Like Truth, The Ice Comes Marching

The journey back to Kverneska passed in quiet, uneventful silence. Matko wore a furrowed brow, clearly unsettled by the Isvandr’s unnatural behavior, while even the usually fiery Mjoll trudged with less spark—her energy spent in the clash. Upon returning to the village, the chief wasted no time scolding his daughter before ordering her injuries seen to. River and Fiora, meanwhile, were granted access to the archives in recognition of their success. Matko remained behind, staying to voice his unease about what they had encountered in the woods.

The archive building stood on the far end of the settlement, nestled beside an old shrine half-buried in snow. The door groaned as it opened, letting out a draft of musty air and parchment.

Inside, a single figure stirred.

An old man sat hunched over a desk near the hearth, where the flames did little to warm the stone walls. His beard was long and grey, his eyes sharp despite the wrinkles around them. Most noticeably, two fingers were missing from his right hand—gnawed off by frostbite, if the rumors were true.

“Yer the outsiders,” he said with a gravelly rasp, eyeing them without standing. “Heard you’d be coming.”

River gave a nod. Fiora stepped forward. “We were told we’d be allowed to research records on noble heritage… particularly from the Vermillia side.”

The man snorted. “What noble doesn’t come crawling for a lineage claim these days.” He slowly stood and gestured toward the shelves and cabinets lining the walls. “Everything’s organized by region, then year. Don’t bother looking for a shortcut. There ain’t one.”

Fiora’s mouth fell open slightly as she took it all in—scrolls, ledgers, cracked leather tomes stacked from floor to ceiling.

“This… all of this belongs to a village this small?” she asked in disbelief.

The old man let out a short laugh, dry as dust. “This archive serves the entire northern reach—at least a dozen villages, towns, and outposts. Ye think people in Grimhelm waste paper just to feel important? If it’s written, it matters.”

River gave a low whistle and crossed his arms. “World might end before we find anything.”

Fiora shot him a look, pulling a small pair of reading glasses from her satchel and placing them on her nose. “Then we’d better start now.” She shoved a scroll into his chest. “You read. I’ll skim.”

River glared at the scrolls. “So this is what death feels like.”

❅

An hour passed—though by River’s complaints, one would think it had been days.

“My eyes are bleeding,”

“You’ve read four pages,” Fiora muttered without looking up.

“Four more than I wanted to.”

The door creaked open.

Matko stepped inside, brushing off snow. “Any luck?”

“None,” River grunted, waving at the mountainous pile beside them.

Behind Matko came the unmistakable stomp of boots.

“I told you, you’re not allowed in here,” Matko sighed.

“I told you I don’t care,” Mjoll said as she shoved past him.

The archive master lifted his head from his desk, glaring at Mjoll. “Ye again?”

“She’s already in,” River said. “Might as well let her touch things.”

The old man sighed through his nose. “Yer father’ll have a word with ye.”

“He always does,” Mjoll said, already thumbing through scrolls.

They all set to work again, the rustle of parchment filling the room. Then—

“Wait.” Fiora paused, holding a curled scroll just above a flickering lantern. Her eyes scanned the faded ink, tracing a symbol that made her breath hitch.

Fiora turned the scroll gently toward the others.

There, drawn in charcoal ink, was a sun encircled by a thorny halo—the crest of House Di Lorenzo.

“This is it…” she whispered.

The scroll, old and brittle, detailed a noble agreement—an ancient union between House Di Lorenzo and a second name written in the same ink, its edges faded with age:

House Eirenskal.

Matko leaned closer, brows furrowing. “I… know that name. House Eirenskal’s not just any family—they still live in Fjold. One of the most renowned bloodlines in the north. Warriors, chiefs, monster slayers.”

Fiora pointed to a part in particular as she read,

"Their union was said to bring light into the ice. A flame in the blood, rare and slow-burning, passed down in quiet hearts."

Mjoll tilted her head. “Flame in the blood?”

Matko muttered something in old Grimhelmian. “Eldblóð.”

River raised an eyebrow. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It means… someone carries light in them,” Matko said carefully. “Doesn’t say what it does. But I’ve only heard it in legends.”

The archive master, who had stayed mostly silent until now, looked up from his desk.

“That crest,” he rasped, nodding toward the thorn-ringed sun, “used to mean something more in the old days. Light in the veins.”

“Light in the veins?” Fiora echoed.

“Sounds like a bunch of nonsense nobles make up to feel more important than they truly are,” Mjoll muttered, folding her arms.

“Aye. Not sorcery the way we know it. Something quieter. Rarer. It only appeared once every few generations. But when it did… those who carried it were always remembered.”

River studied the scroll. “So you’re saying the Di Lorenzos and Eirenskals merged. That’s why the crest ended up this far north.”

“And why it might still be here,” Matko added. “If your artifact exists… it would’ve stayed in Fjold. With them. Or at least they’ll be better informed than you currently are.”

Fiora’s breath caught slightly. “Then we have to go there. That’s our next lead.”

