Alberth was in a villa in the center of the city of Vienna, the City of Cold Winds, his gaze sweeping over the bustling streets below. It was hard to believe that just two years ago, this magnificent city had been little more than a fledgling settlement. Now, it thrived with life and prosperity, its elegance and cleanliness unmatched in the entire Solar Empire.
He turned to face the room filled with eager faces—new recruits to the Red Flames mercenary group. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls adorned with banners and weapons. His seasoned comrades lounged nearby, their expressions a mix of nostalgia and pride.
"Tell us again, Captain," a young recruit named Jorin piped up, his eyes shining with anticipation. "Tell us about the night Vienna became legend."
Alberth exchanged a knowing glance with his lieutenant, Seraph. "Ah, that night," he began, his voice deep and resonant. "A night etched into our souls, when honor and courage were all that stood between us and oblivion."
He leaned back in his chair, memories flooding his mind. "It was six months after Lord Raimon and his grandfather had slain the Glacial Wolf. We had arrived in Vienna on the very day of its grand inauguration. Imagine our surprise—a city so splendid, rising from the northern wilds like a jewel set against the rugged landscape."
Seraph nodded. "We were taken aback by the sheer number of people—170,000 souls had flocked here in mere weeks. Merchants, adventurers, scholars—all drawn by the promise of opportunity and the allure of the Frisian horses."
Alberth chuckled softly. "Indeed, the fame of the Flower family's steeds had spread far and wide. But it was the city's spirit that captured our hearts. The streets were wide and clean, the buildings crafted with an elegance rarely seen. It didn't take long for us to decide—Vienna would be our new home."
"We purchased land," Seraph added, "with a generous tax exemption granted by Lord Raimon himself. Three years, free of levies—a gesture of goodwill that cemented our loyalty."
"Those were peaceful days," Alberth mused. "But peace, as we know, is often the calm before the storm."
The fire flickered as he continued, his voice growing more solemn. "It was a night like any other. The city was alive with merriment—the taverns filled with laughter, the scent of roasting meat wafting through the air. We were off duty, enjoying a well-earned respite."
"Remember the song the bard sang?" Seraph interjected. "'The Silver Moon over Vienna'—a haunting melody."
Alberth smiled faintly. "Yes, it seems almost prophetic now. As the night deepened, a sudden tolling rang out—the bell tower's alarm piercing the jovial atmosphere. The laughter died, replaced by a hush of uncertainty."
"The Frisian horses," Jorin whispered. "You could hear them, couldn't you?"
Alberth nodded. "Their hoofbeats thundered through the streets, knights racing toward the outer walls. The mage towers—a marvel of arcane engineering—blazed to life, their spires illuminating the sky as the defensive matrices activated."
He paused, the weight of the memory heavy. "From the horizon, shadows emerged—waves upon waves of creatures unlike any we had ever seen. Giants, three to four meters tall, with ashen skin and a single, malevolent eye. Their aura was suffocating—a palpable bloodlust and chaos that chilled even the bravest hearts."
"Fear gripped the city," Seraph said quietly. "Some panicked, others froze. But then, a voice rang out—strong and steady."
"Lord Raimon's voice," Alberth affirmed. "It echoed through the new magical devices installed across the city. He brought calm to the storm, ordering all warriors, mercenaries, and adventurers to the northern walls to receive instructions for the city's defense."
He shook his head. "Not everyone heeded the call. Some fools thought to flee or resist. They were... swiftly dealt with."
The recruits exchanged uneasy glances. "What happened to them?" one asked hesitantly.
"Let's just say the city's guardians did not tolerate insubordination in a time of crisis," Alberth replied sternly. "It was a harsh lesson, but necessary."
"We grabbed our weapons and headed to the walls," Seraph recounted. "Climbing to the top of those 120-meter fortifications, we were met with a sight both awe-inspiring and terrifying."
"Knights, adventurers, mages, mercenaries—we stood shoulder to shoulder," Alberth said. "And there, in the distance, we saw him."
"Lord Raimon," Jorin whispered.
