In the morning, it wasn't the light that woke Antares. It was the smell. It was a rich, heavy scent — savory, smoky, and laced with the unmistakable metallic tang of high-grade mana. It was the smell of Stonefang serpent meat roasting over open fires. It permeated the heavy canvas of the Royal Tent, slipping through the gaps in the leather flaps and pulling Antares from a deep, dreamless sleep.
He sat up, his stomach letting out a treacherous growl that seemed to vibrate against his ribs. He realized with a start that he hadn't eaten a proper meal since the morning prior. The adrenaline of the hunt, the massacre of the serpents, and the tension with Yanrid had distracted him, but now that his body was at rest, the demand for fuel was overwhelming and could no longer be ignored.
He threw off the heavy furs and moved to the washbasin. The water was freezing, a thin layer of ice needing to be cracked before he could splash his face. He caught his reflection in the polished bronze mirror — wild, shoulder-length black hair that refused to be tamed, and eyes that glowed with a permanent, piercing crimson light. He looked less like a human noble and more like a wild warlord.
He dressed quickly, foregoing the heavy plate armor for a set of lighter, weather-adaptable leathers lined with terror-wolf fur. He strapped Eos to his back, the golden weapon feeling light and familiar, and stepped out into the biting morning air.
The camp was alive. Usually, the morning routine was a grim, silent affair of changing guards and checking perimeters. But today, there was a buzz, a vibration of excitement that hummed through the very ground.
Antares followed his nose toward the central plaza, where the great fire pits had been dug. What he saw made a genuine smile break through his usually stoic mask.
Dozens of massive skewers were turning slowly over roaring fires. Huge slabs of serpent meat, glistening with rendered fat and dusted with crushed rock-salt and herbs, sizzled and popped. The smoke was thick and white, carrying the promise of satisfaction. The camp helpers — non-combatant Antmen who managed logistics — were working alongside off-duty warriors, turning the cranks and basting the meat. A long, orderly line of soldiers snaked around the plaza, waiting for their meals.
As Antares approached, the chatter died down. The soldiers nearest to him stiffened, their instincts screaming to salute.
"At ease!" Antares called out, raising a hand before they could drop to their knees. "I didn't come here to stress. I came here because I'm also hungry."
A ripple of laughter went through the line. It was hesitant at first, but when they saw the King's grin, it became genuine.
Antares walked to the back of the line.
"Sire?" a young Ashfang warrior stammered, his eyes wide. "Please, take my place. The King should not wait."
"Nonsense," Antares said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "Hunger knows no rank, soldier. Besides, the smell is half the meal. Let me enjoy the anticipation."
He stood there, chatting with the men and women of the camp. He asked about their families back in the underground settlement. He joked about the toughness of the meat. He listened to a forager complain about the cold in a way that suggested he was proud of surviving it.
This wasn't just a meal; it was statecraft. Antares knew that loyalty wasn't bought with gold or fear. It was bought with shared hardship and shared bread. By standing in the snow with a wooden bowl, waiting for his turn, he was telling them: *I am not above you. I am with you.*
When he finally reached the front, the cook — a burly, scarred Antman with a missing ear — heaped a massive, steaming portion of serpent flank into Antares's bowl.
"The rib meat, Sire," the cook whispered conspiratorially. "Best part. Melts in the mouth."
"I'll hold you to that, Horgus," Antares replied with a wink.
He found a seat on a log near the fire, surrounded by his troops. The meat was incredible. It was dense, requiring real effort to chew, but as it broke down, it released a flood of warm, tingling energy that spread through his limbs. This was the power of consuming higher-tier monsters; it wasn't just food, it was also a cultivation resource.
He was halfway through his second skewer, laughing at a story a scout was telling about a clumsy snow-bear, when two shadows fell over him.
Levi and Eli stood there. They were in full combat gear, their expressions serious.
"My Lord," Levi said, bowing low. "Apologies for the interruption."
Antares swallowed the last bite, wiping the grease from his lips with the back of his hand. "Let me guess. The council is gathered?"
"They are waiting in your tent, Sire," Eli confirmed. "All the Clan Leaders are present."
Antares sighed, the moment of peace evaporating like breath in the cold air. He stood up, placing his empty bowl on the log. "Duty calls. Finish your meals, everyone. We have tons of work to do today."
The walk back to the Royal Tent was short. Levi and Eli flanked him, their movements synchronized, serving as a reminder that the relaxed man that was just eating snake BBQ a moment ago was also the most protected being in the region.
When Antares entered the tent, the atmosphere shifted from the warm camaraderie of the fireside to the heavy, suffocating tension of a war room.
