Fall of the Northern Howl

The Pact Across the Rivers

On the day the fog rose, the draft was finished before a cup of cold tea lost its warmth.

The meeting took place in a deserted border watchtower. Half the paper windows were torn, and the wind slid through the corridor, carrying away the tail ends of every word. Representing Arenthia was a delegate named Kohren, skilled in cartography, who brought with him three border maps, a box of dried fruit, and a transcriber. The Velkhar side sent only two. One never spoke. The other never sat down. He simply stared out at the silent river.

No one proposed a toast. No one remembered to say "alliance." 

The wording of the document was intentionally neutral: _"Neither side shall interfere with established operations; territorial claims shall be delineated according to the outcome."_ 

The footnote, added by Kohren, read: _"Should one party retake a region first, the other shall make no claim upon it."_

There were more silences than sentences. 

The transcriber would later write in his notes: _"They never spoke of war aims, nor asked about battle lines. They only insisted the words 'territory' and 'inheritance' be confirmed—repeatedly."_ 

That day the sky never quite opened. The river looked ink-drenched and colorless. 

A courier whispered later: it was an old river, no longer fit for boats or bodies, only good for carrying rumors.

After the pact was signed, Kohren tore a corner off the draft to wrap his journey's rations. 

The Velkhar man looked at it for a moment and asked, "Why don't you go take it yourselves?"

Kohren answered, "We are taking what was already ours."

"But you need us to move first," the man said. Then he turned and left. His footsteps made no sound, as if each one landed on old words half-buried in mud.

Three days later, the capital received a standard victory bulletin. 

Same format, same phrases: _"Restoration in sight. Old lands within reach."_ 

One clerk amended a word, inserting _"jointly"_ after _"restoration"_, but the draft was never reviewed.

That same night, someone dreaming the pact saw the river flowing backward. 

There was no sound in the dream. 

It felt like every word had to die once before it could be written into history.

After that, no one remembered the river's name. 

On one faded map, it was simply marked:

"The Water No Longer Crossed."

Of Flags and Forward Lines

On the day of departure, the sky above the capital paled like rice paper newly brushed with water. 

There was no wind in the streets, yet flags filled every corner—so dense they seemed ready to stitch the avenues into verse. 

Children stood in lines, holding wooden signs. One called, "Return!" Another answered, "Reclaim!" 

The words floated far into the morning mist, untethered and soft.

The First Legion of Arenthia's southern front assembled outside the South Gate, clad in freshly forged armor. 

The breastplates still bore the hammer marks of the smiths, left unpolished—there was no time. 

Each soldier's cloak bore a name, not their own, but that of an old northern city of the Empire—places they had never seen, and might not even exist.

Among the crowd that had come to see them off, someone murmured, 

"Isn't that misspelled? Yuleng—it should be Yulang." 

No answer came. The music had begun, and the words were scattered by brass and breath.

From a raised platform, the general delivered a brief oath. 

His speech sounded like translated poetry: measured, cadenced, untouched by passion. 

His boots beat the wood beneath him in trained rhythm, more precise than any drumline. 

When he ended, he said, "The old lands shall return, and honor with them." 

There was no applause, but every flag moved at once—rising like an answer, blocking out the morning sun.

Days later, the vanguard reached the first mountain pass, marked on the map as "The Gate of Return." 

The campaign scribe reported: _"Advanced one hundred li. No enemy sighted."_ 

No one checked the real distance; the range-measuring staff had been left behind in the half-built supply camp—repurposed to stir boiling water.

Back in the capital, another bulletin arrived: preparations for a victory parade were to begin. 

Thirty days were allotted to reach the "triumph threshold." 

Officials began debating the choreography of belonging: who would carry the standards, who would recite the blessing, who would ascend the steps first, and who would kneel closest to the throne.

Amidst the growing pile of ceremonial drafts, a letter from a soldier to his younger sister was returned unopened. 

The note read: _"Delivery location unrecognized."_ 

Her hometown had been colored red on the map as a "Returned Zone," though it had not yet been taken.

That night, a scribe copying the edict practiced by lamplight. 

He repeated the characters: _pacify_, _restore_, _proclaim_. 

He wrote slowly. The ink ran. He did not correct it. 

In the margin, he scribbled three small words: _"Not yet known."_

The army moved southward still, planting signs along the roads to mark the path of their future triumph. 

