Date: August 2, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Dawn found the Seventh Special Detachment already several miles from "Lonely Peak." The northern lands in early August resembled a frozen sea: endless expanses covered with a crust of eternal ice and rare patches of gray moss. The wind here never ceased; it only changed its tone—from a mournful howl to a furious whistle, capable of knocking an unwary traveler off their feet.
Kaedan walked on the left flank of the formation. His inner power, characteristic of a Warrior, worked in an economical mode, maintaining warmth in his body and keeping his muscles ready for an instant burst. His Unbreakable Armor—the heavy stone pauldrons, vambraces, and cuirass—were now hidden under the Order's gray traveling cloak, but the young man felt their weight with every cell of his being. This burden no longer weighed him down; on the contrary, without it, Kaedan felt frighteningly defenseless.
Ahead, at the tip of the wedge, moved Iskon. He walked lightly, barely sinking into the soft snow, and his figure seemed part of this harsh landscape. He didn't look back and didn't check if the others were keeping up. His silence was heavy, pressing on the knights more strongly than the frost. Iskon exuded an aura of such concentrated will that even Elwin and Liana, walking nearby, tried not to approach him without need.
Grak the Axe brought up the rear of the detachment. The commander moved with the unhurried grace of a huge predator. His Herald-level presence created an invisible dome of confidence around the group. Grak didn't interfere with the formation's management; he merely observed, allowing the young warriors to feel the rhythm of the march themselves. His legendary axe on his back glinted dully, as if absorbing the rare rays of sun piercing through the clouds.
"We're not looking for just any bandit," Elwin said quietly, drawing level with Kaedan. "Tork 'Bloodbrand'—a deserter from the southern legions. They say he reached the Pillar stage even before he killed his commander and fled north. He has three dozen cutthroats with him, each at least an experienced Initiate, and many are hardened Warriors."
Kaedan nodded. He knew that a Pillar was an entirely different level of physical and spiritual density. Against such an enemy, their detachment of Warriors could only hold out with perfect coordination. But, looking at Iskon's back, the young man doubted that "coordination" was part of their leading fighter's plans.
The path led through the "Valley of Weeping Rocks." The canyon walls here were so high that the sun only peeked in for a couple of hours a day. Ice chips constantly fell from above, and the echo of twenty pairs of shod boots multiplied, creating the illusion of a whole army marching.
Elwin suddenly raised his hand, ordering the detachment to halt. His eyes briefly clouded with a bluish haze—his Spirit of "Tenacious Memory" activated. He crouched by a piece of rock covered in frozen mud.
"They were here three hours ago," Elwin said, touching a barely perceptible mark on the stone with his fingers. "Forty men. They moved quickly, not really hiding. Tork is confident in his strength. He knows that Order patrols rarely venture this deep into the valley."
Iskon approached Elwin, not even looking at him. He just stared towards the narrowing of the canyon, where the path disappeared into thick fog. "Three hours is too long," Iskon threw out coldly. "We're losing pace. If he reaches the 'Black Wind' caves, we'll be smoking him out until winter."
"We can't rush headlong into the fog," Liana objected, adjusting the fastenings of her light armor. "It's an ideal place for an ambush."
Iskon turned to her, and in his blue eyes there was nothing but icy indifference. "An ambush is a problem for the weak. Commander Grak," he shifted his gaze to the commander, "I'll go ahead. The main group can follow half a mile behind me."
Grak the Axe merely raised an eyebrow slightly, but remained silent. His silence was a sign of agreement and at the same time—a test. The commander wanted to see how the detachment would react to their leader's unilateral action.
Kaedan stepped forward, his inner essence responding with a low, vibrating hum. "We go together, Iskon. Grak didn't form this detachment for us to play heroes alone. My Armor will cover the front, Elwin will point the way. That's the commander's order—to act as one unit."
Iskon held his gaze on Kaedan for a moment. A spark seemed to flash between the two young Warriors—a clash of two different approaches to power. Iskon believed in the absolute superiority of the individual, Kaedan in the unbreakability of the wall.
"Try not to lag behind," Iskon tossed out and, without waiting for an answer, surged forward, instantly disappearing into the white veil of fog.
"After him!" Grak commanded, and a barely perceptible smirk sounded in his voice.
The detachment broke into a run. Kaedan ran in the vanguard, feeling the frosty air burn his lungs. His cuirass under his cloak began to pulse, adapting to the rhythm of his breathing. The pursuit of the bandits' trail had turned into a race against time and their own pride. Somewhere ahead, in the fog, a Pillar named Tork was already preparing his response to the uninvited guests, and Kaedan knew: the Seventh Detachment's first battle would smell not only of snow, but of blood.