LOST

Mikaela Korinski shivered, she shivered profusely as her small hands clutched an old coat that belonged
to her father, who now lay among the ruins of what had once been the small market town of Dobrinka.
Her bare feet took her through the deep snow, almost not feeling the cold anymore. Icy-blue eyes
scanned the frozen horizon, wisps of snow, blown by the wind forming around her, her eyes now seeing
but shapes, faces of lost people and her small home town in Northern Khador. The child advanced
slowly, to the stump of a tree that could be seen from the snow, eventually moving into a crawling
position.

With every ounce of strength she dragged on toward the remains of the old tree, in her image, the only
shelter from the freezing snow and winds that carried whispers and other sounds with them. For a
moment she thought she heard her older brother Sergei calling out, but it was not to be. Driven to
survive she dug relentlessly into the snow at the stump’s base with purple hands until a hole was
uncovered.

Dragging herself into the hollow stump she curled up, looking at her frostbitten hands and feet. She had
been strong as she had been taught but now somewhat warmer, memories returned. First they were
pleasant; the family home, small unassuming close to her father’s Jack workshop, their voices, those of
her parents and relatives. At first they came clearly but the black haze came, the shadow of death. The
dead that walked stormed Dobrinka, overwhelming the huntsmen. “How could they even overwhelm
the huntsmen?, they were strong and brave”; she thought. A man came, a creature of darkness
murdering, asking questions. Just as she ran through the snow as her father commanded her to do the
screams of the dying could be heard.

For a second her blue eyes closed, trying to shrug off the images. Not falling asleep was her priority but
she was tired and now the storm outside carried whispers but they were not something she understood.
A foreign tongue, perhaps Menoth whom she prayed to every morning and evening before bed was
trying to talk to her, encourage her to stay strong. Her eyes closed slowly as exhaustion took over, sleep
came as much as she fought it.

The Raek dubbed “Hossir” or “Scythe” in the language of the Nyss strolled forward, it’s maw snapping
closed. Behind it Rhyliss Wintershard followed, a female Nyss, still relatively untouched by the Dragon’s
blight followed. Trekking between a shard encampment and her village she had been caught in the
storm that now was abating. Hossir kept itself in sight, like a faithful hound, smelling, seeing in the
shadows, but just as the beast stopped by an old tree stump it hissed. A barbed tail began to flail slowly
as it’s foreclaws dug into the fresh snow.

“Always hungry!”, the Nyss thought to herself smiling. Just as her footsteps took her feet from the
Warbeast she recognized the screams of a child coming from inside the stump. The Raek was digging
furiously and soon it’s clawed leg went inside the stump only to drag a human child into the open. Far
from any settlements the girl tried to free herself, a free frostbitten foot barely kicking at the Raek’s
head but she resisted. Raising her hand, Rhyliss spoke quietly “Hossir, leave her!”.

Obedient, the Raek withdraw, slavering jaws still drooling at the prize it had found. A gloved hand
grabbed the back of Mikaela’s oversized coat the girl turning around. Before her eyes stood a grey-
skinned woman with locks of white hair coming from underneath her hood. A Winter Elf; she heard
stories of these people, living in hunting parties, sometimes engaging Khadoran hunters, other times
trading. Her mouth opened to speak in Khardic; “D…. d.. don’t hurt me. I .. I did not mean to hurt your
animal…”. Tears rolled down her red cheeks just as the Nyss studied her, trying to fathom what was a
human stripling doing all the way there.

A terror-filled look stared at the hungry Raek and for a brief moment, in the clutches of the Nyss she felt
her mind commune with the beast. Hossir seemed to calm down, approaching Rhyliss and her captive,
its nostrils sniffing what it had initially taken as prey. Before a dumb-struck Rhyliss the child extended
her hand toward the Dragonspawn and it responded like a faithful hound. The elf unable still to
comprehend what happened set the child down, backing off slowly.

Thoughts filled young Mikaela’s mind, thoughts coming from this animal, this frightening predator that
stalked the snows. She felt in it hatred, insatiable hunger but also a primal intelligence, lurking in the
depths of its mind. There was no soul but this “hound” belonging to the Nyss had intelligence. A small
hand touched the animal’s scaly hide and the very same moment it’s thoughts changed. Besides the
malevolence inside it moved around the child now like a dog, waiting for a command. As fear washed
away, human and Dragonspawn bonded.

Rhyliss hesitated a second but recognizing something she had seen in others, she grasped the child in
her arms, wrapping her in her fur cloak and resumed her trek to the Hyssar village. The human had
shown something only a few of her kind could do and if a Dragonspawn refused to hurt her it must be a
sign. Eager to consult her village mystic she hastened the pace. Hossir followed closely, suddenly
preoccupied with its new charge, hissing now and then, often it’s eyeless head turning toward the
creature the elf had found.

With the first sun’s rays appearing in the east, the silhouettes of several houses appeared in the
distance, smoke coming from each. Put together by the tree line of an evergreen it seemed a welcome
destination for any traveller across the frozen wastes. Opening her eyes Mikaela could see similar
Winter Elves greeting the female who carried her. Some however looked evil with spines, pointed chins
and horns. Hossir was still in tow, snarling at the Nyss who tried to approach viciously, it’s barbed tail
flailing in their direction. Not wasting time, Rhyliss moved toward one of the central huts, followed by
most of the Nyss community, curious of the human child’s identity.

Laeryll Stormshadow, Seeress of the Hyssar clan bended over a large pot, slowly twisting a wooden
spoon in its contents, muttering words in the Nyss language. As the door to her hut opened she turned
to face the arrival but could not hide her surprise. Her apprentice had returned with a prize. Leaving her
instrument aside the black haired Nyss woman quickly moved toward Rhyliss’ location, grinning.
“Well well, what have we here?”, she commented, trying to take Mikaela away from the younger Nyss
but the apprentice stopped her.

“No, elder. This human turned a Raek bound on devouring her on the spot into something akin of a
hound. Hossir nearly attacked a few of our hunters to protect her”, she spoke looking at Laeryll, giving
her a knowing nod. The human was a complete mystery but perhaps with the Seeress’ help they will be
able to learn her secret. A hopeful look now studied the mystic, waiting.

Seer Stormshadow could not believe her ears. The child was not Blighted, not even a Nyss but what her
apprentice mentioned bordered the extraordinary. Taking a reluctant, scared Mikaela from her assistant
she placed the child on a bed and her clawed hands began searching through jars and bottles.
Frostbitten feet and hands would not be of much use. Finally turning toward her young guest she knelt
down and spoke in Khardic, “Whatever you are human I will find out. But if I am to find out, I must cure
you first. You suffer from frostbite, but you’re lucky. I am able to cure you, but you must promise me
you’ll do as I tell you to.”

