The First Snow of the Northern Empire
The First Snow of the Northern Empire
Aslan faced forward.
The great hall of the mansion, once a banquet room and dining hall, stretched before him.
Its walls were now densely packed with ancient script—the proto-form of the imperial language—arranged in concentric circles.
He had used this method once before. The dense text was a means of opening a passage into the Netherworld.
It was a method exclusive to those who possessed the divinity of the God of Sorrow and Death. For Aslan, it would always be accessible.
Accessible, but not without risk.
If the realm within held no soul he recognized, he could be trapped forever.
This was a moment that demanded risk.
Something was happening in the Northern Empire. Unless he intervened immediately, the situation would spiral past any hope of control.
There was no time to charter a ship, or to fumble through trial and error searching for a viable route. He had no time at all for delay.
While servants hurried to pack cold-weather supplies and provisions his party would need in the north, Aslan and his companions gathered in the hall, each attending to their own tasks as they awaited completion. All except Aslan and Rumel.
Aslan glanced at her.
She wore the dress Anton had gifted, a cloak draped over it in a single layer. She stood beside Verdict, which leaned against the wall, restlessly toying with the sword at her hip.
The unease was so thick she failed to notice his approaching footsteps. Only when he stopped within arm's reach did she stir.
"Ah, Aslan..."
"Are you all right?"
Her fingers fidgeted with the pommel while her other hand drifted to her braid. At his question, she managed a faint smile.
"All right... I am not."
She had started to lie—to say she was fine—and then corrected herself, biting her lip. When his eyes met hers, she looked away.
"Truthfully, I am a little afraid."
Afraid. Anyone could see it in her posture. Aslan studied her expression and nodded in acknowledgment. She smiled again, a strained thing, and ran her fingers down her braid as though combing it.
He could guess the reason. Stepping into the Netherworld, he supposed. To walk alive through the realm of Sorrow and Death—the land the dead reached only at their end—was an ill omen.
Aslan opened his mouth.
"Is it because we're crossing into the Netherworld? I doubt it will be as troublesome as—"
"No. That is not it."
Her sharp denial silenced him. He tipped his head, at a loss for any other guess.
"If not that... then what?"
Rumel's smile turned bitter.
"Do you know the history of House Holne?"
Of course he didn't. Holne was a minor house, barely mentioned even in the game. Aslan shook his head, and her expression softened—not offended by his ignorance, but quietly pleased at the chance to share what she knew.
Her voice steadied slightly, the unease thinning as she began to speak. It was a compelling voice, well-suited to storytelling.
"House Holne is actually a young noble family. Originally, we were house soldiers of the Margrave of Saingirus."
"House soldiers..."
"Yes. We earned nobility through merit."
Earning a title through service was no small feat. It required exceptional deeds. Connecting that to the present circumstance, and considering where Holne and Saingirus were situated, only one conclusion fit.
"The Northern Empire."
"Yes. When a vast raiding host from the north struck the Margrave's territory, our ancestor distinguished himself and was ennobled."
As expected. Aslan nodded. Watching his expression, Rumel edged closer and continued.
"It is said the raiders sailed up the Windy River—the river that cuts between the Imperial demesne and the Margrave's lands—and their host was the largest in the history of the Kallus Empire. The villages they burned were full of grieving screams. My ancestor could not abide it."
A young noble's ancestor, no more than a few generations removed. Aslan listened, and Rumel quietly slipped her hand into his.
"When the raiders made camp, he attacked. He struck at night, with fire, while the Windy River ran low and cool. The plan held. He killed most of them." She tilted the sword at her hip. "This blade—he took it from them."
Aslan had seen it before.
"Ever since, it has passed down as the heirloom of House Holne."
The sword that had taken Tormule's head before the Flock ever touched him. Aslan had thought it a fine blade then. He had not imagined it was an Holne heirloom.
Perhaps reading his expression, Rumel laced her fingers through his.
The Dragon-king's hand was cold—should have been cold—but she smiled faintly as though even that chill pleased her.
After a moment, Aslan asked, "Then why are you afraid now?"
