Magicstones are the spine of the world.
Not gold.
Not land.
Not crowns.
Magicstones.
They burned clean and steady, powering the heating plates that kept cities alive through winter and the lamps that never dimmed in the halls of the wealthy. They were refined into cores for artifacts, pressed into the hilts of enchanted swords, set into staffs that amplified a mage's reach a hundredfold. Even the simplest household charms water purifiers, preservation seals, messenger stones owed their existence to magicstone dust.
Armies marched on them.
Academies were built around them.
Kingdoms rose and fell by their flow.
And the North was full of them.
Not shallow veins easily exhausted, but deep, ancient seams that ran like arteries beneath frozen mountains. Raw, potent, dangerous to extract and therefore ignored for generations by softer southern powers who preferred trade over toil.
Until now.
The one who controlled the flow of magicstones did not need to win wars.
They decided who could fight them.
Valen Arkwright knew this.
And somewhere far to the south, Queen Chloe Aurelia knew it too.
The North was not just a land of snow and steel.
It was leverage.
XXXX
Night pressed heavily over Frostvein.
Within the inner office warm, richly furnished, warded against sound the lord of Frostvein paced like a caged animal. Tapestries depicting ancient victories lined the walls, mocking him with a past that no longer listened.
Seated across from him, the lord of Blackmoor nursed a goblet of wine he hadn't touched.
"This was not how it was supposed to go," Frostvein snarled. "We hired the best. We gathered the banners. And that boy that upstart turns it all on its head."
Blackmoor's jaw tightened. "Lower your voice."
"I'll lower it when Valen Arkwright is dead," Frostvein snapped. "He humiliated us. Took our general. Took our army. Took—"
"And he'll take our heads if we keep shouting about it," Blackmoor cut in coldly.
Silence fell.
Then Frostvein laughed bitterly. "You think kneeling will save us? He doesn't want submission. He wants erasure."
A shadow shifted near the far wall.
Neither man noticed.
"We should have crushed him early," Blackmoor muttered. "Before he grew teeth."
Another shadow peeled away from the ceiling.
"We still have allies," Frostvein said. "The Watcher. The South. Someone will—"
The candles went out.
Not one by one.
All at once.
Every flame vanished in the same breath, as if the darkness itself had inhaled. The warmth died instantly, leaving the room cold, hollow, wrong. Shadows flooded the office, thick and suffocating, pressing against skin and thought alike.
Steel whispered.
Not drawn.
Acknowledged.
Then the torches flared back to life.
Cold blue fire bloomed along the walls—unnatural, silent, casting light that did not warm and shadows that did not behave. And in that light, the office was suddenly full.
Men clad in black stood everywhere.
They were behind the curtains where fabric still swayed gently. By the doors that had never opened. Along the walls where no alcoves existed. Behind the lords themselves—close enough that breath should have been felt long before sight.
They wore no sigils. No banners. No colors to claim.
Their armor drank the light, swallowing reflection, edges faintly etched with runes that pulsed slowly deliberately in time with a single, unseen heartbeat.
The lord of Frostvein staggered back, chair scraping loudly across stone. "Guards!" he shouted, voice cracking.
No answer came.
Not footsteps.
Not steel.
Not screams.
One of the shadows stepped forward.
Tall.
Still.
Its presence seemed to settle the room, as though reality itself had decided to stop resisting.
"You have none left," the man said calmly.
The lord of Blackmoor moved on instinct, hand darting toward the dagger at his belt.
A pressure slammed down on him.
Not pain.
Not force.
Authority.
His arm froze mid-motion, muscles locking as if they no longer recognized him as their master. His breath hitched, eyes wide with sudden understanding as his own will turned against him.
The shadow tilted his head slightly.
"Struggling is unnecessary."
Frostvein collapsed to his knees, gasping, hands clawing at the floor as panic finally took hold. "What are you?" he whispered.
The shadow's voice remained even. Almost respectful.
"We his shadows," he said.
Something moved through the room.
An unseen current passed between them, heavy and deliberate. Every shadow straightened in perfect unison. Their presence sharpened. Deepened. As if the air itself had acknowledged a master's attention.
The pressure intensified.
Not crushing.
Affirming.
The truth became clear in that moment.
The more loyalty given, the more power returned.
That was why Captain Edrik had grown stronger.
Why the shadows moved with impossible precision.
Why resistance felt like trying to drown the tide.
Valen Arkwright's power did not merely command.
It rewarded belief.
The shadow stepped closer to the kneeling lords.
"By Valen Arkwright's command," he said, "you will come with us."
Blackmoor screamed and lunged
And was slammed face-first into the floor.
Blood smeared across polished stone as teeth shattered and breath left him in a wet, choking gasp. Frostvein sobbed openly now, scrambling backward on his hands until his palm slid through something slick and warm.
He looked down.
Blood.
So much blood.
The doors to the office stood open.
The corridor beyond was revealed in full.
Bodies lined it.
Family members.
Children.
Trusted servants.
Guards who had sworn oaths that very morning.
They lay where they had fallen.
No one had been spared.
No one had been hurried.
The shadow followed Frostvein's gaze.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
"Valen does not forgive," he said, each word placed with deliberate finality.
"He decides how things end."
The meaning settled.
Not as fear.
As certainty.
The lords did not scream.
They couldn't.
Shock hollowed them out, locking breath in their chests and sound behind clenched throats. Their eyes remained fixed on the corridor the bodies, the blood, the proof that resistance had already been accounted for.
Hands closed around them.
They were dragged from the room without struggle, boots slipping uselessly in red that would stain more than stone. Their minds lagged behind their bodies, unable to accept what their eyes had already understood.
The doors closed.
The blue fire died.
The shadows were gone as if they had never been.
And the name of Frostvein fell silent forever.
XXXX
A similar scene happened in Blackmoor, there were no negotiations.
The lord had already been taken.
What remained was correction.
The manor stood silent beneath the night sky, its windows dark, its wards intact but meaningless. Within its halls, blue fire bloomed without heat, revealing shadows where people should have been.
Servants fell where they stood.
Some while pouring wine.
Some mid-step on staircases.
Some clutching keys they would never use.
Guards died without drawing steel, bodies lowered gently to the floor as if noise itself had been forbidden. Doors were opened. Rooms were cleared. Corridors emptied with methodical precision.
No screams echoed through Blackmoor.
Only the soft, final sounds of breath leaving bodies.
In the lord's private chambers, his family was found together huddled, confused, still waiting for answers that would never come. The shadows did not rush.
They did not hesitate.
When it was over, the beds were stained dark, the hearth still warm, the candles still burning.
The banners of Blackmoor were taken down before dawn.
By morning, the estate was a mausoleum.
No witnesses.
No survivors.
No name left to reclaim.
The North would speak of Frostvein.
Blackmoor would simply vanish.
And somewhere far away, Valen Arkwright slept
Untroubled.
Unquestioned.
Certain.
Because the rule had been established.
When Valen decided
Things ended.
XXXX