[Entry 1 – Frostmonth 3rd, Year of Flame 472]
They said we just need to hold two more months.
Reinforcements from the capital are marching north, and the beasts won't last once the frost breaks they always go deeper into the mountains once the wind shifts. That's the hope, anyway. The commander keeps saying it like it's a prayer.
The northern wall still stands. Barely. We lost a watchtower to the last ogre charge, but the Raventhorn knights held the line. I've never seen anything like them calm, fast, and precise. One of them cut down a goblin in mid-air. Like it was nothing.
There's someone else here too. Someone who
Doesn't wear house colors.
He arrived with the mercs, but he doesn't eat with them, doesn't bunk with us. Just shows up when the fighting starts. Tall. Pale. Red eyes like coals under snowlight.
The men call him "the crimson one."
I don't know if they mean the blood he wears or the way he fights.
---
[Entry 2 – Frostmonth 7th]
Today was bad. Worse than last week.
We were clearing the riverbed when two trolls came out of the ice caves. Thought it was just another scout mission. Lost three men in the first minute. I watched Sergeant Hal fall into the water, screaming. Then it was all screaming.
Crimson showed up halfway through.
Didn't say a thing. Just tore through the fight like he was made for it. He doesn't fight like the knights though there's no form, no grace. He just swings, like he wants to break everything. His blade snapped mid-fight, and he didn't even stop. Just grabbed a fallen spear and kept going.
When it ended, he was dragging one of our wounded back to camp. Arm nearly torn off, but alive.
I thanked him. But He didn't look at me.
---
[Entry 3 – Frostmonth 13th]
There's a new layer of snow every morning now. Cold that bites your face off if you breathe too deep. Rations are half-frozen. We burn more wood than we can chop.
They attacked again last night goblins, a small pack of five but they're smart. Came in through the western gap, just past the broken stone.
I woke to shouting, ran barefoot to the alarm bell. By the time I got there, it was already over. Blood all over the snow. Crimson was standing over a pile of corpses, blade in one hand, axe in the other.
I think i get why they call em crimson.
After the battle crimson was already carrying the bodies. He buried them himself. Again.
Even though Nobody asked him to.
---
[Entry 4 – Frostmonth 18th]
Another sword broken. That's the third one I've seen him snap this month. He swings too hard, too wide. Doesn't block, just crashes into the enemy like he's trying to tear them apart.
They say he doesn't feel pain.
But today, I saw blood dripping from his ribs. Real blood. Deep red. He fought anyway.
Is he a man? Or some kind of battle spirt? I have seen no one fight like he does.
The knights don't talk about him.
But I think the prince watches. From his tent, from the wall, always from somewhere. Studying him.
I think he's trying to decide what Crimson is.
---
[Entry 5 – Frostmonth 24th]
I had a nightmare last night. Fire in the camp. Screaming. I saw myself buried in snow, eyes wide open.
When I woke up, the horn was blowing. Another attack this time Ogres Seven of them. The ground shook as they charged. I swear I felt the bones in my feet rattle.
We fought. We fought hard.
The knights held the gate. The prince led from the front. He's brave I'll give him that. The wind was so cold I couldn't feel my hands on my sword.
And Crimson?
He fought with a broken spear and a shattered sword hilt. His coat was on fire at one point. He didn't stop.
I lost count of how many he killed.
---
[Entry 6 – Frostmonth 25th]
We're down to less than sixty. From over a hundred. The fires are low. And it's quiet.
I'm writing this from my bedroll. My leg's been cut deep. I don't think I'll be walking tomorrow. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe...
[Blood smears here. The rest of the page is torn. The bottom right corner of the parchment is soaked red. The quill stroke trails off mid-word.]
---
[Scene Shift – No Journal]
The fire had long gone out.
Snowflakes drifted down slow, soft, uncaring. The bodies had been cleared from the center of camp, but the smell still lingered blood, ash, smoke. Somewhere in the dark, someone was still weeping.
Near the treeline, a shallow grave had been dug. The snow had frozen the topsoil, and the shovel lay broken nearby.
Elias stood over the body.
He held the bloodstained journal for a long moment, eyes scanning the final page. The writing stopped halfway through a sentence. No signature. No final word.
He folded it once, slid it into the coat over the boy's chest, and lowered him into the earth.
Then he buried him.
The wind howled quietly through the trees. Making the end of winter