The Start of Winter
Bergheim hauled himself up. After pulling the night watch, his body felt like lead. Trying to sleep amid the thunderous roars and screams was no easy feat, but do it for a lifetime and it becomes routine.
“Agh, my bones, my damn bones.”
He clutched his knee and rose, grabbing his axe. He wrinkled his nose at the stench wafting from his own body, but there was nothing for it. Covered in monster blood day in and day out—what would be weirder would be smelling like flowers. And if that ever happened, it’d mean he’d lost his mind.
The commotion outside raged on.
“Aim for the joints!”
“Kill or be killed! Run and your wives and kids get it!”
“Raaagh!”
“Aaaack—spare me!”
Bergheim scratched his head and nudged his still-snoozing squadmates with his boot.
“Hey, up you get, you lazy bastards.”
“Ugh… Baron, feels like I just closed my eyes.”
“And six or seven of us died in the meantime.”
The soldiers—faces puffy and grimacing—dragged themselves upright.
“Damn cold.”
They wrapped themselves in blankets as they gathered their gear.
“Hey! Get up, man.”
One soldier shook his comrade. No response.
“We gotta switch shifts. You wanna stand watch on the walls all night?”
“He ain’t dead, is he?”
“Nah. Heard him coughing in his sleep, though…”
Bergheim checked. No pulse, no breath. He yanked back the blanket. The stench of shit, piss, and rot hit like a wall.
“He’s gone. Bled out too much, looks like.”
“Fucking prick. Kept bragging he’d make it through another winter.”
The soldier grumbled. No one moped. They just regretted losing another brother-in-arms.
“Move out. Give him a proper burial after shift if you can.”
“If we survive.”
“Yeah. If we survive.”
Bergheim stepped out first. The scene was grim. Mangled corpses littered the ground, entrails draped over weapon racks like laundry.
“This rusts the gear fast, I keep telling ‘em. Won’t listen.”
He swept the guts off the racks with bare hands like clearing snow. They’d frozen solid, crumbling like dry wood. Still, the rot clung to his skin.
“Can’t blame ‘em, though.”
He muttered at a fresh corpse, eyes wide open. Upper and lower halves split, guts spilled. Steam rose from the fresh cuts.
Kirrruk!
A white-furred monkey-thing. Even on all fours, it matched Bergheim’s height, with massive horns. No ordinary ape—elongated snout, fangs like daggers, talons like hooks.
“Who let another horned monkey slip through?”
Horned monkeys were nimble; unchecked, they scaled walls like nothing. This one’s muzzle dripped blood, gnawing a gauntleted wrist.
“Nngh, guess you’re mine today.”
Bergheim stretched, loosening his wrists and ankles.
Kiiik!
It charged.
“Hm.”
He glanced back. The barracks. Dodging was easy, but it’d slaughter or maim his men. People were assets here. Couldn’t afford the loss.
“Hoo—”
Its talons slashed at his face. Bergheim exhaled softly.
The monkey turned to monster meat. One arm gone mid-swing, Bergheim’s axe buried from skull to chest.
“Whew, heavy bastard.”
He shoved it off, yanked his axe free, panting. A surge of aura had strained him. Blue aura lingered on the blade.
“Starting the fun without us?”
Soldiers trickled out.
“Wanna die chasing thrills?”
Bergheim wiped warm blue blood from his face. Tasted like human.
“What else keeps us going here?”
One soldier joked at the corpse. But respite was brief.
Piiiik!
A horn blast—from the civilian quarter.
Bergheim bolted, men in tow. Axes, swords, spears—their only arms. Padded gambesons their sole armor. Against beasts that shredded plate, lighter was better for evasion.
Kuung!
The ground shook. Outer walls, canyon side.
“Count don’t sleep, huh?”
“Winter? He grabs three winks every three days.”
Helmut von Goethe made Winterband hold. The 5th Class mage handled most outer threats. Still, horned monkeys and stone-bloods scaled walls, cliffs, or burrowed in.
Aura users like Bergheim and veterans handled the stragglers. Goal: contain them inside the inner keep, away from homes. Few compared to the horde, but endless surprises meant constant rotations—and daily casualties.
Without the Count, Winterband would’ve fallen long ago.
Pik—piiiik!
Another blast. Twice—requesting aid.
“Damn hassle.”
“We’ll check it.”
“Thanks.”
Squad split. Fewer heads meant higher risk. No choice. Systems couldn’t cover every contingency. Only grit and experience did.
“Rejoin after clearing yours first.”
“Got it.”
Pik—piiiik! Pik!