Before anyone could answer, the door to the archive slammed open.

A villager stumbled in, snow clinging to his shoulders and beard, breathless with urgency.

The archive master stood up abruptly. “Do ye know how many rules ye’r breaking you snow mut—?”

“Forgive me!” the man gasped. “Matko, your father sent me. There’s trouble.”

Matko stepped forward at once. “What kind of trouble?”

“The scouts have come back. Their report is… grim. He wants you all. Now.”

They all exchanged glances. River was already reaching for his sword. Fiora tucked the scroll into her satchel.

And together, they ran.

❅

The longhouse felt colder than before.

Torches flickered against the timbered walls, casting uneasy shadows on the gathered faces. The fire at the hearth burned low, but no one moved to stoke it—every ear was turned toward the chief.

Matko, Mjoll, River, and Fiora stood near the central table, while the village elders lined the benches, their expressions grim. Even those too old to swing a blade had come to hear the truth.

“The scouts have returned,” the chief rumbled, his voice heavy. “They saw shapes moving through the trees. Slow. Coordinated. Isvandr.”

A murmur spread through the room. One elder gripped his staff tighter, knuckles white.

“They’ve never come this close before,” said another.

“This isn’t a hunt. It’s a raid,” the chief said flatly. “They move with intent. They mean to strike Kverneska. The scouts estimate they’ll reach our borders by midnight. And there’s a great number of them.”

River’s eyes narrowed slightly. Late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows—sunset was fast approaching. They had hours. Not much more.

“We’ve until sundown to prepare,” the chief continued. “Once the light dies, so will our advantage.”

He turned to his son.

“Matko. You will defend the village. The wall must hold. The people must hold. You are my blood, and this place is yours to protect.”

Mjoll stepped forward too, eyes blazing. “Let me take a group and meet them out in the trees. I’ll cut them down before they reach the wall!”

“No.” The chief’s voice was sharp. “This is not a brawl in the snow, girl. It’s a siege. You’ll hold the wall. Fight when they come to us.”

Matko straightened instinctively—but then, slowly, he shook his head. “No, Father. I can’t.”

The room went dead silent. Even Mjoll blinked, wide-eyed.

The chief’s brow furrowed. “You refuse?”

Matko didn’t flinch. “I don’t refuse to fight. But if I take command… we’ll lose more than we can afford. There’s someone more experienced here. Someone who’s seen battles like this. Who’s faced the Isvandr already—and saved mine and Mjoll’s life doing it.”

He turned toward River. Whispers rippled through the longhouse. Mjoll was livid.

“Brother! You can’t be serious!”

River stiffened slightly.

“You’ve fought wars, River. I can see it.” Matko said firmly. “You think in battle. That’s not pride, it’s fact. You’re the one who can make the decisions that’ll keep people breathing.”

The chief frowned. “And where would you be while another commands your Kverneska, son?”

Matko took a breath. “There’s something else that must be done. The frost tunnel beneath the village—the old smuggler’s path. It hasn’t collapsed, has it?”

One of the scouts stepped forward. “We found signs of movement near the sealed end. The Isvandr might use it to flank us.”

The chief’s eyes narrowed. “You’d seal the tunnel?”

Matko nodded. “A few barrels of oil and fire. If they try to come through, we bury them in ice and flame. There’s hardly anyone around here that knows the path better than I do. Mjoll can help. The passage is narrow—her size will make the difference.”

“I’m not small!” Mjoll growled.

“But you are fast,” Matko added. “And strong.”

Murmurs gave way to a tense quiet as the chief leaned back in his seat.

Then he nodded once. “Knowing who to appoint… is a leader’s skill as well.”

He looked to River now.

“…Will you do it, outsider?”

“Father!” Mjoll barked, but the chief’s gaze quickly silenced her.

River looked around the longhouse. The tired, frightened villagers. The wavering firelight. Fiora, beside him, watching quietly.

River wasn’t a people’s person. Frankly he wouldn’t care if this village survived or perished a few months ago. But seeing how the people lived, how they reacted to the end, how Matko and Mjoll held their own. He wanted to give them a chance.

Finally River gave a quiet nod, “I’ll try.”

The chief rose to his feet. “Then so it is. Matko, Mjoll—you go to the tunnel. River Crowe, the village defense is yours to command.”

“Understood,” Matko said, already turning to leave. He clapped the mercenary’s shoulder, then turned toward the door. “Mjoll. Let’s move.”

“But— But he’s an outsider!” Mjoll was flabbergasted at the final outcome. Her powerlessness was all too clear to her, “How can he command our village?!”

“Enough!” The chief’s voice rumbled, “I appointed your brother to lead, and he chose him! Or do you not trust your leader’s judgement, Mjoll?!”

“I–” Her words hitched at her throat. For all the fire in her, her father’s presence sure quelled it quickly.

“Forgive me, father.” She finally nodded.

The siblings departed, their silhouettes swallowed by the wind beyond the longhouse.

Yet the stares on Fiora and River lingered.