Winter Has Come
Beltran slipped into Binvelt, blending in among the tribal refugees who had fled there.
Binvelt was an unusual place. He had known it as barren land on the outskirts of the Goethe territory for quite some time, but it seemed development had only just begun. There was a camp encircled by wooden palisades, and nearby, people were building their own homes—some huts, others the distinctive earthen dugouts of their tribes. Nothing was uniform. A chaotic sprawl of varied dwellings and people sprang up like mushrooms after rain. Even fellow refugees from distant lands spoke different tribal tongues, often unable to communicate, and differing religions were a given. Not just the New and Old Faiths, but the gods each tribe revered were wildly diverse. There were no shared architectural styles, no common laws, no orderly barracks. They served different gods, communication faltered without easy translators, so they gestured wildly or quarreled at the drop of a hat. Beltran had witnessed more than a few brawls—rolling in the dirt, trading punches, or grabbing hair. It was simply a place where they lived together, each pursuing their own lives.
That was Beltran's impression of Binvelt: a disorderly mire. Fitting for the land of a lord called a wastrel. He wondered how it even held together, how such people had routed Boatmer's second son.
But after a while, as he asked around and found a spot that suited him, Beltran began to sense something peculiar. Binvelt was chaotic. Yet amid that chaos pulsed a vital force, a self-reliance. A community that moved without orders. Petty conflicts never ceased, yet they lived together. Each in their own way, thinking for themselves, surviving on their own.
“What can you do?”
“Basic swordsmanship... I don’t know.”
Beltran asked patrolling soldiers until he found the recruiting officer. The man had shaved the sides of his head clean and braided the remaining hair long. He looked every bit the northern warrior, but his common tongue was flawless.
“Noble, huh.”
“N-No, sir.”
“Can’t hide the speech or the bearing. You can read and write, I take it?”
“...Yes.”
“Then find Bill. We’re short on literate folk for logistics. Hide your valuables, and don’t breathe a word about your origins. No one’ll pry anyway.”
Beltran managed his duties well enough. Considering he’d been a noble just days ago—elevated to baronet, no less—it was impressive adaptability. He rose at dawn to fold his own blanket, fetch water, and light a fire. He checked seals on the armory and depot, verified ledgers and stamps. Calculated rations, drew up distribution lists, and assisted logistics chief Bill with handouts. Inspected armory gear, delivered broken weapons to the smithy, and tallied quantities. After lunch, he organized ledgers and reports, recorded verbal updates from soldiers on equipment status. Joined afternoon drills, handled complaints about rations by unit. Evenings were for personal maintenance or night patrol prep.
As darkness fell, Beltran often grew sentimental about his lot. Born a noble, but no longer one. Alienated by his father’s choice, always lagging behind his brother due to his qualifications. Now a family traitor, with brother Bruno surely burning for revenge. Binvelt asked none of that. No questions about his past, bloodline, or wounds. It simply gave him tasks he could handle. When he folded his blanket with his own hands, sorted ledgers, and soldiers muttered a quick “good work” or “thanks.” Beltran felt a strange emotion. Too cautious to call it respect, too soon for belonging. It was certainly new.
Everything here was uncomfortable, unpleasant. Hard to bathe, so people stank. Giant wolves roamed village and camp freely. Outside camp soldiers, few tribesfolk spoke the common tongue. Nights brought incomprehensible songs, shouts, shameless moans. He hadn’t expected noble treatment, but handling every need himself was hard to get used to.
Yet strangely, Beltran felt at ease. Tasks once shameful and humiliating now felt liberating.
“You’re on night watch tonight, eh.”
The recruiting officer approached Beltran by the fire, horn whistle at his neck for emergencies.
“You pulling duty?”
“The regular guy got horned up, they say.”
The officer scratched his close-shaved temple.
“...”
The patrol went smoothly. No snow like yesterday, wind calm for once, moon bright. Beltran and the officer circled the palisades silently for a while, then headed to the nearby village.
“Been here about six days?”
“Eight, sir.”
“Time flies. You’re sticking around longer than I thought.”
“Nowhere else to go.”
“Most are like that. Seems the noble stock’s thinned out, though.”
“I’m no noble.”
“If you say so.”
The officer shrugged.
“Anyway, name’s Gunther.”