One sign fell into the mud, softened by rain, its characters bleeding into gray. 

People passed without straightening it. 

Someone said, "It won't be needed anyway."

A North That Would Not Fall

The first mountain pass bore a name on the map: _The Gate of Return_. 

But among the soldiers, they called it _Bone Hollow_. 

Spring snow clung to the slopes, the roads were mud and slippage. 

A packhorse slipped on a narrow bridge, snapped its neck. Man and beast rolled into the ravine. 

The official report read: _"Advance delayed due to difficult terrain; strategic adjustments underway."_

In the seven days that followed, there were three small skirmishes. 

No victories, but no annihilations either. 

After each clash, the headcount fell short by a few more, yet oddly, more letters reached the capital than before. 

Some claimed the scribes themselves had written extras—on the grounds that _"letters soothe the people better than triumph reports."_

One such letter was recopied all the way into the palace archives:

 "We are stranded in bramble woods. No enemy banners ahead, no roads home behind. 

 Last night we heard armor in the dark—might have been ours, or theirs. 

 A day ago, a head floated downstream with one of our caps tied to it. 

 The general said, onward."

The letter was deemed by the Inner Court as _"excessively dispiriting"_ and withheld from publication. 

A new order was issued: 

All outward mail was to be transcribed and revised. 

Tone must highlight _'high morale and stable lines'_. 

Words like _trapped_, _fractured_, _frozen_, _mistaken_ were now forbidden.

Still, the phrase _"Advance Hindered"_ appeared in every field report. 

It became a refrain, like an incantation to fill in the blanks. 

Soldiers who still knew how to read could recite the reports by heart— 

but no longer remembered where they were.

The supply line broke three times. 

The logistics bureau cited _"allocation delays"_. 

In truth, the second wave had never departed. 

An entire shipment of crossbows had tumbled into a ravine three days prior. 

No time to retrieve. 

Combat turned to close quarters. 

Some troops fought with shovels.

The Lornar still resisted. 

They built no forts. Drew no lines. 

They struck and vanished, always in woods they knew better than maps. 

At night, flames would rise behind the camp—no enemy to be seen, only burning brush and exploding cow dung. 

An officer said, _"They are cornered animals. They are spent."_ 

He coughed blood into his cloak as he turned away.

One day, a standard-bearer mistook enemy cavalry for allied scouts. 

The vanguard was surrounded. 

No reinforcements came. 

Only a dispatch: _"Advance hindered. Adjust formation."_

After the clash, the general was asked, _"Was it a victory?"_ 

He paused for a long time. Then answered: _"Not defeat."_ 

He knelt, drew a faint line in the dirt: _"This is today's border."_ 

By morning, the map had changed. 

The red line moved three inches forward. 

The copyist did not note whether it matched field conditions— 

only that it was _"as per verbal instruction."_

Each time the courier returned to the front, his robes grew brighter. 

Some murmured: _"Perhaps victory needs no blade—only ink."_

That night, a whisper passed through the ranks:

"The North does not fall—not by Heaven's favor, but by disbelief in victory."

 No one knew who said it. It was not recorded. 

 Only repeated. 

 Softly. 

 Over and over. 

 The snow did not stop. 

 The torches swayed in the wind, like heads slowly shaking no.

The Silence Beyond the Pass

The wind came first. 

Snow followed. 

No drums. No horns. 

Only the weighted sound of hooves crushing frozen earth.

The riders of Velkhar crossed the pine wastes of the northern frontier, 

forded the rivers, 

passed three ridges, 

breached five checkpoints. 

They passed ruined towns and shattered gates— 

entered no city, drank no wine, accepted no surrender.

They only moved forward.

The front ranks wore beast hides, stained with old, blackened blood that had not dried in weeks. 

Behind them, cavalry and footmen alternated, clad in scale-iron, cold clouds, miles of frost, and command. 

They spoke no words, changed no mounts, paused for no rest. 

They moved by the lines drawn long ago on yellowing maps, 

compressing memory into terrain, 

pressing the old kingdom beneath mud and snow.

Lornar's outer sentries went silent by dawn of the second day. 

On the third, a watcher reported smoke rising from the watchtower—though the sky itself remained still. 

By the fifth, the western garrison commander slit his throat; his brother replaced him and vanished before night's end. 

On the sixth, the grain store burned for three nights. 

Ash and snow fell together. 

By the seventh, the eastern gate opened on its own. 

