The White Witch of the North
At the Empire's northernmost frontier, on frozen land where bone-chilling blizzards raged year-round.
In the heart of that harsh, barren north, the obsidian fortress loomed like a massive beast crouched in wait. A heavy silence hung in its command chamber.
Only the howling gale piercing even the thick stone walls, and the crackling of dry logs burning in the massive hearth, filled the quiet.
"...This is the final report from our informants in the capital, just received. The subjugation of the Southern Alliance is complete. The Emperor has accepted their unconditional surrender and is transporting the royals from Sterling Kingdom and other defeated nations to the capital as hostages."
"Understood. Good work. Dismissed."
The intelligence officer bowed quietly and swiftly, then exited the chamber.
Seated at the head of the dim room was the ruler of the north: Grand Duke Victor von Arzenheim. The hulking man, draped in a fur coat made from an entire black bear he'd beaten to death with his bare fists, stared into the flickering red flames of the hearth while roughly stroking his thick beard.
"Minimal Imperial losses, and the south's lifeline completely severed... It was convenient while the Emperor focused on the south, leaving us alone. But now things are about to get tiresome."
Victor's heavy voice prompted a young man lounging sideways on a sofa in the corner to chuckle softly and speak up. It was Eric, the Grand Duke's son and commander of the northern legions.
"What's there to worry about? You think the Emperor will march an army straight into this barren wasteland right away? They've burned through massive supplies on the southern campaign."
"Of course, no open war right away. Even that sly fox of an Emperor wants to avoid a civil war without cause. But from his position, ruling the entire Empire, having a cousin like me—gripping vast military might that could bare its fangs anytime—lurking up here must be a thorn in his side."
Victor grabbed a bottle of the north's brutally potent traditional liquor from the table—strong enough to scorch the throat—and downed it in one go.
"That bastard's probably desperate for the day I come crawling to kneel at his feet. Isn't he?"
"Sure, probably. But the blood in our veins—is it the kind that bows meekly to anyone?"
"My father and the current Emperor's father fought tooth and nail over the throne. We lost by the slimmest margin in that damned council deciding the successor, forcing our house out of the capital's glittering palace and into this frozen hellhole of the north. The thought still grinds my teeth."
To the Grand Duke's words, thick with old grudges and defeat, his son shrugged lightly and tossed out a flippant joke.
"Then why not take this chance to bow our heads and crawl to the capital? The Emperor'd be pleased, less blood spilled, and we've roughed it in this cold, starving north long enough, haven't we?"
"Kuhahaha!"
Victor burst into booming laughter at his son's jest. It was a savage roar that made the thick obsidian walls rumble.
"You fool! Has the Arzenheim name— one that would burn the world before bowing its head—slipped your mind already? Forget that, and you'd be denying the mighty blood of our ancestors: shepherds in icy tents on the frozen tundra, hunting beasts, who built an empire that swallowed the continent!"
His son just grinned through his father's frenzied pride, veins bulging in his neck.
"Joking, Father. Would a wolf ever collar itself? That'd make it worse than a dog."
"Good, as long as you get it. Anyway..."
The Grand Duke's laughter faded as his beastly gaze fixed on the blizzard whipping outside the window.
"With the south wrapped up, the Emperor's eyes will turn fully north. For the upcoming winter social season, we should send some friendly gesture to ease his focus a bit."
"No plans for war yet?"
"They're too hostile for peace talks, but not enough justification to draw first blood. It's awkward, all around. War's a hassle anyway."
Victor slammed the empty bottle on the table with a grimace.
"But me crawling into that den of repulsive hypocrites? I'd rather not. One whiff of their perfumed, romance-addled nobility forgetting honor, and I'd snap their necks on the spot."
"Who'd dare complain if you twist a neck or two you dislike?"
"They'd just call us northern barbarians. Like they weren't the same a generation ago. Best avoid that."
Victor glanced between his son and his daughter, quietly seated in the corner, then spoke.
"One of you two will go in my stead to the palace socials. Nod politely, spout some nonsense about northern loyalty to the Empire, dance a few rounds, and come back. Raid their larders while you're at it."
"I'll go."
A young woman, who had sat silently flipping through a thick grimoire while gazing at the hearth's flames, raised her hand. She was the Grand Duke's eldest daughter.
"Oh? What's this? You, who usually recoils at the mere scent of the capital's fake-smile social scene, volunteering? Why the sudden urge?"
To her father's curious question, she closed her grimoire and slowly turned her head. With pallid white skin and bloodless thin fingers, she brushed back her silver hair and smiled coolly.
"You mentioned the intelligence report: the Imperials took several hostages from the south."
"Mm, yes."
"My personal sources say something odd and amusing is happening in the capital."
Her blue eyes, reflecting the hearth's red glow, sparkled as she continued.
"Most of the southern hostages are holed up meekly in manors near the capital under Imperial watch... but one stands out, roaming the heavily guarded palace interior like it's his own home."
Victor stroked his beard, narrowing his eyes in disbelief.
"Hah, the Emperor doing that? He's infamous for treating war captives and hostages like pigs, grinding them down mercilessly. The heartless bastard even tossed a few our way once, letting them freeze to death like pests. Which nation's fool is strutting freely in the palace?"
"A prince from the tiny coastal kingdom of Sterling in the south."
Thick interest flickered in her icy gaze.
"Rumors say this bumpkin hostage is charming the entire irritable, nitpicky Imperial family. Tea with the First Princess, library meets with the Second Princess, private tea with the Emperor himself, even hanging with that brute Second Prince."
"Charming the Imperial family? Those vipers? A mere hostage?"
"Yes. I'm curious just how silver his tongue is. Personal curiosity to see this guy up close and pick him apart."
"Heh, that's it? Trek all that way for one hick prince?"
"No, practical reasons too."
She rose gracefully, her black robe billowing.
"If the Emperor doesn't want all-out war with the north right now, he won't be stupid enough to harm a ducal envoy at the socials... but politics is unpredictable."
Her red lips curved smoothly into a smile.
"Should he whimsically try detaining a Grand Duke's child or spring a trap, who'd be safer than me? I can teleport away in a blink—for the house's security."
Victor grinned in full satisfaction at his daughter's reply. She was right.
Even if the Emperor ambushed the palace with tens of thousands of guards, no prison or chain on the continent could hold her.
In her early twenties—when most mages toiled as apprentices in the Magic Tower—she'd reached an untouchable realm, claiming the title of the Empire's greatest mage. An unparalleled prodigy.
The Grand Duke's firstborn: Ella von Arzenheim.
The world called her, with fear and awe, the White Witch.