A nod was all the child could give. The witch’s hands touched her frostbitten hands and feet, an oily
smelly salve now covering her skin. Covered in a thick arctic bear blanket she finally slept after being
LOST IN THE SNOW…”.

…AND FOUND ONCE MORE

With a bare hand Rhyliss touched the girl’s forehead and sighed. Fever raged in her young body but the
Seer’s salve seemed to be working. It was the second day the lost child slept, wrecked by high fever and
four since she had been found. Now left alone with Mikaela, the apprentice seer did all she could.
Applied the salve regularly, worked her small amount of magical knowledge to assist with the healing. If
the Blight was at work perhaps the temperature was a sign of it. Moving away from the bed she set the
salve jar back in its place. A warm fire burned in the center of the hut, keeping everyone warm.

A low voice muttering Khardic words and a small hand emerging from underneath the blanket was the
signal the child was better. Blue eyes opened again and she attempted to see but her vision was foggy.
The smell of warm stew bubbling made the girl look in the pot’s direction, and then toward the fur
dressed Rhyliss. “.. I.. I am hungry..”, she said.

Shoving a bowl of stew under her nose, the Seer’s apprentice spoke on a commanding tone “Here, eat.
The Elder wishes you to regain your strength… and don’t waste any human. You won’t get more!”;
turning toward her scrolls the Nyss seemed to mind her own business but the sound of a spoon hitting
the clay walls of the pot was a good sign. Mere minutes later setting the bowl down the human
youngster lay back on the bed. This house she was in… it was odd.

Decorated with furs, skulls, minimal furniture save two shabby beds, a large cooking pot a table and two
chairs it didn’t seem like much. Candles lit up the building, assisted by the central fire and for a moment
the shadows of this place seemed interesting. A medium sized cabinet held scrolls and a few books but
everything looked like it was going to fall over. The elves seemed mean or hating her to say the least, yet
she felt thankful for their care. Her mind wandered away to sadder images and memories. Dobrinka, her
father, her mother, Sergei, the old Warjacks in her father’s shop, Sasha, the old Kodiak used for labour
by her father. She missed Sasha. Like with the Raek she had felt the Warjack’s mind meld with her own
but afraid to tell her parents she remained quiet about it.

Her young spirit filled with the desire for vengeance on the evil dead who had taken her life away. She
had seen Sasha fall under a wicked man’s blade and in that moment she felt she lost a family member.
These beasts however, this Hossir, unlike Sasha was alive with a beating heart. Faint memories of “gift”
returned to her mind after she had heard the Nyss speak about it. She would ask the Seer if she
returned…

The gift would be discovered…

The Heart of the Motherland…

An old wooden wagon rocked and creaked on the old frozen road, drawn by two sturdy wooly Oxen,
gently goaded forward by a large burly driver. Draped in furs, a grumpy Kossite man mumbled under his
breath, adjusting his rabbit fur hat. The wind had stopped yet now the sound of the couple of wounded
from the back of his vehicle filled his ears. A woman tried to tend to them and while they seemed out of
any immediate danger their wheezes and pain filled moans disturbed him.

“What kind of Khadoran moans like that?”, Oleg Gregorivich asked himself. He had been a woodsman
for years, endured many hardships and now as his greying years approached he had to ferry these
people who lacked the strength to die fighting. “Weaklings!”, he thought as he drove on toward a
sprawling city in the distance. Relieved to see his journey of three weeks coming to its end he turned
toward Olga, his sister, who had been tending to the survivors from Dobrinka.

“Olga, what’s the status on those wretches? Any good to be salvaged from any of them?”, he asked,
giving the three men and one young woman a look.

“Oleg Gregorivich! These are our people; they fought to defend their town. You should be thankful the
Gods found them worthy of being preserved”, she replied to his words, narrowing her green eyes
momentarily. “The boy here”, the woman continued, “He seems to have some sort of poisoning, he will
need a specialized healer. I’ve done all I could”.

“You and your compassion! Keep that for the old men and women who deserve it after serving our
country all their life. Alexander Karchev, now that is a hero!”. It was all he said. The road was packed
with people going back and forth and behind him three other wagons carried what remained of the
town of Dobrinka.

As the gates of Korsk came into view a good hour later Oleg stopped his Oxen, just as a Winterguard
soldier stepped forward. A young man, in his late teens, the soldier finally addressed the caravan driver,
”You, what are you carrying back there?”, he asked on a relatively commanding tone.

Aged in his early fifties Oleg grumbled, “Survivors from Dobrinka, and you should watch your tone with
me son. I served for ten years in the Widowmaker units, I do believe I am deserving some respect,
especially from whelps like yourself!”.

The Guardsman nodded once, pausing, verifying the wagon’s interior but spotting Olga and her charges
he nodded, moving back toward the driver’s seat. “What unit were you in sir? My father served in the
22nd company, southern armies, Kovnik Kolchenko”.

Gregorivich could not help but smile under his bushy mustache. “So, old Marek Kolchenko was still in
service”, he considered and nodded. “Kovnik Kolchenko is a good man, a good soldier and a patriot. I
hope your father is proud of you son. I will apologize for my outburst”.
A single hand signal from the Guardsman made Oleg return back to his caravan. Spurring the Oxen
forward he relaxed in his driver’s seat, just as his wagons entered the muddy streets of Korsk’s outlying
quarters. Despite the pompous outlook of the noble populated districts, Korsk’s poor areas were
sometimes just better than slums. Yet energetic as always Khadorans moved back and forth, avoiding
the wagons. Here and there a beggar could be seen, asking passer-bys for money.

The spires of the Temples of Morrow and Menoth glimmered in the morning sun, their polished
rooftops reflecting the sunlight and with a smile, Oleg recognized the main building of the Druzhina, the
Khadoran officer school. Faces returned to him from the old conflicts, old comrades in arms. Many were
gone but it was just like yesterday he left for the front lines as a fresh recruit, the excitement, and the
fears. They had been good years, he deserved his retirement.

Pulling his wagon by a Morrowan run hospital in the merchant district he finally dismounted, eager to be
on stone pavement. A few sisters quickly turned toward the large Kossite man, towering above them, his
sheer size intimidating. Furrowing his bushy eyebrows he motioned them over, “I have four wounded
from Dobrinka here. One seems to be poisoned….”.

He needed to say no more. One of the young women called inside and four men carrying stretchers
approached. Sturdy hands grabbed the poisoned boy, setting him on a stretcher and he disappeared
inside. One by one the wagon was emptied of injured and Olga, stepped off herself, pulling out a small
Menite symbol from underneath her fur jacket, “Creator help them, especially the boy. I do hope he
survives…”. Compared to her large and well-built brother, Olga was small for a Khadoran woman with
similar dark hair and not as bushy eyebrows as his, typical for the Kossites.