No one knew who had turned the lock. 

By the eighth, the last spear-bearer buried his family and walked into the woods. 

He did not return.

Velkhar never replied.

They circumvented walls, drained canals, unearthed graves and sealed wells. 

Not to loot—only to proceed.

Their command banner never changed: 

a field of tarnished gold and gray, 

with a lion's skull painted in white. 

No words beneath it.

They camped only once. 

When the wind rose, they slept beneath felt wraps, no tents. 

No songs were sung. 

Sometimes a horn whispered— 

low as sleep breath, 

as if from someone dreaming they might wake.

When the old capital of Lornar fell, there were no bells, 

no cries. 

Before noon, the northern tower crumbled and crushed the last court scribe who had vowed to defend it. 

His body was never moved. 

In one hand, he clutched a broken stylus. 

On his chest, a report page lay soaked and bleeding ink, 

its characters vanished into pulp.

Velkhar did not enter the palace. 

They formed ranks in the southern fields. 

Cooked their meals. 

Lined up as they always did.

Three days later, the townspeople were ordered to reopen the market. 

No one disobeyed. 

No one named a price. 

The scale beside the rice stall was frozen mid-mark. 

A sign scrawled in charcoal read two words: _"As Usual."_

The court calendar recorded the day: 

"Northern regions mild; no anomalies."

No stone was raised to mark the battle. 

No Velkhar officer spoke of victory or loss. 

Half a month later, a treaty of cession reached Arenthia. 

The seal wax still soft. 

No signature.

A courtier asked: _"Is the North now at peace?"_ 

The clerk replied:

"There is no more howling. So yes—peace."

A City Too Quiet to Rejoice

The news arrived before dawn.

The courier wore a cloak trimmed in red and gold. 

Ash still dusted the cobblestones as he rode into the capital, holding a scroll aloft. 

His horse hadn't stopped when a voice cried out:

 "The Northern Cities are ours!"

An old dog by the roadside raised its head, 

then went back to sniffing for bones beneath a pile of torn rags.

The clerks seemed already prepared. 

In the Hall of Petitions, the braziers were still warm. 

Stacks of parchment curled softly in the heat. 

Thirty-three edicts were drafted within two days: 

from _"Triumphal Victory Announced"_ to _"Ministers Offer Praise"_ and _"Citizens Rejoice."_ 

Each followed an old template. 

Only the place names and dates were changed.

Only one document blurred— 

ink bleeding into the previous page, 

where faded words remained:

 "Five hundred thousand in ransom gold; 

 thirty percent levy in armaments." 

 That line was carefully trimmed away.

A troop of boys practiced slogans along the main avenue:

 "By Heaven's Will, Peace to the North! The Cities Return to Us!" 

 The chant was neat, but hollow. 

 One child spoke too fast—said "Yuling" instead of "Yuyun." 

 The drill master paused, then said nothing.

The palace had already been lit. 

New banners hung along the walls, painted with mountain and river motifs, 

though their colors looked like brocade left too long in shadow. 

The embroiderers had worked for seven days and nights, 

stitching _"Lands Restored"_ in gold thread. 

The thread came from the old dynasty. 

It had long since snapped— 

they spliced it back together.

To the north of the city, a temporary viewing stage had been built. 

Eight chairs were set. 

The emperor did not come. 

The chancellor and a handful of elder ministers watched in silence.

Below, actors in war costume re-enacted the "Great Reconquest":

Flames. Horse cries. 

The enemy routed before a single blow.

 "Our vanguard did not lose a man!" someone shouted.

A few clapped. 

The applause was thin and brief— 

like coughing muffled in winter sleeves.

Meanwhile, beyond the eastern outskirts, 

in a neglected field, 

someone was burying a rusted sword in the earth. 

Beside him: a toppled granary, a cracked boundary stone, 

and a torn flag bearing a single word:

 "Belonging."

No one knew who he was. 

He did not look back at the city.

The proclamation was read at noon. 

The streets were full— 

people standing, watching as colored petals and ribbons fell from above. 

The wind carried them into gutters, onto rooftops, into the seams of worn shoes. 

One petal landed in a puddle, inked with four words:

 "The North is Pacified."

That afternoon, the air turned sharply cold. 

Some said it was the coming snow. 

Others said the spirits of old battles were circling outside the gates.

But no one lowered the flags. 

No one forgot their lines. 