Lord Kael was pacing. The Master Smith, usually as solid and immovable as his anvil, looked like a man on the edge of a breakdown. His hands were clasped behind his back, his fingers twitching.
Lady Sira, the elegant and sharp-tongued diplomat of the tribe, sat with perfect posture, her eyes scanning a scroll of trade goods.
Velas and Yajin stood near the map table, speaking in low tones.
"My King," Kael said, stopping his pacing the moment Antares entered. He looked desperate.
Antares walked to his desk and sat down, gesturing for everyone to take their places. "Sit, Kael. Everyone, take a seat. We have much to cover and very little time."
He looked around the room, meeting each of their gazes. "I'm not going to beat around the bush," Antares started, his voice firm. "We are splitting our forces today. This marks the beginning of our true expansion."
He pointed directly to the North on the map. "First, the rescue mission. A specialized detachment led by myself will depart immediately for the Godwall Mountains. Our objective is simple: locate and retrieve Kael's sons."
Kael stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He bowed deeply, his voice trembling. "Sire… I… I cannot express my gratitude. To risk your own life for the sons of a smith… it is a debt I can never repay."
"Sit down, Kael," Antares said gently, but with authority. "They are not just sons of a smith. They are children of the Hive. And we do not leave our own to die in the cold. Besides, I need them. If they have half your talent, they are valuable assets to the tribe."
Kael sat, wiping a hand across his eyes, his anxiety replaced by a fierce, silent loyalty.
Antares turned to the map, tracing a line to the South. "While I am in the mountains, we must look to the future. Lord Yajin, Lady Sira. You will take the trade delegation South."
Sira leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "To the coast, Sire? To the Redbeard Pirates?"
"Precisely," Antares said. "We have a tentative agreement, but pirates respect only two things: strength and wealth. I need you to honor the meeting, but listen to me closely — stall them."
Yajin frowned. "Stall them, Sire? Do we not want their products as fast as possible?"
"We do," Antares replied. "But I want to look their Captain in the eye myself. I want to gauge if they are merely trading partners or potential vassals or future foes. Drag out the negotiations. Show them the goods, let them touch the merchandise, but do not sign the final treaty until I descend from the mountain and join you."
Lady Sira bowed her head, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "I understand, my King. They won't realize they are waiting until you are standing in front of them. I vow to carry out this mission flawlessly."
The tent flap opened, letting in a gust of freezing wind. Yanrid entered. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. He was dressed in his sleek, light leather armor, a quiver of ice-arrows on his back. His face was a mask of professional detachment, ignoring Yajin entirely.
"The rescue party is ready, Your Majesty," Yanrid said coldly. "The rescue unit is assembled at the North Gate. Weather conditions are optimal for flight."
Antares nodded, acknowledging the tension but choosing to ignore it for now. "Excellent."
He turned to Velas. "Lord Velas, you are the shield while we are gone. You hold the camp. You supervise the foraging units, you ensure the perimeter is secure, and you maintain the peace." He shot a quick glance at Yajin, implying the incident with Azir. "Ensure the safety of our people, Velas. You are the Steward until I return."
Velas placed a fist over his heart. "The camp will be a fortress, Sire. Nothing gets in or out without my permission."
Yajin cleared his throat. "Regarding logistics, Sire. The carts of meat and wood are already en route to the underground settlement. The two wounded recruits are also on their way back to the settlement. They will receive treatment there."
"Good," Antares said, leaning back. "That meat will fill the new ice-storage rooms. It guarantees the tribe survives the rest of winter comfortably. But there is one specific order regarding the spoils."
He looked at Yajin. "The Alpha Stonefang meat — its heart, organs, and meat. Send it all directly to the Palace. To my wife Queen Solara."
Sira raised an eyebrow elegantly. "To the Queen, Sire? Is it for a feast?"
"It is for the future," Antares said, his voice leaving no room for questions. "Solara will know what to do with it. That's all I can say for now. Send it to her with my regards."
"It will be done," Yajin said.
Antares stood up, pacing over to the table where Sira's trade scroll lay. "Lady Sira, regarding the trade goods for the Redbeards. We are not paying them in gold. We are paying them in monster parts this time." He tapped the list. "The Stonefang bones, the venom sacs, the lesser scales, the eyes. These are materials the humans and dwarves would kill for. Use them to acquire top-quality goods."
"And the Alpha?" Kael asked, his voice steadying.