With a hazy outlook on his surroundings Sergei Korinski opened his eyes. His gut felt completely dry, he
felt he was eaten alive from the inside. A scream would come natural perhaps but the pain sometimes
subsided. “Water…. Water… please…. Olga..”. It was all he could say, before a nurse approached, trying
to smile at him. His feverish skin was covered in sweat and the gentle touch of a tissue wiped it all off.
Feeling fresh cold water on his lips he opened his mouth to drink, only to see he was no longer in Olga’s
care. A Morrowan nun tended to him, carefully, barely noticing his open eyes. Her whisper soon became
obvious, yet he realized it was a prayer. Unable to speak clearly yet, his hand gripped her wrist slightly
and she took the clay mug away from his lips.

“Look at you, all fevered!”. The woman grabbed an additional smaller pillow from nearby, keeping his
head somewhat raised. “I’ll tell Father Jorivich you’re awake, blessed be the Creator and Morrow”.
Without another word she rushed out of the ward room, calling a name, he could barely hear. Around
him he could see a hospital ward room, most of the beds empty, save a few where people he didn’t
recognize rested. Trying to put together what happened he sat up, feeling a thousand needles into his
every nerve or muscle.

Moments later, an elderly man wearing white Morrowan robes entered the ward and seeing Sergei
sitting up he could not help a smile. Moving in the young man’s direction , he knelt by the bed, taking his
medical instruments. A quick examination made him turn toward the nurse who had been there earlier,
“Gods be praised, Sister Elena, he is awake and sitting. Whoever kept him alive all these weeks must
have been skilled, what we did was finish her work”. Once more he turned on the patient on the bed,
“What is your name son?”, he inquired.

“S… Sergei Korinski, Father”.

Mustering a reply the young man’s mind now raced with questions. Where was Mikaela? Where were
his parents? Dobrinka’s fate had been marked by death itself, had they survived?

“Where.. am I?”, the first natural question followed as he looked at both priest and nun, inquisitiveness
showing in his eyes.

“Korsk….” the reply came from the Sister who smiled, not sure what else to say.

Korsk, he was in Korsk, in the HEART OF THE MOTHERLAND…..

....HAUNTED BY DREAMS, he stirred from his sleep, looking around his small room above the Mechanik
shop, situated in the Market district of Korsk and he sighed. Images of his lost sister swarmed his mind.
Last he saw her, she was running in the thick snow. The merciless Khadoran winter could have turned
her into easy prey for wolves, snow leopards, Feral Ogrun or worse. Gathering his resolve he stepped
out of bed as the orange rays of the sun came over the city’s buildings, like beacons of hope. Pausing
with his hand on the glass he closed his eyes.

Another mind, alien yet familiar filled his own. He felt the base instincts of something far too familiar in
proximity and leaning down to pick his shirt from a creaky nearly broken chair he descended downstairs.
Voices came from the workshop and as Sergei pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the work
areas of the shop, he saw the owner of the alien mind.

Turning in slowly, much to the dismay of the shop’s owner, Nicolai Fedorov, ignoring hand and voice
commands an old battered Devastator turned toward him. It stepped toward the boy opening it’s shield
fists, causing everyone in the shop to freeze in fear. A single mental command caused the machine
stopped, idle; it’s near spent boiler causing it to power down. The shop owner blinked, stepping quickly,
examining his young apprentice, finally speaking…

“Menoth’s breath, how did you do it? That’s … boy, what did you do to it?”, he inquired rapidly, shaking
the boy’s shoulder.

“I felt its mind, Mr. Fedorov, it obeyed as it’s supposed to do but I felt it. We must nurse it back to health
and you’ll allow me, I’ll do it myself. I’ve already told you my father owned such a shop”.

Unsure what to reply, looking at the other employees, a reluctant Fedorov inclined his head, “It’s due to
go back to fighting in two weeks. Do not be late with it, Sergei or there will be hell to pay!”

Easily identifying the needed tools, the young man barely waited. He had seen his father work on a
Devastator before, he was familiar with it and it’s cousin, the Spriggan. Taking a piece of parchment he
inspected each bolt, hose and assembly in the opened warjack with attention. The machine needed a
whole arm replaced and the damage was obvious. Caused by a high quality artillery shell, the blow
nearly tore the arm off. Besides that the steam systems needed replacing, most of them being so used
they barely were adequate. In spite of all its damage, the machine’s cortex was still in good order, its
instincts still there.

Six months had passed since his complete recovery and now aided by several other junior mechaniks he
climbed a ladder that took him to the Devastator’s arm joint. Chains were holding the damaged arm,
secured against a moveable crane that rested onto the ceiling. One by one the hoses were unhooked,
followed by the heavy screws and bolts which were given to Alexander, a younger boy serving Fedorov.
In a well determined order he removed each clamp which held the arm in place and turning toward
Draigho and Misha he waved his hand, “Draigho, Misha, go easy, the arm is loose. Myself and Alexander
will push it from our end… just as we did with the Juggernaut”.

Heaving the control ropes of the crane the other two pulled and under the concerted effort of the small
crew the arm came off as predicted. With the arm now loose it was lowered onto the ground, besides
other old parts. Smeared in oil and grease Sergei took in a deep breath and after hours of grueling work,
he sat down at the feet of the metal beast. Parts had to be ordered from the Mechaniks Assembly and
the waiting would take forever.

He had to move, and move fast, yet all the work made him to THINK OF HER…..

…Nadia Zerinkoff, a young woman of sixteen walked slowly down the stone paved street, wrapping her
furred coat around her. Shop owners bragged with their merchandise to the beautiful, well dressed
young woman. Red locks of hair came out from underneath her fur hat and blue eyes inspected
presented items for sale. Approaching a carpenter’s shop, her attention was drawn to several small
wooden statues.

The left hand glove slowly came off as she reached for a wolf-shaped statue and after picking it up she
smiled. Ignoring the middle-aged woman that moved the counter she spun the small artifact in her
hand, finally looking up. She spoke her mouth to open but a male’s voice interrupted her…

“You like that miss, would you like me to get it for you”, the stranger adorned in Druzhina cadet uniform
asked, throwing her a charming smile.

Shaking her head, Nadia kept the statue in her hand, replying quietly, “I do not need anything from you,
sir, I will buy my own things, do not think your uniform is going to blow my mind away!”.