“I’m... Belron.”
“Belron. Sounds republican.”
“...”
“What’s the place feel like?”
“Not sure.”
“You’ll get it living here. Better than it seems.”
After introductions, Gunther chatted about Binvelt. He’d lived in the camp since before Isaac became lord—back when Pfeil, Winterband’s company commander, ruled it. He knew better than anyone how it had changed, what was shifting.
“No one saw it coming. The lord taming hellwolves’ savagery. And plowing fields with them? Even the Granak great chieftain’ll have to acknowledge him.”
“And if he fails the trial? I hear war with Boatmer looms. Without that tribe’s aid, won’t this place fall?”
“Maybe.”
“Any countermeasures?”
“The lord’ll handle it.”
Gunther replied as if it were obvious. Not a shred of doubt.
“He always has. Every time we thought it was over—like with the hellwolves, or Boatmer’s second son. You heard something about him too, right? That’s why you washed up here.”
“Someone just said... shed my status and start over in Binvelt.”
“Know anyone here?”
“...No.”
Beltran paused, then answered. Grand Inquisitor Raphael had arrived recently, along with Lord Isaac and mage Enet. Connections, good or ill. But Beltran hid his presence, avoiding them. For now, he wanted to live as one logistics soldier. He hoped no one knew him.
He harbored no lack of revenge against Boatmer, but even that burned dim under his overwhelming powerlessness.
“What’s the lord like... Baron Binvelt?”
As they looped the village edge, Beltran asked.
“Shetk.”
“Pardon?”
“Ashkan. Barkan. Harke. Soil Drake.”
“What’s that?”
“Tribesfolk nicknames for the lord. Shadow, Savior, Death-Breaker, Monster-Tamer, Land-Plow.”
“Quite a few.”
“Dunno what kingdom nobles call him, but here, that’s it. So...”
Suddenly, Gunther shoved Beltran. The ground collapsed beneath his feet.
“...!?”
A mass of gray scales erupted, piercing the spot. A massive snake with rock-hard body emerged. Eyes like blood clots, black horn on its head.
Bwoooo—
Gunther blew the horn swiftly. The snake lunged at the sound, jaws wide. He rolled aside. It swept the hut where he’d stood. Screams tore the night sky. The dwellers inside were surely pulverized.
Soldiers rushed in at the commotion. But none knew how to fight this unfamiliar beast. The meters-long serpent had heavy, rock-like body and tough scales. It burrowed constantly except when striking. Hard to time attacks.
“I-it’s coming!”
“Over there!”
Soldiers flailed in panic. Gunther, too, was caught flat-footed by this frostland marauder.
“Evacuate! Run! Get away!”
His only option: yell in tribal tongues and common for retreat. Regular soldiers were no match. Needed aura users at least.
First responders: Sigbrand and Winterband’s ghost squad.
“Stoneblood Serpent!”
Shields in hand instead of weapons, they took positions and thumped the ground. They knew the foe: Stoneblood Serpent. Rock-hard body, venom turns flesh to stone on bite. Burrows hunting by vibration and heat. The drumming confused it, slowing its movements amid conflicting prey signals.
“The old hag can’t sleep, but this is too much, eh?”
Asra followed.
“Stoneblood Serpent. Must break the horn.”
“Gotta catch it first.”
Asra yawned. And did just that.
Disoriented, the serpent lunged skyward randomly. Asra shot forward. Bare hands gripped its neck. Unbelievable for an old woman—her bulk, strength, aura overwhelmed it. It coiled to crush her, but failed. It thrashed long. No need to break the horn.
Crack, crunch.
Asra tore neck from body. Thick blue ichor soaked the ground—mana-dense beast blood.
“What happened?”
By the time Carlson arrived, it was over. He frowned at the severed serpent. Stonebloods didn’t live in Black Forest. Beyond White Snake Mountains, near Demon Realm. One here meant...
“...Winter has come.”
Carlson muttered. Sigbrand and his squad stared at the corpse. A stoneblood reaching Goethe lands signaled one thing: monsters swarming Winterband. Burrowing serpents were slippery even there.
Binvelt’s chaotic night passed. Amid the uproar, Isaac—meditating before Ullern—opened his eyes. Rusty sword in hand, he stepped from the tent.