Beyond The Ice. The Swallow Rises

For nearly six years, the European continent had not been warmed by a single ray of sunlight, and the cold grew more severe with each passing day. Though people had hoped that fleeing south might help them escape the ice, that illusion quickly vanished as even a place like Marrakesh was now buried in white snow.

Every effort by the Castilian Empire to turn the arid North African desert into fertile wheat fields had proven futile. In the current state of affairs, there was nothing left to use.

However, hope was not entirely extinguished. Human nature is always to find a way to cope with adversity, and in this bizarre ice age, the appearance of a “miracle” from over a millennium ago called the Vestigium had become a great savior for humanity.

On the outskirts of Marrakesh, in a dilapidated brick barn, the rare warmth from the breath of the oxen instantly turned into tiny clusters of ice at their nostrils. Instead of burning coal or wood, luxuries now more expensive than gold, Edward sought to warm himself on the straw-covered earthen floor in another way.

Approaching the corner of the barn, he knelt before a chipped ceramic pot, carefully lifted the tattered burlap cloth, and removed a piece of gray lime the size of a fist, crisscrossed with cracks and glowing with a red light like glowing embers. The smell of sulfur wafted out along with the warm heat from this low-level Vestigium, temporarily pushing the cold away by only two steps. Although there were many other types of Vestigium in the world capable of heating more efficiently, this was the most convenient and cheapest option he could find at the moment.

The cattle, draped in tattered goatskin, gathered around the pot, kneeling to try and breathe in a little heat. That strange heat caused the fur on their backs to scorch and wither visibly. Sitting against the wooden wall, Edward gripped his vegetable peeling knife, his tired, dark-rimmed eyes staring fixedly at the red block of lime. He knew all too well that this thing could only protect the herd for three more short nights before it burst into toxic gas.

Suddenly, the silence of the brick barn was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps on the soft snow. Edward’s young son hurried to his father’s side, his face flushed red from the cold, his breath forming clusters of white smoke.

“Father! Outside in the yard... there is someone looking for you!”

Edward had not yet had time to brush the straw from his knees when a silhouette cast a long shadow at the threshold. Following his son were two guards in thick coats. One of them, the one with a long scar across his chin named Romeo, slowly removed his hood to reveal the platinum blonde hair characteristic of the Scandinavian people, thick and slightly messy, shining like cold snow under the dim firelight, then nodded respectfully to Edward:

“You’re well hidden, Edward. How is life these days?”

The other, Marco with neatly trimmed brown hair, looked around the barn and smirked:

“I heard you retired, but I didn’t think you would choose a place like this. It doesn’t suit a man like you at all.”

Edward stood up slowly, leisurely brushing the straw from his clothes. Amidst the biting cold of Marrakesh, his knee joints creaked wearily. He plunged the knife into the earthen floor, then gave a lopsided, world-weary smile that had not appeared for a long time.

“Still alive and well, Romeo,” Edward nodded to the man with the scarred chin, his voice raspy from the elements. “In an age where people are freezing to death on the street like rats, the fact that I am still breathing to stand here and talk to you two is already a great privilege.”

With that, he turned to Marco. Edward walked over, raised his hand, and patted Marco’s thick, snow-covered shoulder plate hard, causing the thin layer of ice to shatter and fall onto the dry straw floor.

“Though it smells like cow manure, at least it is warm here, Marco,” Edward chuckled, his eyes revealing a sincere self-mockery. “This place doesn’t have the deafening sound of warships, no smell of acrid gunpowder, and I don’t have to worry about someone stabbing me in the back every time I wake up. It may look dilapidated and wretched, but at night I can sleep until morning without having to tuck a flintlock pistol under my pillow. So, it’s a huge profit, isn’t it?”

Romeo and Marco looked at each other, then both burst into hearty laughter at their old friend’s strange optimism. The chuckles of the three men echoed in the small barn, dispelling some of the stillness and cold of the eternal winter.

“Alright, Edward, you haven’t changed a bit,” Romeo said, just finishing his laugh. “But surely you can guess that we didn’t trek through this thick snow just to hear you praise the warmth of cow manure, right?”

Edward stopped smiling, narrowed his eyes at his two old friends, and his voice became more serious: “So what big matter brings you two to seek out this godforsaken hole?”