Antares turned to the smith, his red eyes glowing. "Absolutely not. The Alpha is ours." He walked over to Kael, lowering his voice. "Kael, I want you to use the Alpha's body for the Royal Guard. The fangs are harder and sharper than most blades — turn them into daggers, swords, spear and arrow tips. The scales are nearly impervious to normal physical attacks — forge them into plates for the warriors. And the bones… the spinal column specifically… I have a plan for it, but we shall discuss it when I return."
Kael's eyes widened, his craftsman's soul igniting. "Sire… materials of that tier… I vow to forge weapons worthy of your praise. I will not waste a single splinter of bone."
"I know you won't," Antares said.
He looked around the room one last time. "Everyone has their orders. If there's an emergency, contact me."
The gathered leaders bowed in unison. "Yes, Your Majesty!"
Antares didn't wait for them to disperse. He strode to his weapon rack, grabbing Eos and feeling the hum of the golden sword resonate with his own soul. He walked out of the tent, Levi and Eli falling into step behind him instantly.
Outside, the wind was picking up, swirling the snow around the base of the Tower. Antares looked North, toward the looming white wall of the mountains.
"Yanrid," Antares called out without looking back, knowing the scout was following. "Let's go get those boys."
"Right behind you, Sire," Yanrid replied.
---
The North Gate of the camp was usually a place of solitary vigils, where the wind howled louder than anywhere else on the plateau. But this morning, it was a hub of silent activity.
Antares stood at the threshold, the collar of his terror-wolf fur coat turned up against the biting gale. Before him stood a handpicked detachment of thirty elite Antmen. They were a terrifying sight. Unlike the standard heavy infantry of the Ashfang or the robed mages of the Arcanis, these warriors were built for speed and aerial dominance. Some were Ashfang, their natural bulk reduced to lean muscle; others were Arcanis battle-mages with mana-crystals embedded in wooden staffs; and many were "common" antmen who had simply evolved through sheer grit and physical stress.
They carried large, reinforced leather bags filled with rations, high-grade healing potions brewed by the few Alchemists of the Arcanis, and other essentials. They were light, they were fast, and they were ready to fly into the teeth of the mountain.
The Clan Leaders had gathered to see their King off. The mood was heavy.
Antares adjusted the strap of his own travel bag — he refused to let a subordinate carry his gear — and turned to face his council.
"You have your orders," Antares said, his voice cutting through the wind. "The camp must remain a fortress. The trade mission must stall. And you know the rest."
Kael stepped forward. The massive smith looked small in the face of his own fear. "Sire… the mountain… the snow storms there can freeze a man's blood in seconds. Please. Be careful."
Antares gripped Kael's shoulder, his red eyes burning with a promise. "I am not going there to die, Kael. I am going there to retrieve our people. Stay strong. Your sons will need their father."
Kael bowed low, his voice cracking. "I will not fail my King."
Antares turned to Yajin and Sira. "And you two. Do not let the pirates intimidate you. Remember, we are the ones selling. We are the ones holding the leash."
"We will not mess this up, Sire," Sira said, dipping into a curtsy that was somehow graceful even in the snow. "The Redbeards will be eating out of our hands by the time you arrive."
"Good." Antares replied, satisfied by the answer.
Antares turned his back on the safety of the camp. He looked at the thirty warriors waiting for his signal. He looked at Yanrid, who stood at the head of the formation, his face a mask of icy determination.
"Move out!" Antares commanded.
Thirty pairs of translucent, mana-infused insectoid wings unfurled in unison, creating a humming vibration that shook the snow from the nearby rocks. Antares triggered his own mana-circuits, his wings snapping open with a sound like a cracking whip.
"Let's fly."
---
The journey was brutal. The higher they ascended toward the north, the more the temperature plummeted. The wind wasn't just moving air; it was a physical wall of frost that tried to strip the heat from their bodies. Antares flew at the point of the V-formation, cutting a path through the turbulence. His Red Knight Force formed a thin, invisible barrier around him, deflecting the worst of the chill, but he could still feel it gnawing at his extremities.
Below them, the landscape shifted from the scrubland of the camp to deep, untouched taiga. Massive herds of beasts that looked like yaks moved like rivers of fur through the snow. Packs of terror-wolves watched the flying squadron from rocky outcrops, howling their frustration at prey they couldn't reach.
They flew for twelve hours straight, only stopping briefly to hydrate and check their bearings. The discipline of the Winged Corps was absolute. No one complained. No one lagged behind.
By nightfall, the Godwall Mountains were visible on the horizon — a jagged white line that seemed to hold up the stars. But they were still too far to make the ascent safely in the dark.
"Target sighted!" Yanrid's voice came over the wind, pointing downward. "The Great Oak!"
