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.
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 indeed 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 lots of physical stress.
They carried large, reinforced leather bags filled with rations, high-grade healing potions brewed by the few Alchemists of the Arcanis, and some other things. 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 be a slow. 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." He 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 a 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 existance."
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 decates.
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. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we climb."