“Miss”, a somewhat baffled young man continued, “It would be my pleasure if you accepted the gift…, I
insist”. Standing up straight, with a smug face, he smiled with a hint of superiority.
Coming from a noble house herself, she returned the smile, “While your intentions are appreciated, kind
Sir, I choose to buy the item on my own!”. Turning to the shop keeper, she searched her small leather
purse, setting several coins in the woman’s hand. A thankful nod was all that followed and as she turned
around the smile on Nadia’s face grew. Attired in somewhat clean clothing, nothing more than a grey
winter coat, trousers and boots, his head covered by a Kossite styled hat, the charming grease-monkey
she spoke to in Fedorov’s workshop when her father visited the man appeared.

Walking in her direction he seemed to completely ignore the Druzhina cadets and move to the girl. An
excited look in his eyes, made her wonder and she broke the silence, not even bothering to look at the
few stains of oil and grease on the edges of his jacket as she gave him a light hug, “Something has
happened, tell me, I can see it in your eyes…”

“You won’t believe it…., Master Fedorov finally gave me a project on my own, a Devastator… a real
Warjack. Remember how upset I was?.When he..”, excitement made him to pause a minute, perhaps
puzzled by her actions.

“When he took you off the other project, I remember, the Juggernaut, was that its name?”, she
inquired, quietly, throwing a discrete look toward the trio of cadets watching the whole scene.

A crude interruption finally came, “How about you mind your own business and leave her be, she’s not
for you, mechanic. Go back to your workshop and play!”, the insisting Cadet burst out, stepping toward
the couple.

The usual exchange of looks, followed by rising tensions came but now, the mechanik took his chances,
sizing up his opponent. While Nadia attempted to draw him away, Sergei politely responded, “Cadet
Lieutenant, the young lady was talking to me. Sending me to my workshop in such a way only indicates
your arrogance…”.

“I’ll teach you a lesson….”, the cadet burst out, lunching at Sergei, and just as the first punch directed at
him followed. A second later a thin layer of ice covered the officer-trainee’s fist, slowing it down. While
prepared to defend himself, Sergei unleashed something he never suspected to have. The whole street
stopped, to watch in amazement as a cocky Druzhina cadet backed away, from a young man, wearing
stained clothing, tugged by a well-dressed young lady.

The gift had been unleashed and before the eyes of “Cracks” Jolinov the all too familiar smell of magic
filled the air for him. Cold, a cold that came natural to any Khadoran Wizard lived in this young man.
Perhaps he would be a good recruit, the Greylord agent thought…

Unleashed the gift was and far to the North, she too had it…
A TALONED HAND, opened the heavy wooden door and the hunched silhouette of an old woman,
carrying a crooked staff appeared in the doorway of Fedorov’s Mechanika. Intense brown eyes gazed at
the shop, eventually the sound of arguing voices drawing in the crone. A commanding voice boomed
over that of another man, asking questions, threatening. Another softer voice of another tried to defend
the accused. Feet covered in old ragged deer skin boots stepped up the stairs and along the narrow
corridor of the upper floor.

Koldun Lord Stephan Deleroski growled again, “You disappoint us master Fedorov. Harboring a man with
sorcerous potential, NOT informing the Greylord Convenant could be taken as a crime!”. His voice had a
strong threatening tint into it as the wizard’s cold eyes stared at Nicolai Fedorov.

“All I can do is write a detailed report to the Chancellery of your actions. Until then you will not leave
town!”, Deleroski continued, hoping his tactics would bear fruit. However something he could have
never expected interrupted his charade. The office door opened and the Crone filled the doorway,
chuckling.

“You vill not take this boy avay”, she spoke, her eyes turning toward Sergei Korinski, who was sitting
down, guarded by two Winter Guard soldiers, “He is mine and he is not to become a Grey Lord, do you
understand that?”.

As words rolled out of the woman’s mouth everyone in the room froze. Just like many others on the
street the presence of Zevanna Agha forced season men to hold their tongues. Satisfied she nodded,
raising some strands of old decrepit hair from her face, speaking once more, “Now, the boy iz to decide
his destiny. Learn the True Spirit of Khador for in the North evil stirs while from the coast the dead will
arrive once more”. Intently she turned to Sergei, waiting calmly.

Unsure what to think, overwhelmed by Zevanna’s presence Sergei looked at Master Fedorov then at the
Koldun Lord. Standing up, he turned to Witch stepping in her direction, his obviously frightened voice
now filling the room, “I will do whatever it takes to save the Motherland, I will follow her. She is old,
wise, perhaps she can teach me what I must know of my gift”. Bowing before the Witch, unsure what
sort of behavior he moved to her side.

A frightening laugh came from the crone, as her taloned hand patted him on the shoulder “I only hope
you vill not regret your decision. You vill not be coddled boy…”. With that she stepped out the door.

Hastily gathering his belongings, saying his goodbyes to Master Fedorov, Sergei stepped into the paved
street, following the old woman, between the people whom had formed a lane, allowing her passage.
Just as she stepped between two older trees and he followed, he no longer was in Korsk. A forest
clearing somewhere far from civilization was around him, dominated by old cairn stones, covered in
small wild flowers.

Gnarled trees seemed to whisper as the wind blew and their leaves growing once more in spring that
bloomed around. The witch was silent besides him. Old brown eyes looked up at him and she motioned
to him to follow. Walking through dense underbrush he felt vines and thorns scratching his skin but
compelled to follow her, he kept going. Minutes became hours and the two walked as night fell. In the
distance the shape of a castle could be seen, the banners still fluttering in the twilight sky, one of the
three moons darkening it as it rose in the background.

Dragging his legs onto the muddy ground he approached the edifice and looking up he wondered where
they were. Two Iron Fang Pikemen raised their weapons and bowed heads in greeting the woman, gazes
following her bruised companion. Braziers and torches lit the hallways and yet the woman said no word.
Leading him to a remote wing of the castle, she pushed a double door open, leading to a large study,
laden with book-cases, a large desk near a fire-place flanked by Gargoyles, with a painting of a man with
dark hair, goatee radiating an aura of majesty.

A person stepped from the shadows, his features similar to the man in the painting and with a calm
voice he spoke, “It is my ancestor, Drago Tzepesci, young man. Welcome to Umbrey. As it is polite, I will
tell you my name”, he spoke, “I am Prince Vladimir of Umbrey”.

A baffled and stunned Sergei knelt before the legendary man, the Champion of the Motherland, he
gazed down. Not sure what to tell the man attired in aristocratic clothing, he just rested there without a
clue on how to react. Finding the courage he finally spoke “My name is Sergei Korinski your highness”.