Antares looked down and his eyes widened. In the middle of a dense forest of already massive Iron-Oaks, there stood a titan. It was a tree of such impossible scale that it defied logic. It towered over its brethren, its canopy piercing the low-hanging clouds. It must have been over 500 meters tall, a veritable mountain of wood and leaf.
"Let's land there!" Antares signaled.
The squad descended, spiraling down toward the massive branches. They didn't land on the ground; the branches of this tree were so thick they were like highways suspended in the sky.
Antares touched down on a branch the width of a city street. The bark was as hard as iron and radiated a faint, warm pulse of mana.
"It's alive," Antares whispered, running a hand over the rough surface.
Yanrid landed beside him, his breath not even misting in the air. "It is a candidate to become a World Tree, Sire. It has been absorbing the mana present in the air and ground of this forest for perhaps a thousand years. If it continues to grow… one day it might hold a realm of its own."
"Impressive," Antares murmured, looking up at the canopy that blocked out half the sky. "So it's a king among trees."
"Squad!" Yanrid barked, turning to the men. "Set perimeter! Two-man rotation on watch. The rest of you, eat and rest. We do not know what lives in a tree this size, and I do not want to find out the hard way."
Antares nodded in approval. He didn't want to spend the night fighting. He just wanted to eat and sleep. He found a comfortable nook where a smaller branch joined the main trunk, sitting cross-legged. The stars were glowing brightly above, unobstructed, shining with a clarity that made him feel small.
Yanrid didn't sit. He stood near the edge of the branch, looking out into the darkness.
Antares watched him for a moment. The King was wrapped in layers of fur and leather, and he was still feeling the cold of the night. Yanrid, however, wore only light armor and a thin tunic. He looked completely unaffected.
"Yanrid," Antares called out softly.
He turned immediately. "Sire?"
"Come. Sit," Antares patted the bark beside him. "You're making me feel colder just by looking at you standing there."
Yanrid hesitated, then walked over. He didn't sit immediately, hovering with the ingrained deference of a soldier, before finally lowering himself onto the branch a few feet away.
"You are immune to it, aren't you?" Antares asked, gesturing to the air. "The cold."
Yanrid looked at his own hands, pale and scarred. "Immune is a strong word, Sire. But… it does not bite me as it does others. My mana affinity has always been toward ice. The cold feels… quiet. Safe for me."
Antares nodded, taking a bite of a dried meat ration. He chewed thoughtfully, studying the man who had become his right hand on the surface.
"Tell me, Yanrid," Antares said, his voice dropping the regal tone for something more personal. "What is it that drives you? What is your ambition?"
Yanrid blinked, his icy expression cracking in surprise. He looked at the King, expecting to see a jest, a tease. But Antares's red eyes were serious, reflecting the starlight with a calm intensity.
"My… ambition, Sire?" Yanrid repeated, as if the word was foreign to him.
"Yes. Ambition," Antares said. "Every man fights for something. Yajin fights for the honor of the Ashfang. Kael fights for the craft and his sons. Sira fights for wealth and influence. What about you? You are the Lord Commander of the Surface forces, yet you walk alone. You fight like a demon, yet you ask for no glory."
Yanrid looked away, staring into the dark abyss of the forest floor below. The silence stretched for a long moment, filled only by the rustling of the giant leaves.
"I… I suppose I just wanted to be something other than a mistake," Yanrid said quietly.
Antares didn't interrupt.
"You know my story, Sire," Yanrid continued, his voice tightening. "I am a bastard. My mother was a worker who died on the surface. My father is a Clan Leader who looked at me with no love. In the Ashfang clan, lineage and legitimacy is not something that's taken lightly. I was raised with my siblings, but I was never of them. I was the 'extra mouth.' The stain on my father's honor."
He clenched his fist, a small layer of frost forming on his knuckles. "I came to the surface not to conquer, but to escape. I joined the Foragers because the Ashfang warriors called it 'scavenger work.' I thought if I worked hard enough, if I became useful enough… they would stop seeing the bastard and approve of my existence."
He looked up at Antares, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. "But even now, after all I have done… when Azir looked at me yesterday, he didn't see a Commander. He saw a worker's son. My ambition, Sire? It is simply to be remembered. To be a great being that history cannot ignore, so that no one can ever look down on my blood again."
Antares listened, a slow smile spreading across his face. It wasn't a mocking smile; it was a smile of deep satisfaction.
"Good," Antares said. "That is very good."
Yanrid frowned, confused. "Sire?"