The victory had been declared. 

It could not be undone.

Later that night, someone pasted a single line of ink on the outer wall:

 "If this is triumph, why does no one cheer?"

The Purchase of Glory

On the third day after the celebrations, the Ministry of Rites convened as usual. 

The topic was not military rewards, but budget amendments.

A sealed letter from the Northern Military Office lay beneath a register of ministerial conduct. 

The paper was coarse, yellowed, the folds stained with ash. 

One corner bore the beast emblem of Velkhar.

The message held only three lines:

 "The Yuyun territories may return, as agreed. 

 Five hundred thousand in silver, plus thirty percent in arms and grain. 

 Payment due within one month."

There was no signature. 

Only a pale gray brand at the end— 

like a bone-stamp pried from a corpse.

The Ministry of Justice advised rejection:

 "The terms violate ritual protocol."

The Ministry of War advised acceptance:

 "The campaign cannot be sustained. 

 This is no ransom, but rightful return."

That night, the Grand Chancellor wrote his marginal comment. 

The ink varied in thickness:

 "...The lands are returned. That is settled. 

 But the name cannot be made whole. Choose the words with care."

Thus a new edict was drafted. 

The phrase once written as _"Returned by blade, reclaimed by force"_ 

was revised to read:

"The northern lands align with royal order; the people return to virtue."

The Treasury, under the title _"Fortifications in the Eastern Frontier,"_ 

entered the silver sum into next year's accounts. 

No objections were raised.

An archivist logged the transfer:

 "Reclamation record No. 117, filed under Volume III of the Military Ledger, pending review."

At the bottom corner, a blot of ink had bled. 

Someone, using a broken stylus, had written in the margin:

 "A victory without battle."

Another day, a junior clerk secretly consulted an old map. 

He placed a red seal over the Yuyun frontier. 

His colleague asked:

 "Do you know what it used to be called?"

He shook his head.

A few days later, a crate of newly printed maps was delivered to the Imperial Academy, 

for use in elementary instruction. 

"Yuzhen" was renamed _"Territory One – Returned Region"_. 

The Yanshan mountains were now _"Northern Ridge of Obedience."_

The common people never heard of this. 

They only remembered—

That night, the northern wind rattled the palace gates. 

All flags were folded neatly. 

The paper flowers had been swept away.

But within and beyond the palace walls, a phrase began to circulate:

 "The land was bought. 

 But not its name."

The Stars Returned, But Duller

That winter came early. 

The wind was the color of ash. 

The snow was thin, like something was being wiped from the sky.

The Imperial Academy posted a new curriculum— 

on the administrative divisions of the "Returned Territories." 

Children sat at cold wooden desks, pointing at a patch of the map newly renamed. 

One misread "Territory One – Returned" as _"Territory of Surrender."_ 

The instructor did not correct him. 

He only said, "You'll get used to it."

There wasn't enough charcoal. 

After class, the children tore the map into pieces for firewood. 

The first to burn was the line with the old names. 

It didn't smoke. 

It only made a soft crackling sound.

A new song began to spread in the streets— 

it sang of sixteen stars coming home. 

The lyrics were clever, 

claiming each star had a rightful bearer, a legend, a direction. 

But those who sang it sang slowly, 

like old men chewing something with no taste.

Some tried to draw the sky they had reclaimed, 

but found the colors on paper always paler than memory. 

The dye houses attempted to recreate "Northern Star Blue," 

but what emerged was an unnamed hue— 

something between fog and gray.

In a tavern corner, an old soldier said, 

"I've been there." 

Someone asked what he saw. 

He said, 

"A saddle I once lost, and a bridle that never broke."

He later lost his voice. 

When he spoke, he carved lines into the table with a knife. 

He drew a circle, surrounded by sixteen arcs. 

But the tavern was too dark. 

No one understood what he meant.

The court issued one last proclamation:

 "The frontier is restored. 

 The stars are returned. 

 The people are safe. 

 The land is full."

But the ink ran. 

The word _"returned"_ fell across a page crease, 

blurred beyond reading.

Years later, a scholar compiling the _Annals of the North – Supplement_ wrote:

 "The chronicle is flawed. 

 Victory and defeat are hard to discern. 

 But the names are now correct. 

 There is no more to debate."

He did not sign his name. 

Only stamped a single line of verse:

"The old ones have ridden off with the stars; 

 This place holds only their forgotten names."