“Then you must realize why you are here, I am not a man of many words. A servant will show you to
your quarters. Be ready, the new road in your life begins tomorrow”, he said, keeping a calm tone in his
voice, waving his hand. Stepping backwards, away from the presence of his better the young man was
confused. Tzepesci was involved along with the Crone of Khador, what had he ever done?

With a warm smile and a polite gesture of his hand a young man motioned toward the hallway to the
right, “This way sir, the master had us prepare a chamber for you”.

This would be a new adventure, a new road under the guidance of a great man, yet he never knew why
he was chosen, to be a student of the Dark Prince….
Venting steam…, the steam locomotive pulling a short train, made of four cars pulled into Korsk’s
central station, the screeching wheels of the machine filling the air with the sound of metal grinding
against metal. Unlike the other trains pulled at various platforms this one bore the Royal Crest of
Umbrey and soon heads turned. Winter Guard had swarmed the platform quickly forming by the access
ladder of the middle car.

With a stern look in his eyes an Iron Fang Captain came out of the railroad car prompting immediate
salute from the Winter Guard soldiers. Wearing ceremonial armour the man stepped aside and the
door’s frame was taken over by an imposing man, not overly tall, well built with a commanding aura
about him. Loose dark hair fell on his shoulders and as he stepped forward wearing a simple ornate
breastplate everyone bowed down. Vladimir Tzepesci motioned his hand slowly and they all returned as
they were just as a new figure stepped out of the railroad car, flanked by a large warhound.

Sergei Korinski stepped onto the platform, moving to stand beside his tutor, gazing upon the assembled
Winter Guard. In one year things had changed, the once humble mechanik with dormant potential had
become a Journeyman Warcaster, trained by one of the greatest men alive. Even after all the time the
regal bearing of the last of the Tzepesci made him stay in his trainer’s shadow, knowing his place. The
two men, prince and journeyman warcaster walked slowly toward the end of the platform, the taller
one speaking quietly, “You must remember why we are here Sergei. The Imperial Court is not like
Umbrey. A young man such as yourself is often considered easy prey for shrewd nobles and
Kommandants who might try to gain favors from me through you.”

Korinski nodded once, walking now besides the Prince, “I understand, My Lord. I will be careful, I will be
honest, I am still hoping to see Nadia…”.

The aristocrat sketched a small smile, setting a hand on his shoulder briefly, “I am well aware of how you
feel. You’re one of the few who know of me and Kommander Kratikoff and it is best you keep it that
way”. Silent once more the men walked out of the rail station, stared at by most Khadorans present at
the moment in their path. The coach carrying them to Ayn Vanar’s summer residence was decorated
with all the pomp a person of Tzepesci’s sation required. Bearing the Umbrean flag and that of the
Khadoran Empire, Iron Fang Uhlans followed on white steeds, turning many heads along the way.
The setting sun’s rays reflected,against the roof of the imposing complex that housed the Empress’
summer palace. Like a pearl of white, with ornate outcroppings the residence of the Khadoran Monarchs
stood as a jewel of Imperial architecture among the bleak edifices of Korsk. Surrounded by three layers
of walls, enclosed in the middle of a green carpet of carefully trimmed grass, live fountains that sprung
to life in an alternate fashion seemed to be a thing out of dreams. Just as the coach turned right toward
the actual palace, lined up Imperial Guards raised their swords in salute of the Umbrean prince.

Tzepesci turned slowly to his young student and spoke “We will be greeted by the Majordomo and Court
Chamberlain. Remember the etiquette”, he commented indicating the assembled nobles on the main
staircase. “We will meet the Empress in her ball room later this evening. Remember, do not speak unless
spoken to. While I am an open man, allowing you to speak any time the Empress may not be
appreciative of this”. An encouraging smile appeared on Vladimir’s face as a page opened the coach’s
door.

Following the Prince, Sergei stepped off the coach his gaze falling upon the bowing nobles. Step by step
he moved toward the top of the stairs where the Court Chamberlain and a Majordomo waited. Both
men bowed briefly at the last of the Umbrean Royal line finally the Chamberlain inquiring quietly,
“Might I ask, who your companion is, My Lord”.

His gloved hand gesturing toward Korinski, Vlad spoke after a few tensioned seconds, “It is my
journeyman, Lieutenant Korinski. He serves my family and trains to better harness his abilities”.

A surprised Chamberlain nodded, inclining his head toward the much younger man. At first glance the
uniform he wore was that of an Iron Fang, a crimson uniform, with riding pants, polished black boots.
Accompanying them a cavalry sword dangled at his belt in a carefully decorated scabbard with gold
inlays and small rubies along its length. A few decorations indicating service were on the young man’s
chest. Well groomed hair and a shaved face, an overall air of order were the result of Vladimir’s
education upon his young charge.

“Lieutenant Korinski, it is a pleasure. I am surprised his Highness has taken another charge, I am Fiodor
Kuznietzko…”, before the man could finish, Sergei cut him off..

“Lord Kuznietzko, I heard a great deal about you and your lands east of the Capital. My Lord tells me you
have made quite good progress with improving the soil, making it more fertile…”, he smiled in a friendly
way to the man, not allowing the older noble to attempt anything.

Baffled, the Chamberlain and Majordomo led the two within the palace itself. Unlike the stone halls of
Umbrey, Ayn Vanar’s palace was a masterpiece. Mosaic floors covered by red carpets with an easily
distinguishable Llaelese craft, gold inlays sculpted into columns, chandeliers made from Menoth knew
what lighting the hallways. Pages and servants walked by at their daily chores, bowing briefly as the Lord
Chamberlain led them to a set of enormous double doors.

Bearing the Imperial crest the doors were white with golden edgings like most others and slowly opened
from within at the hands of two Pages. Before them a long room opened up, flanked by pillars made of
white marble, lit by several chandeliers high up. Red curtains covered each window partially the last
vestiges of light mixing with the artificial light of the room. A few nobles seemed to wait by the side,
entertained by drinks, officers from the High Kommand spoke quietly, bowing only briefly as Vladimir
was led inside. A few ladies in waiting exchanged glances, giggles staring enraptured by the commanding
aura of the Tzepesci heir.

In tow Sergei followed, lost in the grandeur of this chamber but soon he realized where he was. The
presence of a large gilded chair at the other end indicated a change of schedule. Within the chair a
woman sat, perhaps a few years older than him, yet he knew it was not so. While he had expected her
to wear lavish dresses her small frame was attired in a day to day dress that would have seemed
extravagant but also practical. Her brown maned hair fell in waves on her shoulders and intense green
eyes slowly looked up catching glimpse of the new arrivals.