Marco stepped forward, lowering his voice but unable to hide the gravity of the situation: “Your sister... no, the Castilian Queen is here to meet you. Your wife is hosting her in the house.”

Edward’s expression shifted slightly, and he took a deep breath to regain his composure. He hurriedly brushed off the remaining bits of straw and straightened his attire. Turning to his son who was still standing aside, he instructed quickly:

“Stay here and tidy up the barn, I have guests to attend to.”

Having said that, Edward strode out of the shabby brick barn, crossing the white snow-covered yard to enter the main house, a relatively spacious and solid stone structure where true warmth awaited behind the door.

Edward pushed the thick oak door open, and a thin layer of ice cracked with a hissing sound. A stream of hot air from the stone stove in the middle of the room immediately rushed out, embracing his frost-numbed face.

In the space filled with the scent of herbal tea, Juliet and Isabella were sitting opposite each other. Juliet turned her head, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and her calloused hands showing clearly in the firelight. If Juliet were likened to an old piece of wood, heavy with time and weather, then Isabella opposite her was like a perfectly forged silver sword: sharp, regal, and impossible to look away from. Isabella’s presence made the already destitute house look even more cluttered, like placing a brilliant crystal next to a pile of rough gravel by the roadside.

Juliet smiled and quickly stood up to smooth his shirt: “You’re back? The Queen has been waiting for you for a while. Let me go make some more hot water.”

Just as Juliet disappeared behind the curtain, the smile on Isabella’s lips vanished, replaced by a sharp, resentful look. She lowered her voice, her amber eyes staring piercingly at Edward:

“Are you truly content burying yourself with that woman? She looks at you, her eyes filled only with the mediocre devotion of a servant. You should have been with someone who understands your value.”

Edward sighed softly; he understood the burning jealousy in every word Isabella spoke, a feeling he had rejected for years, while Juliet knew nothing of it. He responded with an unnervingly calm demeanor: “That is something you will never understand, little sister. In this day and age, simple warmth is the greatest luxury.”

Isabella intended to retort, but the sound of Juliet’s footsteps echoed back. Isabella immediately pulled back her hostile gaze, and a polite smile returned to her lips: “It has been a long time, brother. Sister Juliet just told me about the winters here... It seems your stubbornness hasn’t changed at all.”

Edward laughed lightly, stepped closer, and pulled up a wooden chair to sit beside them: “In this day and age, just being alive is a stroke of luck. You traveled so far to this corner of Marrakesh, surely not just to enjoy my herbal tea?”

Isabella did not answer immediately, her eyes glancing toward Juliet, who was about to retreat quietly to the kitchen.

“Sister Juliet, stay. Please sit down.”

Juliet paused, her calloused hands nervously twisting her dress. “Your Majesty, these great matters... it would be better if I did not hear them...”

“The ‘peaceful’ life that you and Edward have worked so hard to build is about to end,” Isabella interrupted with a terrifyingly calm expression. Her eyes stared intently at the peasant woman opposite her, full of menace. “You must stay here to witness its collapse firsthand. No one can escape this reality anymore.”

Feeling his wife’s trembling, Edward reached out, firmly grasping Juliet’s hand. His eyes stared warningly at Isabella before he pulled a stool closer, forcing his wife to sit down under his protection. Marco received the signal and stepped forward, unfastening the leather straps and spreading a world map across the scratched wooden table.

The guard tapped his rough finger on the Mediterranean Sea and spoke:

“The situation is much worse than you think, Edward. The real reason we trekked here is that Castile is on the brink of total collapse.”

Edward said nothing. Marco took a deep breath and began to list the disasters:

“First, the Castilian army is currently not strong enough to hold North Africa. After completely defeating and expelling the Ottoman Empire from Europe, the West Roman Empire devoured a huge territory, stretching from the Italian peninsula to the entire Balkan region and Southeastern Europe. As soon as this Ice Age swept through, the West Romans launched a full-scale war to the south. The Ottomans once asked us for an alliance, but together we could not hold them back. The proof is that Libya, Egypt, and most recently... Tunis have officially fallen into their hands.”

Marco moved his finger up, pointing to the mountain range separating Iberia from the rest of the continent:

“Second, on the northern border, Emperor Napoleon of the Holy French Empire has officially declared war, completely tearing up the Non-Aggression Pact after killing the Pope in Vienna. Our entire main land force is being pushed to the Pyrenees to block the French army.”

