world inhaled before the men raced across the angled planks, not caring if it might end their lives. What lay behind seemed worse than death.

  "Raise the bridge!" someone shouted.

  They reached the continent just as the bridge was pulled back.

  At the gate, the four men looked back.

  Never in their darkest imaginings had they conceived of such a harrowing sight.

  The hundreds of figures who had circled the chaos symbol were no longer swaying.

  They were running — without hesitation.

  One after another, women and men alike hurled themselves in a cascade of bodies.

  They leaped into the depths of the rift as if it demanded blood and soul as tribute.

  Unicorn horns sounded — the Horde's second-in-command desperately trying to warn those at the base to save themselves.

  Yet there was no escaping the chilling echoes of bodies striking stone. Striking everything between.

  The crushing echoes drowned the screams — but not before the doomed pleas for forgiveness merged into an agonising cacophony of despair.

  The Warden could not find his voice.

  The abyss was already feeding.