The banners burned long into the night.
Once, they had stood proudly atop the black stone towers of Frosthold, their silver sigil—a wolf crowned in ice—gleaming under the cold northern sun. Now, they lay trampled in the snow, torn and blackened by fire, while the empire's golden standard flew high above the fortress walls.
The battle was over. House Veylan was no more.
Lord Edric Veylan, the Warden of the North, knelt in the courtyard, his once-gilded armor dented and covered in blood. His long, dark hair clung to his face, damp with sweat and snow. Around him, his knights lay in heaps, their swords broken, their shields split. Only a few still groaned in pain, but the imperial soldiers moved methodically, driving their spears into the wounded, silencing them one by one.
Above, on the keep's balcony, Emperor Varian Caldus watched the slaughter with the detachment of a man accustomed to such sights. His crimson cloak billowed in the wind as he looked down at the kneeling lord. Beside him stood Lord Karstiel, his ever-loyal warlord, clad in black plate, his silver greatsword dripping red.
"You fought well," the emperor said, his voice carrying through the courtyard. "But well was never going to be enough."
Edric spat blood onto the snow. "You call this war? You came with ten times our number. You slaughtered my people like cattle."
Varian's lips curled into something that might have been amusement. "A necessary lesson. Mercy breeds rebellion. You should know that better than anyone, Edric. Did you not execute the clans of the Frostfangs when they defied your rule?"
Edric's jaw clenched, but he did not answer.
"House Veylan dies tonight," the emperor continued. "Your name will be struck from the records. Your sigil erased from history. Your people will be scattered, hunted, and forgotten."
Edric lifted his gaze, his storm-grey eyes burning with fury. "Not all of them."
For the first time, Varian hesitated.
He turned to Karstiel, who only shook his head. "We've searched the castle. The boy was not found."
Varian's expression darkened. He stepped forward, drawing a dagger from his belt. The steel gleamed under the pale moonlight as he pressed it against Edric's throat. "Where is your son?"
Edric only smiled. A bloody, broken smile.
"You'll never find him."
Varian held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed. With a swift motion, he drove the dagger into Edric's heart. The Northern Lord sagged forward, collapsing onto the blood-soaked snow.
A hush fell over the courtyard. Then, Varian turned to Karstiel. "Send riders. Search every village, every forest, every mountain pass. I want that boy's head on a pike before the year is done."
Karstiel bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty."
The emperor gave one last glance at Edric's lifeless body before turning away. The war was over. The North belonged to the empire.
But far beyond Frosthold, in the frozen wilds where no imperial soldier dared tread, a boy no older than seven lay curled beneath the roots of an ancient pine, his breath misting in the cold night air. He had fled when the fires began, as his mother had told him, running until his legs failed him. Now, exhausted and numb with grief, he whispered his own name to the night.
"Rhaedric Veylan."
It was the only thing he had left.
And one day, the world would remember it.