The wind howled low as Altan and his company crossed the frostbitten basin beneath the Palehorn peaks. The land had changed with every league they advanced—first grass, then ice-hardened soil, now a tundra riven by jagged obsidian spires and dead trees that bled dark sap.
Their company rode in measured silence: Altan atop his black destrier, its hooves edged in crimson firelight. Beside him rode Bruga and Nyzekh, the latter cloaked in shadows beneath a black-lacquered helm. Flanking them were twenty Stormguard, five Qorjin-ke scouts riding with Stormwake at the edges, and Ghoran with his twenty elite Sturmwulf warriors taking rear watch.
They reached the narrow pass where the rocky bluffs met twisted groves of trees. The cold deepened. The air grew still. Altan raised his hand. Stormwake signaled, and the Qorjin-ke scouts vanished into the terrain like ghosts.
"Flanks," Altan murmured. "We are seen."
They were.
The watchers appeared without warning, barely visible figures among the trees and high ridges. Ghost-pale hair braided tight, iron-dark skin shimmered faintly in the twilight. They watched in silence, their blank white eyes unmoving.
As Altan's mount stepped over a line of scorched earth, an old border marker, a sudden thunk struck the dirt before his steed's flaming hoof. A black arrow quivered where it landed. The beast didn't flinch. Neither did its rider.
A voice echoed from the trees. "Why step into our lands, human?"
Hooves crunched ice. A figure rode forward—Nyzekh, astride a massive one-eyed dire wolf with dark fur matted by frost and scars. A second arrow struck near him, closer this time.
Nyzekh pulled off his helm.
"Is this how you greet me?" he called, voice steady.
Gasps and mutters rose from the shadows. The border guards stepped out of hiding, dozens of them, longbows in hand, swords slung at the hip. One whispered, "The prince... he returned."
A tall hunt-captain came forward, eyes wide in disbelief. He spoke in the Virak'tai tongue: "Prepare the path. He brings a guest. Tell the Deep Matron, the Queen Mother, that her son returns, and his teacher seeks parley."
As they traveled deeper, the Virak'tai emerged like phantoms. Sometimes at their side. Sometimes above, perched on cliff paths. Always silent. Always watching.
Bruga squinted into the shadows. "So this is where that gloomy face of yours was forged, eh?"
Nyzekh didn't look at him. "Can't blame us. We were cast into shadow. The Highborns hate us. The humans fear us. Even our kin treat survival like sin."
Bruga gave a snort. "Then today, I'll be the one to make your whole race smile."
Nyzekh laughed, just a whisper of it.
The company rode until the frozen groves gave way to a cliffside stairway, carved from basalt and obsidian, leading to a towering fortress built into the mountain face. Veins of geomantic ward-light pulsed across the gates, old and deep.
At the threshold waited a line of Virak'tai elders, cloaked in robes of dark scale and spirit-thread. Their armor bore the shimmer of alchemical forging, materials bartered from the Scale-Wardens: serpent-hide, acid-hardened leather, and bone-laced steel. These were not common soldiers. These were oathbound, chosen to stand beside the Queen Mother herself.
She stood among them.
Tall, solemn, her long hair bound in braids of silver and dusk-thread. Her gaze settled on Nyzekh first.
"Welcome home, my son," she said, voice resonant. "Though few believed you would return, especially not leading humans through our gates."
Nyzekh bowed, hand over heart. "I do not lead them. I walk with them."
Her eyes narrowed faintly, studying the group.
"And who are these guests?"
Nyzekh gestured in turn. "Altan of the Gale, my teacher. Ghoran, Clanhead of the Sturmwulf. And Bruga... my friend."
The Queen Mother nodded. "Then come. The council waits. We have much to speak of, and darker winds move beneath the stone."
They passed through the gates of the Virak'tai stronghold, where silence and shadow had long been a kingdom unto itself.
A sudden wail echoed through the hall, thin, sharp, and unnatural. A wave of cold washed out from the inner chamber, riming the stone with frost.
The Queen Mother's face blanched. Without a word, she turned and ran toward the sound.
Nyzekh followed, fear flashing in his usually unreadable eyes.
Bruga saw it and stilled. He had never seen fear touch the Wanderer Prince.
Altan's voice came low. "This is Frost Qi… but it is wild. Uncontrolled."
Nyzekh turned to him, voice tight. "Teacher… can you help?"
Altan nodded once. "Lead the way."