Her smile turned sheepish. Her free hand returned to the pommel, and her shoulders drew inward, as if summoning a fearful memory.
"The Gerne of House Holne fought the Northern Empire not just that once, but for generations after. No house in the entire Kallus Empire has been tangled with the north as long as we have."
Tangled in enmity, she meant. Aslan blinked, and Rumel sighed.
"Because of that, I grew up hearing stories. And I've seen their raiders burn villages on the Gerne coast. I've seen our soldiers fight them."
Their fingers came apart. She was touching her braid again, and the sword.
Aslan watched her unease cycle back to its peak and understood.
It was fear of a reputation she had never built herself.
"So I am afraid. That if they learn I am Holne, they will try to kill me no matter the cost."
She was likely right. The name Holne would carry weight among the northern raiders. If her identity were discovered, her fears might very well manifest.
But that would not happen.
"Don't worry, Rumel."
Aslan set a hand on her shoulder, and she stopped fidgeting with her braid, covering his hand with her own.
Her brown eyes were damp, but he held them.
"Unless you announce yourself as Rumel van Holne... no one in the north will know who you are."
So don't worry. At his words, Rumel lowered her glistening eyes and rubbed her hand over his.
Her fingers still strayed to the pommel, but the tightness in her shoulders had eased.
Relieved, Aslan patted her shoulder and walked toward the gate.
The passage was not yet open. He studied the dense ancient script, drew Purity, and thrust the blade into the wall.
Light flickered among the forty-eight engraved characters. From the point where Purity pierced the stone, a violet ripple spread like amethyst.
Space fractured, splintered. Between the drifting shards, the chill damp of the Netherworld seeped through.
At last, the way stood open.
Aslan withdrew Purity and hoisted the pack from the floor.
"Are you truly certain about this?"
As he shrugged the pack onto his shoulders and the others gathered their own gear, pulling on cold-weather coats, a voice came from behind.
Maria.
The power behind the Kingdom of Bida, who had been essential in commandeering supplies on short notice. Aslan looked at her for a moment, then turned away without answering, adjusting his pack straps.
"Send word to the Union the moment you depart. Tell them to sail directly via the southwestern route from Belus D'saer."
At his instruction, Maria's expression soured. He was openly accepting a clear and present danger. She shot an uncomfortable look at Richard.
Richard, catching his fiancée's gaze, returned it with mild surprise and said, "He'll be fine, Maria. Aslan is cleverer than I am. He'll have a plan."
As the damp air of the Netherworld filled the room, Richard grinned and adjusted his own pack.
"See you later."
Maria had no parting words. She turned back to Aslan instead—a gaze balanced halfway between distrust and faith. Aslan weathered it and let out a breath.
The risk remained. He could still end up trapped.
But even if he were trapped, he was not without recourse. If that happened, he intended to test a method he had devised for dealing with the Evil Gods at Kehil later.
He glanced at Angie.
She's gathered about half her divinity. Enough to affect the Netherworld, at least.
As long as Angie entered with him, he would not stay trapped. Reassured, Aslan stepped into the passage.
The gateway rippled with the color and texture of amethyst. He entered, his companions following, and a voice rang out through the space.
"The guide I shall summon is the former Council Chairman, the creature of Fire and Smithing, Bahot Head!"
*
A crackling snap. The air fractured, space splitting open like shattered glass. Violet crystals bloomed in the rupture, tumbling into place.
A group of figures walked through the crystalline gap. A biting wind greeted them.
"Did it... work?"
Richard's voice was uneasy. The others turned, scanning their surroundings.
Seawater surged in like white foam, receding across a shore of pale brown sand, crusted with salt and scoured by a bleak, cold wind. The sun hung low and pale.
The desolate air of deep winter. The wind cutting across the barrenness—this was truly the Northern Empire's wind.
Aslan had been here only once before. He drew the Wings of Stymphalos close and exhaled a white breath. Familiarity, visible in the cold.
"It worked. This is the Northern Empire."
Bahot Head had held onto enough reason to understand his words. Unlike the encounter at Gobil, the soul of Bahot Head had opened the way obediently. Relieved, Aslan scanned the area again.
"Nngh... cold..."