Ayn Vanar the First, Empress of Khador and annexed Llael stood up, a small smile forming on her lips.
The two men stopped slowly and knelt before her, their heads bowed. One she knew, but the other was
a mystery. Much younger than Vladimir he seemed overwhelmed. A gloved hand moved to her cheek,
pondering the situation she motioned toward Vladimir, “Rise my friend, welcome”. Before he could
continue she stepped toward Sergei.

Just as her gloved hand stopped some distance from his eyes, shivering he gripped her hand, lightly,
barely touching the back of her hand with his lips. He was not sure what to say so he remained quiet,
letting go of the Empress hand, a discreet look toward Vladimir seeking approval.

Amused, Ayn spoke quietly, “You may stand up now, young man. You have no reason to be afraid”.
Turning toward Vladimir her voice filled the room, “Prince Tzepesci, I had not known you had a new
apprentice…”.

A confirming nod came from the Umbrean just as Sergei stood up, with his head bowed only to move
besides his tutor. “Indeed I have, your Majesty. The boy was found here in Korsk, nearly recruited into
the Grey Lords. Zevanna brought him to me and demanded that I train him… It was little I could do”.

“You know Zevanna Agha always gets her way, he could have ended up dead or training under Zoktavir
where he would have fared far worse treatment”, she commended, trying to encourage a scared Sergei
with a smile. “To be frank, Vladimir”, she continued, “had I known we had another I would have sent
him to you as well”.

Vladimir nodded once, in agreement with the Empress. Besides him, a stunned Sergei watched, not
believing his eyes or ears. He was back where he started, he was in Korsk and the ruler of the Greater
Empire was with him. Hope burned brighter in his heart, hope to make a name for himself, but above all
he hoped to see her.

He hoped to see Nadia…

The imposing manor, that housed the Zerinkoff family buzzed with activity. Servants and maids rushed
back and forth, carrying trays, curtains, clothes. The activity amused young Nadia as she gazed out the
window, letting out a soft smile. The carriage was being prepared, curtains with her family’s crest were
being installed, the vehicle itself cleaned, scrubbed to a shine by the handlers. Slowly adjusting her blue
dress she climbed down the stairs only to stop in front of the main entrance as their butler, old Grigori,
opened the double doors.

He exchanged a few words with a visitor then stepped aside. A young man stood in the doorway,
wearing an ornate Iron Fang uniform, along with Lieutenant rank, heraldry of the Tzepesci, Magziev
ranking given to him by the Grey Lord Convenant. His face however made her smile widely, fumbling,
trying to find her words. A boy that once was a mere dirty mechanic now appeared before her as a
respectable young officer. Racing her mind suddenly made the connection, realizing he had not simply
joined the Army.

Invited in, he bowed courtly, something he had not done before, but remained silent. A dazzled Nadia
tried to hold herself back but before the eyes of her surprised mother she rushed to the visitor, hugging
him tight once, before realizing what she had done. “L.. Lieutenant Korinski, what a surprise”, it was all
she could say before the harsh voice of her father interrupted.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant”, Mikael Zerinkoff spoke, looking at the officer, his gaze taking in each
detail. Appearing as any respectable young Khadoran officer should, he only seemed to stand out with
the heraldry embroidered on his tunic and Magziev ranks. For a moment the old man hesitated then
continued, “It is a pleasure to have someone from Prince Vladimir’s household in our home”. Gesturing
toward the living room he continued, “Do not be shy, please, come in. A drink perhaps? Surely you are
an unexpected visitor but it would be courtly of us to be good hosts”.

An encouraging look from the girl caused Sergei to speak, “Good afternoon, Lord Zerinkoff, I am pleased
to be here. I know I should have notified beforehand of my visit but as I undertook some tasks for my
Lord, I found myself in the neighborhood and….”.

“Please, there is no need to excuse yourself”, the nobleman intervened once more, an insisting gaze
looking upon the young Warcaster. In the hosts tow Sergei walked quietly, followed by Nadia and the
man’s wife. A simple gesture by a fireplace caused Sergei to remove his military hat and take the offered
seat. What was in his mind, he did not know, but he hoped to see her.

“Surely you do have a name yes?”, Mikael inquired, quietly staring the boy down.

“Apologies my Lord, I am Lt. Korinski, I serve as His Highness’, Prince Vladimir’s apprentice”, he
explained, collecting his thoughts. Pausing a second he turned to watch the butler approaching. On a
calm tone, the elderly man asked, “A drink for the young Sir?”.

Gazing for a moment at Mikael and his daughter he dared to respond, “A glass of whatever his lordship
is having would be good”. A simple nod from the butler came as he stepped away, disappearing out of
the room. His attention turned once more back to the others, trying to perhaps open a topic of
conversation.

“Well now that you’re here, Lieutenant, I am curious as to why your unannounced visit? I would have
recalled if we had met before”, with a knowing look, old man Zerinkoff glanced at Nadia for a moment.

“I, your Lordship, I have kept contact with … your daughter over the past year… we met before and…”,
Sergei responded, “We’ve been good friends before I was sent for my training and I was hoping to see
her again….”. Fidgeting with his gloves, he looked at Nadia, then back at her father, moving a few
strands of dark hair out of his face.

“There’s no need to hide who you are son. I remember you from Fedorov’s workshop”, Zerinkoff spoke,
keeping a cold expression on his face, “While writing to my daughter is something I am not against, I will
inform you that arrangements were already made. Kiril Dorevich and his family have asked for Nadia’s
hand and coming from such a respectable family, I could not say no…”.

The girl’s face looked down and she sadly turned away from her guest, feeling her own heart as if
pierced by a thousand arrows. She had hidden this from Sergei and now he had to learn the hard way.
His eyes stared at her in disbelief, then back at her father. Words rolled in his head and finally he spoke,
“Your daughter and I are friends your lordship….”.

“I’m sure you are young man, but you’re due to serve the Motherland and knowing your past, surely you
would not think I’d have allowed you to become more”, Mikael replied, “Kiril is a decent young man
with proper upbringing. I will ask you to stop writing my daughter, she will see I am right….”. As his final
words came out Nadia backed off, defiance in her eyes for a second as she walked away, attempting to
stifle tears, or so Sergei thought.

He stood up, for a brief second wanting to run after her, yet she hid something from him. All these long
months he wrote, he hoped, he read each letter she sent over and over but it all came to an abrupt end
at Mikael Zerinkoff’s words. Not even bothering to excuse himself, he placed his military hat on, an
apologetic nod given to the Lord as he walked toward the door. Trying hard not to look back he stepped
out, walking slow, his head up. As he walked out the gate, to his horse a new arrival caught his
attention. The Druzhina Cadet he once froze looked at him triumphantly as he arrived, wearing
ceremonial uniform. Kiril Dorevich was his name and by his smug attitude he perhaps considered
himself a winner.

