Stone chips flew upward—suspended in the air like frozen stars.
The impact did not travel.
It bloomed.
A violent pulse rippled outward from the shattered gate, rolling across the packed earth, climbing through the soles of boots and into bone. Men staggered—not from the sight of it, but from the force alone.
For a single second—
Even Ser Jared froze.
A second.
Nothing more.
Then—
"Archers!" he roared, voice cutting through the shock. "Draw and loose! Slay the giant!"
Strings snapped taut.
Arrows flew.
They struck the towering figure—thudded into thick hide armor stretched across its massive frame. Some sank shallow. Most deflected.
It did not fall.
—
Saskia did not hear the arrows.
Did not hear the shouting.
She stood—
Still.
For her entire life, the gate had never fallen.
Not once.
It was not meant to.
It stands, her father had said.
It always stands.
But now—
It lay broken at her feet.
Her hand trembled.
"I'm afraid…" she whispered, barely audible.
The world dimmed.
For a fleeting moment—
Not the hall.
Not the battle.
But a memory.
A colder room.
A stiller silence.
Her father, lying where even fire could not warm him. His hand—once unyielding—resting lifeless against worn blankets. The fortress quiet around him, not in peace, but in waiting.
"You are not ready," a voice had said then—not unkind, not cruel. Just… true.
I'm not ready, she thought now.
I was never meant to—
"Lady Saskia!"
The voice struck through it.
Sharp.
Immediate.
"Order your troops!" Fitz's voice broke through the fog, louder than she had ever heard it. "They are afraid—they need you!"
Before she could respond—
A whistle cut through the air.
An arrow.
Too close.
"Lady—!"
Fitz moved without thinking.
His hand caught her arm—pulled just enough.
The arrow passed where she had stood a breath before, striking stone with a sharp crack.
For a moment—
Everything snapped back into place.
Saskia blinked.
The cold returned.
The noise.
The weight.
She pulled her arm free—not roughly, but firmly.
Her voice came next.
"Hold your ground!" she commanded, sharp and clear. "Spearmen—forward! Vanguard engage! Archers—loose at will!"
The line answered.
Not with confidence—
But with obedience.
—
The courtyard descended into motion.
Frozen Gate's soldiers—clad in worn leather armor, layered thick against the cold—formed tight ranks. Round shields locked together, edges biting into one another. Spears extended between them, trembling slightly but held firm. Behind them, men with axes and short swords waited, shifting, ready to close gaps when they came.
Above—
Archers repositioned, some still on the walls, others now forming a second line behind the shields, as ordered. Their bows bent again and again, arrows falling in measured rhythm.
The tribesmen surged.
Thick hide armor draped over their bodies, crude but effective. Clubs and axes raised high, they rushed forward with raw force, their cries echoing against stone.
Some did not go for the breach.
They climbed.
Walls, timber, anything that gave purchase—they ascended with alarming ease, heedless of the arrows that struck them.
"Wall climbers!" someone shouted.
But too many had already reached the top.
—
One dropped down—
Directly before Ser Jared.
A towering tribesman, axe already in motion.
Jared did not step back.
He stepped in.
The axe came down—fast, brutal—
Jared angled his body, the blade glancing off his shoulder plate with a jarring clang. The force drove him half a step sideways, but his footing held.
Too slow, he judged instantly.
The tribesman pulled back for another swing—
Jared didn't give it.
His sword flashed upward—not wide, not wasted—driven straight into the man's exposed side beneath the ribs. The hide resisted—then gave.
A grunt.
Jared twisted the blade.
Pulled free.
The tribesman staggered.
Still standing.
Still dangerous.
The axe came again—
Jared shifted closer—too close for the full swing to land—and drove his shoulder forward, slamming into the man's chest. The impact broke his balance.
That was enough.
A clean cut followed.
Across the throat.
The man fell.
Jared did not watch him hit the ground.
"Next!" he barked, already turning.
—
"My lady—!"
Saskia's attention snapped back to the line.
"The men—they're breaking!" a soldier shouted.
"They are afraid!" Saskia said, sharper than intended. "What do I—"
She stopped.
Forced herself still.
Think.
You cannot freeze again.
Before she could find the answer—
Fitz moved.
Not forward.
Back.
Toward the line.