"Yes," Alberth confirmed. "He stood surrounded by a phalanx of 2,500 knights—The Northern Ice Shields. They were a sight to behold: clad in matte black armor with golden trim, bearing massive shields emblazoned with a silver-edged snowflake. Their helmets were closed, Galea-style, plumed with interwoven gold and white horsehair. Each stood over two and a half meters tall, exuding an aura that sent shivers down the spine."
"It was in that moment," Seraph said, "that we knew we might just survive the night."
Alberth's eyes grew distant. "The enemy surged forward—a tide of monstrosities: demonic wolves, hellhounds, bat-like fiends, and behind them, towering humanoid figures cloaked in shadow. The order was given, and we spread out along the wall, ready to face the onslaught."
He clenched his fist. "The battle that followed was unlike anything I've ever experienced. Blood and flesh filled the air; the screams of the wounded mingled with the roars of the beasts. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours. Time lost all meaning."
"How did you endure?" a recruit asked, eyes wide.
"By sheer will," Alberth replied. "And by the knowledge that retreat meant death—not just for us, but for everyone in the city."
"After what felt like an eternity—seven hours of relentless combat—we were pushed to our limits," Seraph continued. "Our lines wavered, and hope began to fade."
"But then," Alberth said, a spark lighting his eyes, "the Northern Ice Shields moved."
He stood, gesturing animatedly. "They advanced like a glacier—unstoppable and unyielding. Wherever they passed, the ground froze solid. Blood and gore crystallized into shards of ice. It was as if winter itself had answered our call for aid."
"And the knights," Seraph added, "they were beyond anything we'd ever seen. At least 300 Gold-ranked warriors, initial to intermediate levels, mounted on colossal horses—three meters tall, silver-reddish coats gleaming under the moonlight. Their steeds bore scales in places, exuding a draconic aura that struck fear into the heart of the enemy."
"They crashed into the demonic horde," Alberth said, his voice filled with admiration. "Their lances and swords cleaving through the creatures as if they were mere shadows. The tide began to turn."
"We were pulled back from the front lines to regroup," Seraph explained. "From the safety of the walls, we witnessed a spectacle worthy of legend."
"The sky itself became a battlefield," Alberth recounted. "Great Mage Elowen of the Wind soared above, her spells tearing through the air with sonic booms. Former Duke Alaric Flower met the demonic humanoids head-on, his swordsmanship a blur of motion and power."
"For a week, the battle raged," Seraph said. "Day and night blurred together. The city's defenses held, bolstered by the unyielding strength of the Northern Ice Shields."
Alberth's expression turned solemn. "The climax came when Duke Alaric beheaded the leader of the demonic forces—a towering figure wreathed in darkness. Upon seeing their leader fall, the remaining three dark figures fled, and the horde began to crumble."
"We rejoined the fight," Seraph continued. "Hunting down the remnants of the demonic horde. The ground was littered with ice and the frozen remains of our foes. The air was sharp with cold and victory."
Alberth looked around at the silent room. "That was the night Vienna earned its title—the City of Cold Winds. And it was the day I vowed to live and die for this place."
"What happened afterward?" Jorin asked softly.
"Lord Raimon ensured that all who fought received their due share of the spoils," Alberth replied. "Families of the fallen were provided for—their children supported until they came of age, with opportunities to join the Flower family's knights if they so chose."
"He didn't have to do that," Seraph said. "But he did. His leadership, his compassion—it inspired loyalty unlike any other."
"Academics and scholars flocked to Vienna in the months that followed," Alberth continued. "Drawn by tales of the battle and the city's unprecedented advancements. The mage towers became centers of learning, and the Northern Ice Shields—now the city's guardian cavalry—were celebrated across the Empire."
He smiled ruefully. "And here we are, two years later. The city has grown even more splendid. Prosperity abounds, and peace holds—for now."
He placed a hand on Jorin's shoulder. "Remember this tale, lad. Not just for the glory, but for the lessons it holds. Honor, courage, unity—these are the virtues that will carry you through the darkest of times."
The recruits nodded solemnly, the weight of the story settling upon them.
Seraph raised his mug. "To Vienna, and to Lord Raimon!"
"To Vienna!" the room echoed, lifting their cups high.
Alberth gazed into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "May we always be worthy of the legacy we've inherited."