Tiyamal whined about the chill. Beside him, Rumel pulled her cloak tight and surveyed the landscape with unreadable eyes.
"So this... is the Northern Empire?"
She had spoken to Aslan, but the question wasn't really for him. It was closer to something she asked herself.
Like a question awaiting a reply that would never come, she gazed around with an expression full of complicated history. Without realizing it, her hand found the heirloom sword again.
"Strange."
"This is the Northern Empire?"
Ereta's flat observation overlapped with Angie's slightly disappointed look as she surveyed the area.
Behind them, the barren waste stretched to the horizon. It was the Northern Empire in essence—a land without travelers, a nation with no contact beyond the raiding fleets that sailed for the Kallus Empire. A desolation so stark that rumors claimed monsters roamed it.
The party absorbed the reality of the place, each showing their surprise in their own way.
As their gazes wandered, Aslan turned to Fay, who had been watching him quietly.
"Fay."
"Mm."
"Scout the area. Prioritize signs of people—villages, cities. If you can't shake pursuit, fight. Otherwise, avoid contact."
"Understood."
She bounced lightly on her heels. She had been lowering her stance, as if to sprint for the thin treeline and marshland visible in the distance, when she froze.
Her eyes slid sideways. At the same moment, Tiyamal stopped shivering and turned his head.
Aslan followed their attention and spotted the approaching figures.
They came from a long way off, trudging across the sand in boots barely holding their shape. Most had coppery red hair or brown. Nearly all carried weapons—axes, short spears, bows.
Crude weapons, primitive in design, laughable in quality. Farm tools. Improvised self-defense. Or instruments of a preemptive strike. There was no telling the difference.
Raiders. Warriors. Simple villagers. No way to know.
Aslan plucked a single feather and held it ready, shifting his stance at an angle as he watched.
The figures resolved into raiders.
Bared teeth, ugly with killing intent. Weapons raised. Bows leveled.
The hostility was unmistakable. The party drew their own weapons in response.
Angie curled her fingers around Victory on her back. Ereta hummed and spun her axe in a flourish before gripping it tight. Tiyamal extended his bow and sighted down the arrow. Fay had already vanished from sight. Rumel unpinned her cloak and lowered her spear.
She held Verdict angled forward, and a faint current crackled along its length.
The raiders stopped.
"...Hm?"
Aslan's puzzlement and Rumel's quiet confusion overlapped. The raiders' gazes fixed on Rumel. Specifically, on her hip.
Aslan tracked their stares. His teal eyes landed on the heirloom sword of House Holne.
One of the raiders spoke—an old man, taller than the rest.
"Are you... are you the new general?"
General.
In the Northern Empire, a general was second only to the Emperor. They were the supreme commanders who planned the raids.
Rumel looked baffled. Aslan processed the situation instantly.
The Holne heirloom sword at her hip. The storied blade taken from northern raiders. It was no common weapon. From the start, it had been an arming sword in what was commonly called the ancient imperial style—short grip, broad crossguard, a parrying hook flaring from the hilt. A double-edged one-handed sword designed for attack, defense, and controlling space while the off-hand worked magic.
That single detail suggested only one thing.
It was not merely a ornate and sharp ancient imperial blade. It was a general's sword. And its appearance was famous enough to be recognized even among common raiders.
Aslan looked at Rumel. She glanced back at him, eyes only.
He signaled with a slight gesture. She faced forward again, toward the frightened raiders.
The signal had been nothing more than a look, but thankfully, Rumel was quick. She straightened her posture, drew the heirloom blade from her hip, and raised it high.
The blade sang free. She lifted it overhead and declared in a ringing voice:
"Yes. I am your general—Rumel!"
No hesitation. No faltering. Her voice carried the weight of command, the bearing of nobility. The sheer presence lent itself to persuasion—persuasion that fed the misunderstanding already taking root.
"Ah... at last...!"
A raider wept, overcome. Behind him, the ragged others let out their own cries.
"We're saved!"
"Finally!"
"You didn't abandon us! I—I believed!"
Each overwhelmed with emotion. Rumel's expression flickered with bewilderment, but none of them could read it.