A sudden, violent gust of wind howled down from the mountain peaks, sweeping vast sheets of snow across Ngabo. Spiraling snow cyclones swirled over the frozen surface of the Nuazas River, engulfing the landscape in a wall of blinding white and completely obscuring the watchtowers.
For many of the shackled Paayasian prisoners laboring on the ice, the whiteout felt like a sudden, miraculous gift from the heavens. Those who had been yearning for freedom saw a desperate opportunity in nature's chaos. Gripping their iron-tipped staffs, they broke into a sprint, dragging their clanking ankle chains across the slippery surface as they bolted into the swirling storm, desperate to escape toward distant lands that were not bound to Ngabo.
For others, however, terror kept their boots glued to the frozen riverbed.
They knew all too well that the Magoli archers patrolling the high timber towers belonged to Chinua's elite units—some of the deadliest marksmen in the realm. They had witnessed it with their own eyes on the terrifying first day of the siege: a black, tide-like wave of arrows raining down from above, turning the field into a slaughterhouse in seconds. They knew that even in a blinding storm, a single misplaced sound or a bad step could draw a rain of iron tips through the white mist, turning a desperate flight into immediate execution.
Before the thought of escape could even fully form in their minds, the sharp, hollow clanking of heavy iron shackles began to echo wildly through the swirling whiteout as a dozen prisoners broke into a panicked sprint.
Then came the sound.
A high-pitched, lethal thwack-swoop sliced through the howling wind—not a full volley, but a handful of blind, terrifyingly precise warning shots from the high watchtowers.
Seconds later, wet thuds echoed through the snow, followed instantly by gut-wrenching grunts of agonizing pain and frantic, blood-curdling screams cutting through the mist just a few dozen paces ahead. Those who had bolted collapsed onto the slick ice, pinned down by heavy iron arrowheads that had punched straight through wool and flesh.
"Stop moving!" Yongyee bellowed, his voice booming over the roaring wind like a thunderclap.
Positioning his broad frame in front of his trembling men, he raised his arms high, his iron-tipped pine staff held sideways to block anyone else from stepping forward.
"Stand down! Do not move a single step!" Yongyee shouted, his jaw tight as cold sweat mixed with the frost on his face. He was not about to watch his men get slaughtered like sheep in a blizzard—not after everything he had endured, and certainly not after he had swallowed his pride to bow before his enemy to secure their survival.
"Captain!" a soldier roared through the storm, his eyes wild with frantic resolve. "This is our only chance to escape! I would rather die running than live as a shackled slave when my home is only two hundred yards away!"
The soldier broke ranks and sprinted into the swirling whiteout. A second later—before he could even take a third stride—a heavy shaft punched straight through his sternum. He dropped like a stone, collapsing dead right at the feet of the men still standing behind Yongyee. His blood pooled rapidly onto the pristine white ice.
Panicked by the sudden death, a wave of chaos erupted. Three hundred prisoners—men who were not part of Yongyee's original unit—lost their nerve and broke into a mad dash toward the far bank, their iron shackles clattering wildly against the frozen river.
Instantly, the air hummed with a terrifying whirring sound.
Black-feathered arrows cut through the dense fog of snow in a relentless stream. Because of the blinding whiteout, Yongyee and those who held their ground could see nothing beyond a few paces—but the sickening thuds of iron hitting bone, the heavy splashes of bodies striking frozen water, and the chorus of agonizing screams painted a crystal-clear picture in the mist.
They knew the truth without needing to see it: most of those three hundred men were dead where they fell, dozens more lay thrashing and badly wounded on the ice, and at best, only a lucky few had managed to melt into the storm without a scratch.
A short distance away, the howling wind whipped heavy snow across the frozen, red-stained faces of the sixty-two children. Innocent and pure, they were little more than helpless bystanders caught in the brutal chaos of grown men, shuffling blindly into the freezing whiteout.
The older children formed a protective ring around the younger ones, shielding them from the biting wind. Even with mother nature arrayed against them, they held fast to a single unwritten oath: no one gets left behind.
As their tiny boots dragged across the snow, drawing closer to the middle of the river, a sharp, terrifying sound echoed beneath their feet. Spiderweb fractures shot across the surface, sending white, jagged cracks creeping around them in every direction.
"Everyone!" shouted the teenage boy leading the group. Realizing they had just stepped onto a patch of perilously thin ice, he froze in his tracks. "Stop moving! Don't take another step!"
Seeing him stop, the other older children instantly halted, holding their breath as the ice groaned beneath their weight.
"We're too heavy walking grouped up like this," another boy whispered nervously, his eyes wide as he stared at the cracks beneath his boots.
"What do you suggest we do?" Nou asked, her voice steady despite the cut on her lip.
