Chapter 3: Duty and Tears

The sky above the northern ice shelf was not a sky anymore.

It had torn open like rotten cloth, revealing an endless abyss of churning darkness and violent crimson light. The air rippled unnaturally, humming with a low, constant frequency that made men clutch their ears and horses rear in fear. Snow no longer fell; it twisted in spirals, caught in unseen currents pulled toward the rapture—a wound in the world from which the monsters of the Void bled like spilled ink across parchment.

Arasha stood on the frozen ridge, her cloak lashing in the wind, the runes across her armor softly glowing in response to the raptures's pull. Her knights flanked her, grim and tense, their weapons drawn but waiting for her word.

Below, the battle raged.

The Duke of the North, a towering man clad in warplate of white-steel and bear fur, led his remaining vanguard in a desperate stand against the horror that emerged from the rift. The creature was immense—a towering, many-limbed thing made of writhing bone and hollow faces, each one weeping smoke and whispering truths no living thing was meant to hear. It dragged its body across the battlefield like a broken marionette, tearing men apart with limbs that flickered in and out of reality.

The duke fought at the front—axe gleaming with lightning, frost crackling beneath each blow. But his forces were buckling. Already, half the northern banners lay in the snow, broken and burning. And every time the beast screamed, another rank of soldiers lost themselves to madness.

Arasha's eyes narrowed.

She turned to her knights. "Hold the line here. No one follows me beyond the crest."

Seeing such monstrosity, I'm glad I'm not too late to turn the tides. I better go alone. I can do it. No need for more sacrifice. 

Arasha thought with grim resolve. 

Besides, Garran wasn't here to argue, and none of the others dared. They saluted wordlessly, spreading out to form a defensive cordon.

She descended the ridge alone, each step sending a faint shimmer of divine light across the ice as her blessing unfurled—an aura of gold and flame that warped the corrupted air and silenced the whispers for a few paces in every direction.

The beast saw her.

It screamed.

And the wind exploded outward, flinging soldiers like leaves. The Duke of the North stumbled, turning toward her with blood-streaked armor and a wild light in his eyes.

"You came," he gasped. "By Luxfire… you actually came."

Arasha strode forward, unflinching. "Fall back, Your Grace. Your men can't hold against this. But I can end it."

He stared at her—into the glow that radiated from the mark on her hand, brighter now than it had ever been before. Then he gave a slow, shaking nod and barked orders to the few knights still alive.

As they retreated, Arasha advanced alone, her blessing flaring like a second sun beneath the wound in the sky. The anomaly shrieked in protest, its mass convulsing, trying to withdraw—but it was too late.

She raised her hand.

Light erupted.

A beam of divine fire cut through the chaos and drove itself into the heart of the rift. The creature howled, its body thrashing, unraveling like a tapestry set ablaze. The void shuddered, and reality screamed.

Arasha dropped to one knee, blood trailing from her nose, her mark searing against her skin like molten iron. She held on—chanting words older than language, her body shaking with the strain of holding divine energy no mortal should wield.

And then, with a final cry that shook the mountain spires—

The rift closed.

Silence fell.

Not peace. Not relief. Only silence. And snow, finally falling again—soft, slow, sorrowful.

She rose slowly, panting, as the knights of the Scion Order and the battered survivors gathered around. Their eyes were wide with awe and grief.

The Duke lay in the snow, cradled by one of his guards, coughing blood as he reached toward her.

Arasha rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. His breaths were shallow, the skin beneath his beard pale as ash.

"You… did it," he rasped. "I always knew… if anyone could…"

She took his hand in hers, the divine mark now dim, smoldering faintly. "Uncl—Duke Hold still. The healers—"

He shook his head weakly. "No time. My wounds… are deep. And the North… needs a shield."

He fumbled with the clasp of his mantle—pulling free the signet ring of his house, its silver band stained with his blood.

"I name you Protector of the North… until my son comes of age. Arasha, swear to me you'll keep them safe."

Arasha froze. Her breath caught. Then she bowed her head and took the ring.

"I swear it. On sun, sword, and soul."

The Duke smiled faintly, then exhaled one final breath. His hand fell limp.

Snow settled over his body like a burial shroud.

Arasha stood slowly, lifting the ring high for all to see. Her voice carried across the ice like a blade.

"By the will of the Duke, I assume stewardship of the North. Until the heir comes of age, I will stand between this land and the dark."

The wind answered.

And though many wept, they knelt—not to a duke, but to a flame that would not die.

Not while the world still needed her.

