The wind had been howling since before dusk, but now it just… whispered. It slipped past the stones of the northern wall like it knew the place, like it had always been there. Cold for no reason, and sharp enough to bite through the cracks in armor and chill the sweat sticking to the backs of necks.
Up on the wall, a few dozen archers stood, not saying much. Most of them just watched the tree line like it might move if they blinked too long. And some leaned forward ever so slightly, like they were trying to listen for something anything beneath the whine of the wind. One of the younger ones, who couldn't have been more than seventeen, was shifting from foot to foot, trying not to let his teeth chatter. His hands were stiff around his bow, and the leather on his gloves had started to crack from the cold.
He said, kind of quiet, "What if they're out there?"
No one answered right away, cause really, what could you say? After a second or two, an older archer glanced his way and gave a short grunt that might've meant keep watching or maybe shut up and pray.
Down below, the rest of the camp was trying to settle in for the night, though no one ever really relaxed up north. Not properly, anyway. The fires crackled, throwing just enough warmth to make people gather close, but not enough to stop the cold from crawling up inside your bones. There were mercs stretched out on crates and logs, playing cards or chewing on dry rations, while some of the Raventhorn foot soldiers leaned against their spears, trying not to look too tired. You could tell who was who by the way they stood the Raventhorn ones always kind of stiff, always just a little too quiet. Like they were carved from the same stone as the keep.
There were knights, too, not many. Maybe four or five, posted near the command tents, cloaks pulled tight around their shoulders and armor dull with frost. They didn't talk much either, just watched.
And off to the side, where the light barely reached, someone stood a little apart from everyone else. Who didn't talk and didn't move much. Just kept staring toward the woods, like he was waiting for something that hadn't happened yet.
---
Morning came without color. Just a slow gray bleeding into the clouds and a heavy kind of stillness that settled over the frost-covered earth like a second skin. Breath showed in front of every mouth, and the sky above the trees looked like wet stone cold, flat, and empty.
The knight commander, who had been up before the sun, started calling for a patrol with that rough kind of voice that sounded like it had been soaked in whiskey and gravel for the last twenty years. His armor creaked when he moved, and every step sounded like a boot hitting frozen mud which, well, it was.
They marched into the woods in a wide spread, not talking much, just keeping their eyes peeled and their swords loose in their hands. The deeper they went, the thicker the fog got, clinging low to the ground like it didn't wanna leave.
Then, from somewhere up ahead low to the ground and sharp like a knife scraping against glass came a screech.
"What the hell was that?" one of the mercs started, but didn't finish.
Goblins came out of the trees like roaches, small and fast and wild-eyed, moving with this twitchy kind of hunger like they hadn't eaten in days. The front line barely had time to raise their shields before the first ones were already slashing and biting, screaming in that high, broken language of theirs.
The fight was messy and loud, and people started yelling orders, but it was hard to tell who was saying what. Blood hit the snow, steaming, and one of the Raventhorn knights took a blade to the thigh but kept swinging anyway, calm as anything.
And then something bigger moved between the trees.
You didn't see them first, you felt it. The ground thudded once. Then again. Then again. And something massive pushed through the tree line, breaking branches like they were twigs.
Ogres.
Not just one. Two. Three.
Their skin looked like cracked stone, and they carried clubs that were just big chunks of wood with nails jammed into the end. One of them bellowed, deep and awful, and it sent a couple of the younger soldiers stumbling back without meaning to.
The knights formed a wedge and pushed forward. Orders were shouted. Blood was spilled. And when it was over when the bodies stopped twitching and the ogres finally fell—no one cheered. They just stood there, panting in the cold, hands trembling, staring at what was left on the forest floor.
---
Later, with the sky starting to darken again, the youngest prince of House Raventhorn stood in a canvas tent near the center of camp. His fingers were cold even through his gloves, and there was this sharp edge to his expression that hadn't been there the week before. Maybe it was the weight of command, or maybe it was just the North creeping in.
Two knights stood on either side of the map table, their helms off and tucked beneath one arm. They said nothing while the prince traced a gloved finger across the ink lines marking the tree line.
"If they're testing our reach, then they'll come again," the prince said, voice calm and clipped. "We reinforce the slope. Hold the flanks. I want patrols every hour "
The tent flap burst open, letting in a rush of wind and a soldier with a face gone pale.
"My lord," the man gasped, breath visible in the cold. "Ogres. Dozens. Moving fast. East ridge "
The prince without hesitation ran out into the snow.
---
The horns began low, mournful, drawn out like something dying. Then came the shouting. The clanging. The pounding of feet and the snapping of wood. They came out of the trees like a tide. No subtlety, no tactics. Just raw force.
Ogres. Dozens of them, then more.
The walls held for a time just long enough for the archers to thin the first wave but then ladders came up, and the enemy climbed like ants. Clubs slammed down and broke bone, smashed shields, sent men flying. Fire spread from torch to tent. Soldiers screamed. Knights yelled for formation. The line buckled.
The prince fought near the wall, sword flashing in and out of the smoke. Blood splattered his armor, and somewhere behind him, one of his knights fell with a blade in his gut. He didn't look back.
The Raventhorn soldiers held until they couldn't. The mercs fought with desperation, some screaming for their mothers, some laughing like they'd already died. When the gate finally cracked, it all came undone.
The battle lasted until the sky turned pale again.
---
When it ended, the camp looked like a graveyard smoke rising from blackened tents, broken bodies half-buried in red snow. The ground was quiet now, except for the low moans of the wounded and the distant creak of trees swaying in the wind.
Somewhere near the edge of the ruined barricades, past the shattered carts and the frozen pools of blood, one figure moved slow and steady through the silence.
He was still wearing his armor, though it was torn and streaked with dirt. His cloak dragged behind him, damp from snow and something darker. His hands were bare.
He didn't speak. Didn't look around.
Just… moved.
He lifted bodies from where they'd fallen some mercs, some knights, some too broken to recognize. And he laid them down, one by one, in rows. No words. No blessings. No fire or prayer. Just quiet, patient work in the shadow of a broken wall.
And up above, the sky stayed gray, like it hadn't noticed anything had happened at all.