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He gestured toward the map of Frostveil, laid out on a makeshift stone table the mages conjured before them. Snow still clung to the edges of the parchment.

"We divide into three forces. Roderik and his scouts, you take ten men and move ahead. Silence his sentries along the eastern ridges. The rangers must not see us coming. Once you are done, signal us and move to the rooftops inside the stronghold. Pick off Velmont's officers when the battle begins."

Roderik nodded, his face unreadable beneath his hood.

"Sir Edric," Laris continued, turning to the veteran knight, "take twenty knights and six mages. You will circle to the northern slopes where his beastmasters and shamans wait. We cannot allow his direwolf riders to run loose on the battlefield. Use fire. Burn them out before they can rally. Once they are dealt with, you will push down from the ridge and cut off any attempt to reinforce the gates."

Sir Edric smirked. "Burning wolves? Sounds like an easy enough task."

Laris ignored the remark and continued.

"The main assault will come from the eastern approach. I will lead the charge with the remaining sixty knights. Once the walls are breached, we fight through the streets and storm the stronghold before Velmont can organize a retreat." His voice hardened. "We take his keep. We end his line."

Silence followed, save for the crackling of the fire.

Then, Laris turned to Garik. The grizzled knight was older than most of them, his face lined with age, but his strength remained undeniable.

"And the Gorge of Aedwyn?" Garik asked, his arms crossed.

"You go alone," Laris said simply.

Garik arched his brow. "Alone?"

Laris nodded. "Velmont is smart, he will attempt to flee through the gorge but he will not come alone. Your only task is to stop him. A knight of your caliber should be more than enough to handle a dozen of his forces. Your focus is Velmont. Bring him down before he escapes."

Garik chuckled, shaking his head. "I think you overestimate me, Sir Laris."

"Nonsense, you once served as sir Dagon's right hand, in all honesty you should've been leading this assault, sir," he said.

Garik chuckled again, "I fought alongside Commander Dagon when we crushed the mountain clans, but that was a long time ago, a decade perhaps. Though I doubt I've gotten that rusty."

Laris smirked. "I don't disagree."

Garik let out a deep laugh. "Ah, well that's all in the past. You are the commander now lad. Just tell me what to do, and I'll see it done."

Laris nodded in appreciation, but then Garik's expression grew more serious. "And Velmont's family?" he asked, voice quieter. "I hear he has sons. Three of them."

"You know Imperial law," Laris said, his tone firm. "The sons and wife cannot live. If Velmont has a daughter, she will be the new lord."

Garik exhaled, shaking his head. "A shame. I've a boy of my own… so this may sting a little."

Laris studied him for a moment. "Will that stop you?"

Garik gave a sharp laugh. "Hardly."

He turned to the knights, then smirked. "Though, I wouldn't mind a little sidekick to tag along."

Laris raised a brow. "Are you really in need of assistance?"

"Hardly," Garik said again. "But I'd like one of the young bloods to gain some experience. Best way to learn more is always to see blood spilled."

Laris chuckled, the first sign of amusement flickering across his face. "And who would it be?"

Garik glanced over the gathered knights, then grinned. "Lionel."

The young knight stiffened where he stood. "M-Me?"

Garik walked up and clapped a heavy hand on the lad's shoulder. "Come on, boy. I want to teach you a thing or two."

Laris watched as Lionel swallowed nervously, then nodded.

"Good," Laris said. "Get to your positions. We move at dawn."

….

….

Dawn came with a cruel wind.

Snow whipped through the narrow mountain passes as Roderik and his scouts moved silently along the ridges.

The northern stronghold of Frostveil loomed below—a fortress of black stone and thick timber, its towers crowned with watchfires, their flames flickering against the pale morning light.

Roderik, crouched low against the snowy rocks, his breath misting in the freezing air. His gloved hand tightening around his dagger's hilt. Five enemy sentries patrolled the ridge above, wrapped in fur cloaks, weapons slung lazily at their sides. They had grown comfortable—a mistake.

Roderik turned to his men. "Take them quietly. No screams."

The scouts nodded, unsheathing their daggers. They moved like ghosts, slipping through the snow.

One by one, the imperial scouts fell upon them—knives sliding between ribs, hands muffling final cries.

Roderik wiped his blade clean and whispered, "The way is clear."

He lifted a gloved hand, signaling his archers. They took position across the rooftops of Frostveil, their arrows aimed at key targets within the town.

Waiting.

….

….

Edric and the Northern Slopes

Sir Edric's knights crouched behind the ridgeline, watching the shamans and beastmasters below.

The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and wet fur. The great mountain wolves—each the size of a warhorse—snarled and snapped at their handlers, sensing the coming slaughter.

A younger knight shifted nervously beside Edric. "If they charge us—"

"They won't," Edric cut in, raising a hand to his mages. "Now."

The mages stepped forward, hands crackling with magic. Fire bloomed in their palms, twisting into violent orbs of heat.

The sky ignited.

Flames rained down upon the camp in a torrent of destruction, setting wolves, tents, and men ablaze. The beastmasters screamed as the inferno swallowed them, their fur-lined cloaks turning to ash.

One of the shamans roared, raising his staff. A blast of icy wind howled through the valley, snuffing out some of the flames, but it was too late.

Edric drew his sword. "Move in! Kill the survivors!"

His knights descended like executioners.

Sir Edric's knights struck fast and without mercy. Flames roared as their mages unleashed more torrents of fire, engulfing the great wolf kennels in an inferno.

"Burn the beasts!" Edric roared, cutting down a fleeing shaman.

A pack of massive mountain wolves stormed from their enclosures, their riders scrambling to mount them, but the imperials were already upon them.

One beast lunged at Ser Eamon, only for the knight to drive his longsword through its eye socket. Another attempted to escape—until an imperial mage shattered the ice beneath its feet, sending beast and rider plunging into darkness.

Within moments, the northern slopes belonged to the Empire.