The sky over the North remained gray for days.

The winds had calmed, but a heavier storm now weighed upon the hearts of the people. Fires burned low in the hearths of noble halls and humble homes alike, not for warmth, but for mourning. The death of the Duke had left a scar upon the land almost as deep as the rapture itself.

Arasha stood on the balcony of the late duke's keep, high above the town of Frosthaven. Her shoulders were draped in a heavy mantle of fur and command—symbols of her temporary rule—but her posture was weary, stiff beneath the weight of yet another crown she had not asked for. Snow dusted her pauldrons. Her eyes were fixed on the mountains, distant and indifferent.

Uncle Lionel...

Arasha momentarily closed her eyes. Duke Lionel of the north, the guardian of Frosthaven, dead.

One of the few nobles who fully supports the Scion Order.

And a dear friend of her father who treated her warmly all these years.

Her arms crossed with her fingers digging into her arm—her face expressionless.

There was no time to grieve properly. No time to rest.

Not for her.

She turned briskly and strode back into the war room, where a map of the North lay unfurled across the table. A dozen pins marked damaged routes, displaced villages, weakened garrisons. Standing around it were the few she could trust.

Lady Esmeralda, a long-time friend from the northern court, sharp-witted and unafraid to speak hard truths. Sir Thomas, a retired knight turned magistrate with a rare sense for both justice and compassion. And at the head of the room, leaning heavily on a carved cane, stood the retired father of the late Duke—Lord Luther, the Iron Wolf of Last Winter.

His hair was snow-white, and his once-strong frame had faded, but his eyes were still like sharpened steel—alive, alert, angry for losing for his son to such monster, but willing to give what strength he had left.

Arasha faced him and gave a respectful nod.

"I would not ask this of you, Lord Luther, if I had another choice. The North bleeds. I need your voice—your name—to rally the north. I'll bear the weight of the seal, but I need your wisdom to wield it."

He looked at her for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then he gave a curt nod, his voice low but steady.

"I will not let my son's house fall to dust. Until my grandson is ready… I will guide them."

Arasha turned to the others. "Lady Esmeralda, coordinate with the outposts and trade routes. Sir Thomas—restore law in the valleys. We need order as much as food. You have my full authority to judge and act."

They all bowed. She dismissed them with a hand.

And then she walked to the quietest chamber in the keep—the one where the duke's children waited.

The eldest son stood at the window, no longer a boy, but not yet a man. His hands were clenched, his jaw tight with grief he hadn't yet learned how to express. His eyes flicked to her as she entered, and he stood straighter.

She didn't offer false comfort. Instead, she knelt before him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Lucian, your father was a great man. And you are his son. I will carry this burden until you are ready, but I cannot carry it alone."

He stared at her, lips trembling. "I don't know if I can be him."

"You're not meant to be," she said softly. "You'll be you. But you must start now. Train. Study. Learn. The North needs you. I need you. Will you help me?"

He swallowed hard. Then nodded.

She rose, turned, and beckoned the younger brother forward—barely ten, wide-eyed and pale.

"Levi," she said gently, kneeling once more to his level, "you must help your brother. In every way you can. That is your strength. Never forget that."

The boy blinked back tears and nodded too, flinging his arms around her.

"Big sister Shasha..."

Levi sobbed.

She held him for a breath—then gently pulled away.

Her final visit was to the Duchess.

She found her in the silent hall of mourning, sitting beneath the banners of her fallen husband, hands folded tightly in her lap, tears drying on her cheeks. Her beauty was now fragile as a frost-touched rose, but there was a deep, aching steel beneath it.

Arasha knelt before her, without armor, without mantle, just as herself.

"I cannot stay, Aunty Jane" she said quietly. "The rift has weakened. But other breaches will come. Other lands cry for aid. I must be ready."

The duchess didn't respond at first. Only looked at her with tired, hollow eyes.

Arasha reached out, taking her hands. "Aunty...Your people will look to you now. To mourn. To endure. You must be their beacon."

"I don't know if I have it in me," the duchess whispered.

"I didn't either," Arasha replied. "But when the world turns to darkness, sometimes the only thing that saves us… is the light we choose to become."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then the duchess nodded, eyes shining with unshed tears.

Arasha rose one final time, and as she left the hall, the burden of the North on her shoulders, the ache of sorrow behind her, and the knowledge of more battles yet to come before her…

She felt no triumph.

Only the quiet strength of duty—and the sorrow of knowing she could never be everywhere she was needed, but would still try.