He stepped behind the shield wall—close enough to be seen, far enough not to disrupt it. The soldiers glanced at him—uncertain, distracted.
He drew a breath.
Then spoke.
Not as a prince.
Not as a commander.
As something simpler.
"Northmen… no—citizens of Frozen Gate!"
His voice carried—not loud, but clear.
"You have faced them before."
A pause.
"And you are still standing."
His grip tightened on the sword.
"They are stronger than you. Larger than you."
Honest.
"They will break your shields. They will push your line."
A beat.
"But they do not have what you have."
His gaze moved across them.
"This is your home."
Another step forward.
"Behind you is not land to lose—it is everything you refuse to give."
The men listened.
Not fully convinced.
But listening.
"So stand," Fitz said, quieter now—but sharper. "Stand as you always have. Not because you cannot fall—"
A breath.
"—but because you will not."
A final pause.
"For House Nivia."
"For Frozen Gate."
"For those who cannot stand here with you."
His voice hardened—just enough.
"Do not falter."
"Fight."
For a moment—
Silence.
Then—
Shields steadied.
Grips tightened.
A line reformed.
Fitz stepped back.
Returned.
—
"My lady," he said quietly as he reached her side again, "rule now. Their spirit is returning."
Saskia looked at him.
Really looked.
Then—
"…You have my gratitude, my lord," she said, steady once more.
And this time—
It held.
Her voice rose again.
"Spears—hold the center! Do not overextend!"
She pointed.
"Axe line—break their flanks when they commit! Do not chase!"
Another command—
"Archers—focus the large target! Aim low—hamstring it!"
Orders flowed.
Simple.
Effective.
Nothing grand.
Everything necessary.
And slowly—
The line began to hold.
—
The giant drew breath.
A deep, rumbling inhale that seemed to pull the cold itself inward.
Then—
It moved.
Not wildly.
With intent.
It crashed into the formation.
Shields splintered.
Men were thrown aside.
The line bent—
Then nearly broke.
And through that fracture—
They slipped in.
Three tribesmen.
Fast.
Close.
Too close.
—
Fitz saw them.
Too many.
No time to think.
Only to act.
The first came with a club—swinging wide.
Fitz stepped in—not back.
The motion caught the man off guard.
The club passed behind him—
Fitz's blade came up—not a clean strike, not practiced—but precise enough. It cut across the man's forearm.
Not deep.
But enough.
The grip loosened.
The weapon dropped.
Fitz didn't hesitate.
He drove forward—awkward, but committed—and thrust the blade into the man's chest. The resistance startled him.
Push.
He did.
The blade went in.
The man fell.
Fitz pulled back—breathing harder now.
The second was already on him.
An axe.
Fast.
Too fast.
Steel met steel—
Fitz barely caught it, the impact jolting up his arms, nearly ripping the sword from his grip.
I will die here.
The thought came—
Clear.
Cold.
Then—
A blur beside him.
Ser Wilbur.
The older knight stepped between them, his blade moving with none of Fitz's hesitation. One strike—clean, efficient—drove through the tribesman's neck.
He turned slightly.
"My prince," he said, almost calmly, "stay within your limits."
Fitz swallowed.
"…I am attempting to find them."
Wilbur gave the faintest nod.
"Do so quickly."
Then he moved again—another opponent already falling beneath his blade.
—
Around them—
The line reformed.
Saskia's voice cut through the chaos again and again, anchoring it.
"Push!"
"Hold!"
"Now—advance two steps!"
The soldiers responded.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Arrows struck the giant's legs.
Spears found joints.
Axes bit where they could.
It roared—
Louder this time.
Weaker.
And slowly—
It began to fall.
——
The giant staggered.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
It fell.
Not gracefully. Not like a man.
Like a mountain giving way.
Its massive frame crashed against the frozen ground with a force that shook what remained of the gate. Snow and debris surged outward, swallowing its body in a choking cloud of white.
For a heartbeat—
No one moved.
Then—
A voice broke from the tribesmen.
Raw.
Panicked.
"Mun!—Mun of Frostpeak is dead!!"
The words spread faster than any command.
From one throat to another.
From certainty—
To fracture.
The tribesmen faltered.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Ser Jared saw it at once.
"Press them!" he roared. "Now—while they break!"