A second of eye contact made Dorevich back off a mere moment after which he strolled ahead, the
proverbial castle had been taken, competition driven out, or so he thought….
Flanked by a large beast with four wings that waited calmly besides her, Mikaela Korinkski, now ten
years older looked upon the snowy tundra before her. Grown into a young woman of nineteen along the
Nyss she had retained most of her features, her long hair now Silvery, similar to that of the Nyss. Her
keen senses took in everything and she turned toward the Seraph, the Draconic angel besides her
touching it’s scaly hide.

Beast and human became one mind as she sifted through the animal’s thoughts, feeling it’s hunger, it’s
desire for war, for destruction within her. At her side another woman stood, a Nyss wearing mail
armour, covered by light plates, a helmet covering her eyes and long, flowing raven hair, fluttering into
the wind. Lylyth of the Voassir tribe smiled maliciously as before them another village stood. Words
were not necessary between the two, their minds easily linked by the Athancs they carried, pieces of a
Dragon’s soulstone, allowing instant communication.

A voice soothing, beguiling and also commanding filled Mikaela’s mind and she closed her eyes.
Ethrunbal or Everblight, her master spoke to her. She saw his thoughts relayed into her mind as she
turned to Lylyth slowly, speaking quietly, “The Master says the time of the Hunt has come, I await your
command, Sister”.

Several Nyss legionnaires fanned out before Mikaela, assuming formation, their cold, unfeeling eyes as
frigid as the winter itself. Their leader, Syriel had served under the girl for two years now, since she
received her Athanc shard and almost instinctively arrayed her warriors in formation. Keeping her hand
on “Lyriss”, the Seraph the human girl waited quietly. Just as Nyss Striders moved ahead, enough to
distract the village militia a new presence filled Mikaela’s mind. Hossir hissed as he moved by her side,
like he did years ago. Images from the beast’s mind filled her own, guard posts, houses, the Raek had
done its job well.

The distinctive hiss of arrows being shot filled the air and falling shapes from the guard towers indicated
the Striders were now keeping the defenders occupied. A fluid motion made Mikaela climb quickly upon
the Seraph’s back, her touch, a mere caress making the Dragonspawn take to the air. On the ground the
Legionnaires advanced at unison, flanked by swordsmen. Too late it was when a Winter Guard soldier
yelled to alert his comrades of the other attackers.

Shots began taking out Swordsmen and Legionnaires one by one yet the Nyss advanced upon their
target. Disciplined volley fire from blunderbusses and military rifles eliminated scores of Nyss, yet some
got up and continued, dragging behind their formation. A young officer directed the Khadoran soldiers,
pointing out targets and so far seemed to have done a good job. Two shredders lay dead among the
Nyss along with a serpentine Angelius.

A collective scream, dozen soldiers screamed in pain as blighted dragonfire engulfed them from the sky.
Swooping on the cold winds Lyriss opened its fanged maw, gouts of flame erupting from it, burning the
Khadoran soldiers. The survivors, terrified began to back away, into the village, taking advantage of any
cover they could find. Mikaela’s keen eyes spotted a marksman aiming for either herself or Lyriss and
smiled. This human, one of her own race attempted to resist, fight for his life, unaccepting of his fate
that would in turn fuel Everblight’s own forces.
A bullet zipped through the air, as the Widowmaker private pulled the trigger, embedding itself in
Lyriss’s flesh. A calming word from Mikaela’s lips, followed by a sphere of blue flame, forming around
her hand directed at the man hit its target. He burst into frozen flames that muffled his screams,
dropping off the roof and into the attic through an opening. Soon smoke appeared and the same fire
trickled out of the thatched roof. She saw the Legionnaires fall upon the remaining Winter Guard and
Widowmakers with deadly precision. Each time Claymores rose and fell Khadorans died.

Lumped behind improvised barricades the remaining soldiers and citizens prepared to sell their lives
dearly but it was not to be. Descending from the skies, a human girl, riding a dragonspawn looked upon
them with contempt.

“Must you really waste your lives? I will only tell you once, renounce what you thought so far. Men die,
Empires crumble, only the power of Dragons is eternal! My Master has found it fit to offer you
salvation…”, the Legion warlock spoke calmly, looking at each of them.

“He saved me from the frozen wastes and he will save you as well. Should you choose death, know that
you will serve us even so, for the Master’s children will be born from your remains, what will it be?”, she
asked, her tone demanding. Her eyes stared more on women and children. The men seemed somewhat
defiant but some of the women already tried to persuade their men to see reason.

A Menite priest, replied only to receive a black arrow in his chest. The fool attempted to protect his flock
from salvation, a waste of a potential convert. Rifle shots pierced Lyriss scaly hide, the beast now
enraged took wing. In its wake, the Khadorans could see the girl alone, one foot, drawing a sword,
setting a shield advancing.

Interlocking armour plates creaked covered by a layer of frost and the dance began. The barricade
meant nothing, a simple leap over it bringing Mikaela among the humans. Distinctive metallic sounds
indicated the clash of weapon and shield, gouts of frozen flames burning those in their path and like a
silver dancing light “Dragontooth”, the blade hacked apart men, women and children. Like a balet
dancer at Ayn Vanar’s court she danced before the cold eyes of Nyss Legionnaires and Swordsmen and
crimson now coloured the snow.

With her blade deep into the chest of a surviving officer Mikaela stopped, her eyes slowly looking up.
Lylyth gazed at her with a soft smile, in a way like the proud older sister. Stepping forward she touched
the human warlock’s hair speaking quietly in the language of the Nyss, “You have done well, little Sister,
the Master is proud. We should return to camp, I’m sure Rhyliss will love to hear of your exploits”.

Behind the two women hell followed. Survivors were caged and dragged away while Shredders, Raeks
and other dragonspawn fed on the remains. Another Khadoran village extinguished by the Ethrunbal’s
flame, another dot vanishing from the Empire’s map.
With a frigid blow, “Frost Bite”, the hammer struck ornate shiled, icicles forming on its scaly pattern, quickly expanding
along the dent and dragon’s head in the center. Big blue eyes gazed upon the warrior encased in crimson red armour before
them, following the war hammer. Despite the bulk of the armour, the warrior before Mikaela Korinski moved with a grace
possibly fueled by magic, his Iron-Fang like armour outfitted with an arcane generator, providing more than adequate
protection.

A small Menofix carved on the hammer’s pommel brought memories to the girl’s mind. Foggy images of houses, similar to
those around her, ruins that came into her mind like a torrent, overlapped with her thoughts. Around her Dragonspawn
clashed with enemy troopers and Warjacks, yet deep inside her she knew it was a lost battle. Ethrunbal’s voice attempted to
encourage her but it was a lost battle. Like the Hammer of a Vengeful god the Khadoran army responded. The Maul of
Winter, she thought. There was no time to be lost in what the enemy stood for.

