I dreamed.

  That was rare. I never remembered my dreams. But this one was vivid, sharp as a knife.

  I wasn’t a Coldian in the dream.

  I stood in a bustling kitchen, fire roaring in the hearth, knives flashing, voices shouting. I was giving orders, cooking, moving from station to station. The scent of something rich and unfamiliar filled the air. I was happy, frustrated, focused.

  Cooking.

  I had always been good at it. Had a knack. Everything I made turned out perfect. But in waking life, I found it dull. Boring.

  Here, in the dream, it felt like everything.

  I woke at dawn, the silence of the barracks a comfort.

  Then—BANG, BANG.

  A heavy knock. Someone using their boot.

  I sat up, rolled my shoulders, and opened the door.

  Manach stood there, fully armored.

  That meant one of two things—he was either too eager to leave, or he was hiding an injury.

  “Let’s get some tea,” he said. His voice was tight, his expression hard. No jokes. No grins.

  He’d been in a fight.

  I didn’t press. Just nodded, murmured a calm good morning, and grabbed my gear.

  We found a quiet tavern, ordered raisin tea, poured in something stronger.

  Manach needed it.

  “I’m not going to ask,” I said, watching him closely, “but I need to know—is it done?”

  “It’s done.” He sipped his tea. “And we’ve got enough money for a three-month journey.”

  I took that to mean it had been messy.

  Best not to pry.

  I leaned forward. “You’ve given thought to our route?”

  “Yes.” He set his cup down. “First, we question the wife. Then we chart a path to the Silent Sun. And I wrote a letter.”

  I raised a brow. “A letter?”

  Manach met my gaze. “This isn’t a standard job. You know it. I know it. Something’s off. But we need to stay above board. So I wrote to the higher-ups, requesting permission to investigate alongside the search. Official approval.”

  Smart. And right.

  I nodded. “Alright. You take the map, chart the route. I’ll take the letter to the Citadel.” I stood, adjusting my belt. “Meet you at the wife’s place in an hour?”

  Manach gave me a firm nod. I left, stepping into the cold.

  Time to get answers.

  The walk to the Citadel should have been uneventful. Instead, it felt wrong.

  The streets were quieter than they should have been. Shops, bound by working hours, remained shut. Those who were out moved like shadows, speaking in hushed voices—or not at all. Reactions varied. Some looked shaken. Others excited. Some unreadable.

  Then I saw why.

  Six regiments.

  Fully armored, weapons at the ready, officers standing tall at the front.

  That was war.

  Five or fewer, and it would have been a raid. Six meant something larger. The rule wasn’t absolute, but it held true often enough.

  I pushed forward, threading my way to the edge of the gathered soldiers.

  On the platform above them stood Commander Licht.

  Tall. Muscular. Coldian through and through. The perfect soldier, if such a thing existed. His horned helmet shimmered with frost magic, and the massive sword strapped to his back looked like it had been forged in the heart of a glacier.

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  Licht didn’t waste breath on anything beyond war. Tactics. Soldier maintenance. Campaign logistics. Discipline. He was the kind of leader who knew every law, every regulation, as if he had written them himself.

  And yet, for all his presence, it wasn’t Licht who made my skin prickle.

  It was the figure beneath the platform.

  A monster. Twice my size.

  Fang.

  Leader of the Razorclaws. One of the ruling Council members of the Sheer Cold Empire. A Lychen by race, a werewolf of unnatural stature, wrapped in battered deathplate armor. His pale fur bore more scars than most men had bones.

  And he loved war.

  The Razorclaws and Bloodclaws were both part of the Empire’s structure, but there was no mistaking what they truly were—warmongers. Allies, yes, but dangerous. Always dangerous.

  I forced myself to listen.

  “Now, in the name of the Sheer Cold! In the name of the Cold One—march!”

  Licht’s voice carried across the city like a storm wind.

  The Coldian regiments slammed their shields as one. A thunderclap of steel and resolve. The sound made my blood itch.

  Even I felt the urge to march with them.

  Then the army moved.

  A tide of disciplined bodies, falling into step as they headed south.

  Toward Golden Village.

  I frowned. That was odd.

  Golden Village was human territory. A minor settlement. Just a few hundred people. Outside of Sheer Cold borders. Not a military target.

  So why?

  The undead? A hidden threat?

  I pushed the question aside. Not my concern. Not now.