"I don't want saints, Yanrid. I don't want mindless killers either," Antares said, leaning forward. "I want men who are hungry. Men who have something to prove. Because a man who fights to erase a stain on his soul will fight harder than any man who fights for gold."
Antares reached into his tunic and pulled out a small flask of warming liquor, taking a swig and passing it to Yanrid.
"You want to be remembered? You want to be Great?" Antares asked. "Then stop waiting for the Ashfang to accept you. They are the past — create your own future."
Yanrid took the flask, holding it with both hands.
"I am going to make you a proposal, Yanrid," Antares said, his voice taking on the weight of a royal decree. "When we return from this mission… you will form your own House."
Yanrid froze. "My… own House?"
"Yes. A Noble House," Antares confirmed. "Independent of the Ashfang. You will be its Patriarch. You will have your own banner, and your own lineage. I will legitimize it myself in front of the Great Assembly. Let the Ashfang and their purebloods choke on it."
Yanrid looked stunned. The flask trembled in his hands. "Sire… I… I am honored, truly. But… is that wise? The Ashfang already whisper that I plan to usurp them. If you give me a House… they will say I am trying to fracture the clan. It could cause civil strife."
Antares threw his head back and laughed — a loud, hearty sound that startled a roosting bird on the branch above. "Let them say what they want!" Antares cried, his eyes flashing. "Let them gossip! Do you think I care about the fragile egos of the traditionalists? I am the King, Yanrid. I decide what is noble and what is not. If they have a problem with it, they can come and say it to my face."
He looked back at Yanrid, his expression softening. "Do not worry about the politics. I will handle those old guys. You just worry about your house now."
Antares stood up and stretched, looking out at the endless expanse of the forest. "I have had plans for you for a long time, my friend. You do excellent work. You lead my armies, you find my food, you kill my enemies. You deserve more than just a title of Commander. You deserve a Legacy."
He looked down at Yanrid, who was still staring at him with wide, disbelief-filled eyes. "Think on it, Yanrid. By the time we get back to camp, I want a name for your House. And a Motto. Something that tells the world exactly who you are."
Yanrid slowly lowered the flask. He looked at his hands again, but this time, he didn't see the hands of a bastard. He saw the hands of a Patriarch.
"A name…" Yanrid whispered. "And a motto."
"Exactly," Antares said, yawning. "Now, drink that and get some sleep. We have a long flight tomorrow."
Antares walked back to his fur blankets, leaving Yanrid alone on the edge of the branch, the gears of his destiny turning for the first time in his life.
The night passed quietly. The squad slept huddled in groups for warmth, covered by thick blankets, protected by the mana of the World Tree.
The next morning, the sun filtered through the massive leaves of the Great Oak, creating a dappled pattern of light and shadow. Antares groaned, pulling the fur blanket over his head. He had slept well, a little too well. The stress of the last few days had caught up with him, and his body had demanded payment in slumber.
"Sire?"
Antares peeked out from under the furs. Yanrid was standing there, fully armored, his bag packed. Behind him, the thirty warriors were in formation, checked, prepped, and waiting.
"I'm late," Antares muttered to himself, realizing the sun was already high.
"We are ready to depart when you are, My Lord," Yanrid said, his voice carrying a new, subtle note of confidence. "The winds are favorable."
Antares scrambled up, shaking the sleep from his limbs. "Right. Yes. Just… give me a minute to wake up."
He quickly organized his gear, splashed some water from a water pouch on his face, and grabbed a strip of dried meat.
"Let's go," Antares grumbled, trying to regain his composure. "And don't look at me like that, Yanrid. Even Kings need beauty sleep."
The squad suppressed their chuckles as they launched themselves off the massive branch.
The next two days were a blur of white and gray. They flew relentlessly, pushing further North than any Antman had gone in decades. The air grew thinner, making it harder to breathe and harder to fly. The trees below began to thin out, replaced by jagged rocks and vast glaciers. They stopped only to rest their wings and eat, their conversations brief and focused.
But every time Antares looked at Yanrid, he saw him thinking. He was muttering words to himself, testing names and possible mottos.
Finally, on the evening of the second day, the horizon disappeared. It was replaced by a wall.
The Godwall Mountains lived up to their name. They didn't just rise; they erupted from the earth, a vertical barrier of white rock and blue ice that disappeared into the storm clouds above. It was a place where the earth tried to touch the heavens, and where only monsters dared to tread.
They landed at the foothills, the ground shaking with the distant rumble of avalanches. Antares looked up at the sheer cliff face, his breath pluming in the freezing air. Somewhere up there, amidst the cold and the rocks, were Kael's sons.
"We're here," Antares said, gripping Eos. "tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we climb."