The lead boy turned his head left and right, peering intently into the dense wall of white. The snowstorm was so thick he couldn't see more than ten feet ahead.
"Listen to me, everyone!" he called out, keeping his tone calm for the little ones. "We need to lie flat on the ice. Use your arms and elbows to crawl forward. That way, our weight spreads out. But we can't all move at once!"
He turned back, catching his younger sister's tear-filled eyes. "So nobody gets lost, make sure you can see the person in front of you and the person behind you at all times. Keep your eyes on each other."
With agonizing care, the boy lowered his body onto the freezing surface. Pressing his belly to the slick ice, he began using his arms and elbows to inch himself forward, moving slowly so the younger children could safely crawl along behind him.
Heavy leather boots crunched against the packed snow as looming silhouettes broke through the whiteout behind Yongyee and his men.
Stepping out from the swirling storm was Möndör. Taller and far more powerfully built than the veteran warriors trailing behind him, the teenager possessed piercing hazel eyes that fixed straight onto Yongyee. Behind him, a squad of elite Magoli archers walked in lockstep, their bows drawn taut. As the last arrow whistled straight past Yongyee's cheek and disappeared into the fog, a distant scream echoed from the mist—cutting down another fleeing runner.
For the captive Paayasian soldiers, six months of imprisonment had taught them one absolute truth: never cross paths with this young captain.
"Trying to flee?" Möndör's deep voice boomed across the ice—a voice that carried the terrifying, resonant rumble of his father, Naksh, the Arkmeric giant. He took a heavy step forward, the corner of his mouth curving into a dark, mocking smirk. "Captain... may I remind you that going back on your word to Chinua never ends well?"
"As you can see, I have not taken a single step beyond what was permitted," Yongyee replied smoothly, tilting his chin up to meet the towering young man's gaze without a trace of fear. "Therefore, take back your words."
Möndör's smirk faded into a cold glare. "Move forward, Captain. Take a hundred men with you."
"Captain, don't!" a soldier shouted from the back of the captive ranks.
"Your general gave us her word!" another bellowed.
"If you lay a hand on our captain, we'll fight you to the death!" several men roared, their iron chains clanking as they surged forward in outrage.
Möndör turned slowly toward the furious crowd, a wicked, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"I merely require him and his men to retrieve the corpses of those who ran," Möndör said smoothly. He stepped closer to the men who had raised their voices, his shadow looming over them like a mountain. Then, turning back to Yongyee, his eyes narrowed. "If you try to escape into the storm, I will order the archers in the watchtowers to slaughter every single man standing behind you."
Yongyee let out a low, gravelly chuckle.
"Child... I have eaten more sacks of rice in my lifetime than you have chewed pieces of meat," Yongyee said quietly, his voice dripping with veteran disdain. "If you truly wish to intimidate me, bring your father—not a boy playing with his father's sword."
Without waiting for a response, Yongyee turned on his heel and gestured for a hundred of his most trusted men to follow, marching straight into the blinding whiteout toward the middle of the river.
"If you and your men do not return by the count of one hundred, I will start shooting your defenders!" Möndör shouted after him, his hand resting on his blade as he watched Yongyee's shadow vanish into the swirling white mist.
Walking through the swirling whiteout, after only his fifth step, the pristine white ground beneath Yongyee's boots began to stain a dark, vivid red. Blood trails spread out across the frozen river like a web—some veering south toward the mountains, others winding north, and several streaking straight ahead into the blinding mist.
"Captain," a soldier whispered nervously, his eyes wide as he stared down at the fresh crimson tracks. "Do we follow those trails?"
"No," Yongyee said softly, stopping in his tracks. His breath bloomed into white mist as he gazed into the storm. "There is no need to hunt them down. We stay right here, collect the bodies of those who fell, and go back. If Heaven still has mercy left for the Paayasians... I hope those runners made it across this frozen lake as they so desperately wished."
Silence settled over the ice for a fraction of a second—a heavy, suffocating calm broken only by the howling wind.
Then, slicing through the whiteout with terrifying clarity, a girl's frantic voice screamed out from the mist.
"RUN!"
The voice echoed across the frozen river, wild and desperate.
"RUN!"
"Nou?"
Yongyee's voice rasped in his throat, barely more than a breath before it was swallowed by the howling wind.
The single voice became many voices—the terrified cries of children.
He stared straight into the dense, swirling whiteout ahead, his face darkening with intense, suffocating worry. His heart thundered against his ribs like a war drum. He knew that voice—he would know it anywhere, through any storm, on any battlefield in the world.
Without thinking, without caring about the iron shackles clanking at his ankles or Möndör's archers watching his every move from behind, Yongyee took a frantic step forward into the bloody snow.
"Nou?!" he roared into the fog, his voice booming across the frozen river. "Nou, is that you?!"
He ran toward the voices.