  What was my concern was Licht marching with them. That meant no approval from him. I needed another option.

  As the last soldiers left the square, the city stirred back to life. Shops unlocked. People emerged. Life moved on.

  I reached the Citadel gates.

  Closed.

  That meant one of two things.

  Either a threat had surfaced inside Coldian lands.

  Or the Council was in session.

  A Coldian archer stood nearby, leaning against a pillar.

  “Archer!” I called. “Is the entrance completely closed?”

  He barely turned his head. “Aye. Council.”

  Damn.

  That left me with very few choices.

  I scanned the area, trying to decide what to do next. That’s when I saw him.

  And my gut sank.

  A tall figure.

  Humanoid, but wrong.

  His body rippled, coated in a shifting, viscous darkness that clung to him like living tar. His left arm was monstrous—twisted with scales and tendrils of void-black corruption. His right? Almost disturbingly normal. Human.

  Shadathor.

  Prince of Darkness.

  A Council member. One of the most feared beings alive. Some whispered that he was as powerful as the Cold One himself, Dominatarh.

  Every instinct screamed at me to walk away.

  But I needed this approval.

  And I had no one else to turn to.

  I forced my legs to move. Forced myself forward. Then I bowed, dropping to one knee.

  “Master Shadathor,” I said, keeping my voice even. “If I may—”

  He walked past me.

  Ignored me completely.

  Something in me flared—annoyance, maybe desperation. I turned, about to try again—

  And he was already there.

  Right in front of me.

  Looking through my mask.

  Looking through me.

  His eyes burned like red embers, staring into my soul.

  And I saw it.

  Myself—shredded, torn apart. My limbs ripped from their sockets. My body broken and remade in agony.

  “You spoke to me,” he said. His voice was cold. Final. “When you were not allowed.” His eyes narrowed. “Then you tried again.”

  I felt my breath hitch.

  “Either you wish for death, or you have something worth my time.” He tilted his head slightly. “Something that will stop me from feeding you to the Void.”

  I couldn’t think.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  But somehow, I spoke.

  “Y-y-yes, well—” My throat locked up. My knees felt weak.

  He stepped closer. The air around him was wrong. Not rot. Not decay.

  Something worse.

  A scent like a dying rose—fragile beauty, withering under corruption.

  “My presence is required in the Council,” he said. “If you have words, speak them. Now.” His tone darkened. “Or be gone.”

  I forced the words out. “Master Shade… I have this letter. It requires approval from someone in the hierarchy so I can conduct my business.”

  For a moment, silence.

  Then—

  “A letter?”

  His voice shifted.

  “A LETTER?”

  His very presence darkened.

  “Of all the meaningless things you could have done, this is what you bring to me?” His crimson gaze burned. “Out of all the miserable nobodies you could have approached, you chose me?”

  Dark tendrils coiled around his demonic hand.

  “This level of insolence demands punishment.” His voice deepened, seeping into my bones. “An eternity of torment.”

  I saw it. My death.

  I had been stupid.

  Everyone knew not to cross Shadathor.

  Then, suddenly, his head tilted.

  Like he was listening to something.

  A moment later—he was gone.

  Vanished into the shadows.

  I let out a slow, shaking breath.

  I had come so close to ceasing to exist.

  I was an idiot.

  A lucky idiot.

  But now what?

  I found myself sitting. Not by choice.

  My legs had buckled beneath me, and now I was just there, hunched on the ground like a man who had barely survived a storm. My knees still shook, my breath was uneven, and my entire body felt wrong.

  I had never felt fear like that before.

  Paralyzing fear.

  Not the rush of battle. Not the thrill of danger. Something worse.

  It had crept into my bones, lodged itself in my mind like a thick fog, filling my thoughts with a single, heavy question—

  What just happened?

  My hands trembled. My heart pounded. I stared at nothing, trying to piece myself back together. And then—

  A growl.

  My stomach.

  For a moment, the sheer absurdity of it cut through the terror. Near-death. Soul-crushing fear. And my body still reminded me it needed food.

  I let out a weak chuckle. Just a small one.

  But it was enough.

  Enough to shake me from the fog, just a little. Enough to remind me that I was alive.

  I took a breath, grabbed my things, and tucked the letter securely into my pouch. There was no rush. I needed a break.

  And I needed food.

  I set off toward Wolf’s Bane.