Her mind reached out to a Carnivean that still lived and despite its wounds the mighty beast continued to fight. A broken
warjack lay beside it, and another attempted to free itself as the monster’s maw opened, bathing the metallic beast into a
pillar of flame. Dazzled the mechanical monster fell, just as the Carnivean disengaged, running fast apace toward the
Warlock.

Seconds before she could barely parry the Cold enchanted weapon of the enemy commander struck again, “Dragon’s tooth”
covered now in a thin layer of frost. Forcing herself, she struck back, biting into his armour with her blade, yet much to her
dismay she did not feel the distinctive slowing of a sword passing through flesh. As if an eternity passed she saw her
Carnivean jump past Hossir’s carcass, it’s taloned arm gripping the Khadoran Kommander, tossing him against an old
workshop’s wall. A victorious roar came as the frenzied animal continued on it’s rampage through small walls, fences,
attempting to finish off its prey.

Stunned and injured, Sergei dragged himself up using his hammer as a cane. The power field generated by his Arcane
generator deflected most of the blow but he felt perhaps a rib broken from the impact with the wall. As if spawned from the
deepest hells, a Carnivean charged right at him, being seconds away. His helmet had flown off, bare head now visible, yet
he readied himself. The large beast was strong but not as fast as him. What seemed to be a desperate counter-charge sent
him dumbling beneath the beast that jumped in the last moment, his own weapon making contact with the large Draconic
beast.

Much to the beast’s surprise a new threat had arisen on the battle-field. Like a wrecking ball of hard iron and steel a
Spriggan charged forth, bellowing smoke as it’s simple mind felt the desperation of its controller. With the force of a fully
throttled steam locomotive the warjack slammed into the animal, it’s right arm moving back then forth. Pain spread as the
tip pierced skin and bone, excruciating to Dragonspawn and Warlock. A casual push with the shield forced the dead Monster
off the Spriggan’s shield as it turned to look toward Sergei, before a mob of Nyss charged it.

Once more Khadorans clashed, brother and sister, in the snow covering the ruins of Dobrinka.

Mikaela’s eyes opened wide, as she noticed the features of her enemy. Ten years ago she would have never thought
she’d be here, close to the Menite temple where she once went with her brother, fighting him. His voice filled her mind as
instead of striking her, he spoke.

“Mikaela… I thought you were … lost. What has gotten into you?”, his words came out baffled, surprised.

Unsure if to strike or respond she hesitated, trying to fight off Everblight’s urges, but finally gave in. “Dragon’s tooth” this
time struck it’s mark, poisonous fumes touching Sergei’s flesh, only causing him to stare in disbelief. A sorcerous blast
tossed him against the Menite Temple’s wall once more and the pain became obvious. He felt his own flesh contorting,
shifting around his wound, unbearable pain taking all over him.

“More! More! More!”, the Dragon’s voice commanded, “Kill him, he is your enemy. Set aside weakness, you are my herald!”.

A slender hand reached out, another ball of frozen fire flying toward the warcaster, with obvious intention to finish him off.
Forcing himself to resist, Sergei conjured his remaining power, a magical shield deflecting the blast into a nearby building.
Standing up, he saw a charging warlock coming straight at him, to take advantage of his weakened state. With the elegance
bred into her fighting style by Rhyas, Mikaela danced with her blade, having dropped her heavy metallic shield on her way.
A near miss, followed by a strike from “Frost Bite” sent the young woman to the ground with broken armour plates. Her
beasts either out of her range or dead were not there to take the hit for her. Despite Ethrunbal’s voice, she tried to resist,
collecting herself. Coughing heavily, she attempted to speak, the strain of the Dragon’s will imposed upon her, and her own
will struggling for control caused her to remain where she was, blank eyes staring at Sergei.

Mustering her final effort,she moved her blade upwards, as the Dragon won for a mere moment. Skewering chain armour,
power conduits and clothing underneath, Dragon’s tooth pierced her brother’s chest, with a flicker the arcane generator
dying out. Injured, she finally gave way and closed her eyes.

The Dragon was gone perhaps and she saw things as they were. Summer in the family Garden, the image of her father,
repairing old steam jacks, Sergei and his friends often taking her for horse rides in the green fields. She remembered Sasha,
the Kodiak, many many faces of people from her past. Father Medelev, the Menite priest in charge of the village, fasting
and prayer days and the games she used to play as a child.

With a supreme effort she stripped off her breastplate, tugging on the Crystal thrust in her breast. As it finally broke free,
she felt the same. Besides her, encased in Iron Fang armour, Sergei lay, face down, gasping for breath. The last strength
left, made her turn her brother onto his back as she moved closer, looking at him. A final deep breath came from him and
soon he passed away, forever to join Menoth. Blood poured from her own wounds and she set herself to rest with her silver
hair sprawled all over his red armour.

Memories returned once more, and before her eyes Dobrinka seemed to be rebuilt, the souls of so many lost beckoning her
to cross over. Close to the images of her parents she saw Sergei as he was, but wearing the Iron Fang armour. His hand
grabbed her own and she felt light as a feather. They both flew with the others to a White Marble city, where the faithful
stood vigil over a chaotic sea of shades. Soon before them was a large throne room, where a stern figure looked at them
both, encased in white armour. A nod came from this man of unseen before majesty and with a simple smile he motioned
with his right hand for them to join the others.

Snow began to fall over the battle-field and Sorscha Kratikoff stepped across the dead, looking at the surviving soldiers.
Weary, injured they gazed up at her as she stopped at the ruins of the Menite temple, kneeling down besides two bodies. A
young woman resting as if sleeping atop the body of Sergei Korinski, made the Warcaster move a few strands of hair away
from her face, only to reveal a striking resemblance her former subordinate and apprentice of the man she loved. A young
Iron Fang Lieutenant removed his helmet setting underneath his arm as did most of his men.

Another young Winter Guard rifleman closed in, looking at Sorscha, trying to hold his own emotions, seeing the man who
commanded them for the past five years dead. A large Khadoran flag covered brother and sister, as Kommander Kratikoff
spoke finally as her own fur hat was removed, “Parted years ago, meant to die together at each other’s hands. Such is the
irony of fate. May they both find their peace”.

As the shadows of night fell a silent wake held by the soldiers of the 31st Winter Wolves Regiment would be the end of their
service under Sergei Korinski. Besides the soldiers, idly a Spriggan, Devastator and Juggernaut jacks stood vigil over the
Korinski siblings. After years of anguish they had both found peace.