He drove forward from the gate, blade already moving, cutting down a man too slow to retreat. His voice carried behind him—
"Mun of Frostpeak…" he muttered under his breath, almost to himself, even as he fought. "A fitting name—to be taken from the tallest mountain in the North."
A breath.
Then, louder—
"And now he falls the same way!"
—
"Forward!" Saskia commanded.
No hesitation now.
No tremor.
"Two steps—hold—then push again! Do not scatter!"
The line obeyed.
Shields advanced in unison, boots grinding against bloodied frost. Spears thrust in measured rhythm—not chasing, not overreaching. Behind them, axes rose and fell, brutal and close.
The tribesmen gave ground.
Not in order.
Not in strength.
But in confusion.
Their center—broken.
Their momentum—gone.
Fitz moved with the line.
Not leading.
Not lagging.
Within it.
His breath came sharper now, uneven beneath the cold air. His grip on the sword had changed—still imperfect, still untrained, but no longer foreign.
A tribesman lunged toward him—wild, desperate.
Fitz reacted.
This time, he did not hesitate.
He stepped aside—just enough—and brought the blade across in a short, controlled motion. Not elegant.
But effective.
The man fell.
Fitz did not watch him.
Keep moving.
Beside him, Ser Wilbur was something else entirely.
Measured.
Efficient.
Where Fitz struggled, Wilbur resolved. His blade moved without waste—each strike deliberate, each motion calculated. A man raised an axe—Wilbur stepped inside it, turned the wrist, and drove steel through the gap beneath the arm.
Another came—
He was already ready.
"My prince," Wilbur said between strikes, calm even now, "do not pursue beyond the line."
"I have no intention of outrunning it," Fitz replied, breath tight.
A faint sound—almost approval.
"Good."
—
Above—
Archers loosed again.
Now with purpose.
Now with targets that faltered, turned, exposed their backs.
Arrows struck deep.
The tribesmen began to break.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Some turned.
Some ran.
Some fought still—cornered, stubborn, unwilling to yield even as the tide turned against them.
"Do not chase!" Saskia's voice cut through immediately. "Hold formation! Secure the gate!"
The order was obeyed.
Barely.
The urge to pursue burned through the men—but discipline, drilled through years of survival, held them in place.
They advanced only as ordered.
No further.
No less.
—
"Left flank—clear them!" Saskia called. "Spears forward—axes behind!"
The maneuver shifted cleanly.
A pocket of resistance collapsed.
Another followed.
What had been chaos began to thin.
To narrow.
To end.
—
Ser Jared stepped back at last, breath heavy but controlled, his blade darkened. His eyes scanned the field—not for glory, but for threat.
Finding less.
With each passing moment—
Less.
"…They're breaking," one soldier muttered, almost disbelieving.
"No," Ser Jared corrected, voice low.
"They're gone."
—
And slowly—
The courtyard fell quiet.
Not silent.
Never that.
But quieter.
The clash of steel faded into scattered strikes.
Then into none.
The last of the tribesmen retreated through the broken threshold, dragging their wounded or leaving them behind.
Snow began to fall again.
Soft.
Indifferent.
As if the battle had not happened at all.
—
Fitz lowered his sword.
His arm ached.
His breath still uneven.
He looked down at the blade—
Then away.
I did not die.
A strange thought.
Simple.
Almost childish.
He turned.
Saskia stood where she had commanded from—still, composed, though the faintest tremor lingered in her fingers before it stilled again.
Their eyes met.
No words passed.
None needed.
—
Ser Jared approached, wiping his blade clean against a strip of cloth.
"My lady," he said, bowing his head slightly. "The gate is lost… but the fort holds."
Saskia nodded once.
"Then we endure," she said.
Simple.
Absolute.
Her gaze shifted briefly—toward the shattered remains of the gate.
Then back.
"Begin cleanup," she ordered. "Tend to the wounded first. Reinforce what we can before night deepens."
"Yes, my lady."
He turned immediately.
Already moving.
—
Around them—
Men began to work.
Not celebrate.
Not rest.
They dragged bodies aside. Bound wounds with shaking hands. Reformed lines that no longer needed to stand.
Survival did not end with victory.
It only changed its shape.
—
Fitz exhaled slowly.
Then, quieter—
"…Frozen Gate."
Not a question.
Not quite.
Saskia heard it.
"It stands," she replied.
A pause.
Then—
"…for now."
And the snow kept falling.