More horns, varying pitches to avoid bunching.
Bergheim led his half toward the first signal. Since the wraith squad shipped to Binvelt, margins thinned. Veterans—no aura users—killed fastest, leanest.
One hell of a squad.
Goethe knew the impact, yet sent them to Isaac. Wasteful to Bergheim, but years at the Count’s side taught trust. The man endured mana drain and mage melancholy on three-day cycles, holding the line. Faith in his post kept family safe.
Crack that faith for efficiency? He’d falter.
So Bergheim hadn’t shared couriers’ news of Isaac while the Count was out.
“A mage?”
They reached the inner plaza. A carriage, armored guards. Center: old man with rune stone staff, lobbing fireballs. A log building blazed.
Three horned monkeys attacking. One huge—high-rank.
“Impetus Igniaria, Forma Lumen!”
The stone flashed red. Flames condensed into a blazing orb, hurtling at them. Potent, but predictable. They scattered; fur singed, ground scorched.
“Agneor Keratum!”
Flames engulfed a small one’s leg. Talons glowed red; it shrieked. Guards lunged for throats.
Thwuk!
The big one’s paw swipe decapitated a guard.
“Irlraim!”
Stone turned blue; the brute slowed—binding spell. Guards charged.
“Heh, not like that.”
A squadmate tsked. The thrust barely pierced hide.
“Kkh!”
Another monkey pounced, shredding the pinned guard.
Piiiik! Piiiik!
The old man blew the horn. Bergheim wondered why he had Winterband’s signal tool.
Then the roar: “What’re you doing!? Help!”
Mana-laced voice boomed.
“Right.”
Mana surged from heart to limbs. Bergheim leaped, axe high. It cleaved the bound brute from neck to ribs. Squad speared the rest into hives.
“Huff, huff. Damn it. Never thought I’d end up here at my age.”
Reihi grumbled, glaring at Bergheim.
“I blew that horn how many times? Waiting till they’re dead to help? Two good men lost ‘cause of you!”
True. Prompt aid would’ve saved them.
“Sorry, sir. Your skill stunned us.”
Bergheim tapped his shoulder with the axe haft, grinning sheepishly.
“No time for cheek. You know my face?”
“Aye. Clear up close. Carriage crest too.”
Royal Academy mark. Guards’ surcoats bore owls.
“Where’s the Count?”
“North outer wall.”
“Lead on.”
“Uh, Baron?”
As Bergheim turned, a scout rider galloped from the inner gate. Reined hard at the last second.
Hiiing!
The horse reared, snorting. Rider dismounted in haste.
“What’s the rush? Monsters ain’t enough?”
“You knew?”
The scout blinked at Bergheim’s quip.
“Huh?”
“Boatmer main force, two thousand. Bidelstein, Lubeck houses five hundred each. Ripe barony, Hausen, Mark banners total one thousand. Plus a thousand mercenaries. Five thousand strong.”
“…Insane.”
A soldier muttered. Bergheim’s face hardened. He eyed the burning storehouse—no deaths, but winter rations torched.
“We hurry.”
Reihi said.
“I’ll guide to the Count. You douse the fire. And sir—no fire magic inside the keep.”
“…Understood.”
Reihi nodded. Bergheim eyed a chest a guard carried.
“What’s that?”
“Comm gear. Why I came.”
After Isaac passed Ulern’s test, Asra Baldroon and Grand Inquisitor Raphael left Binvelt for their reasons. Isaac sent letters via pigeons—to Bernsi, Goethe Manor, Winterband.
Boatmer’s army was too big for him alone. Needed allies, coordination.
Then Isaac fixated on the new circulation path in his heart.
An alien vessel. Mages held mana in the brain, aura users in the heart. Brain manipulated external mana via pineal gland; heart cycled internal mana for body enhancement.
Incompatible, per centuries of lore. No records otherwise.
Yet Isaac wielded both. Brain cool and clear, heart molten, aflame. Strangely, circuits meshed, complementing flows.
Thump, thump, thump.
Post-seventh path, his heartbeat roared.
Thump, thump, thump.
But another pulse echoed—not his.
“Bro, you asleep?”
Bessimer’s voice. Post-Asra, he’d holed up—now here.
Isaac expected it.
“Nah, not yet. What’s up?”
Eyes open in the dark. Day to meditation, now night. Aura senses differed from wolf-king’s—itchy, hot, novel.
“Here for my blood price.”
“Wait, coming out.”
Isaac craved it too. Mana surged wild in his veins. Granak blood or aura fervor—either way.
He wanted to fight.