The space in the stone house fell into a heavy silence. Only the crackling of firewood and Juliet’s ragged breathing remained. Marco sighed, his finger stopping at the vast ocean to the west:

“And the worst thing... We have lost the entire New World to the Portuguese. By releasing and manipulating 7 legendary level Vestigium, the Castilian fleet withdrawing from the New World was completely sunk to the bottom of the sea by them. It is only a matter of time before those Portuguese pirates turn their ships back toward the Iberian Peninsula to reclaim the ‘motherland’.”

Marco looked up, staring directly into his friend’s eyes:

“Castile is being squeezed between three pincers: France in the north, West Rome in the southeast, and Portugal on the ocean. We no longer hold the initiative, and this Marrakesh will be the first place to fall when West Rome arrives.”

Edward remained silent, slowly raising his cold herbal tea to take a small sip, feeling the bitterness hit the back of his throat. His eyes remained fixed on the lines on the goatskin map.

“And you went to the trouble of coming to this godforsaken hole...” Edward said slowly, looking straight at his cousin. “Surely not just to announce that the end of the world is coming. What do you really want from me?”

Isabella interlaced her fingers and placed them on the table. Her eyes looked directly at her brother:

“I came to put three choices before you, and I believe only you have the mettle to undertake one of these paths.”

She signaled to Marco. The veteran immediately used his rough finger to point to the vast Atlantic Ocean:

“First, you were the greatest Admiral of the British Empire, the only one who could crush the Portuguese fleet at sea multiple times without needing any high-level Vestigium. Return and take command of the Castilian naval forces. Your responsibility is to restore order on the shipping routes, sweep away the Portuguese influence, and collect the Vestigium hidden in the depths of the ocean, in the forests and temples of the New World to save the survival of an exhausted nation.”

Isabella moved her finger, pointing straight at the center of the West Roman Empire on the map:

“Or, second, infiltrate the city of Ravenna directly, the capital of the West Roman Empire. Seek the source of the ultimate power that helps them exist and rise so strongly: The Ravenna Crown, a Legendary level Vestigium. At all costs, you must destroy it to stop their wave of expansion.”

The Castilian Queen paused for a moment. Her eyes softened when she looked toward the lonely icy island in the north, where Edward’s roots were once tied:

“And finally, return to England. That land is now nothing but a dead realm besieged by monsters and ownerless Vestigium. Command a Reliquiario force to collect as many Vestigium as possible, then proceed to join forces with the Danes. You will assist the Danes in breaking the siege from France and the Novgorod Federation, creating a premise to launch a full-scale counterattack deep into the heart of France to break the suffocating stalemate at the Pyrenees.”

Isabella leaned back, her faint breath dissipating into the quiet space of the stone house:

“All three of these paths lead straight to death, Edward. I know, some of those choices are an insult to your honor.”

“But...” Isabella suddenly hardened her voice, “You do not have the right to refuse death. But at least, you have the right to choose how you fall, and where.”

The Queen’s words made Edward frown, but the strange name just uttered from Isabella’s mouth made Edward ponder. Having traveled across all the oceans and fought dozens of battles, he still found this title to have a very strange resonance, like the magical fire of the royal court.

“Reliquiario?” Edward raised an eyebrow in skepticism, asking back. “The name sounds so ecclesiastical, Bella. What on earth is it? The Holy See’s execution force, or another fanatical cult you’ve established?”

The bright red fire from the stone stove reflected in Isabella’s amber eyes as she rotated the ceramic tea cup in her palm. She gently explained in an academic tone: “The official Latin text of the imperial court calls them Venator Reliquia, the Vestigium hunters. In Castilian, they are simply Los Reliquiarios. They are not monks chanting sutras daily, Edward. They are a suicide special forces unit born to hunt and handle anomalous disasters beyond human understanding caused by ownerless Vestigium and mutated monsters born from them.”

Setting the tea cup down, she glanced at Romeo and Marco standing silently, then continued: “This brutal ice age is turning the whole world into a slaughterhouse. Outdated combat methods with traditional fortresses or fleets are no longer enough to protect us. The Reliquiario are the most strictly trained people in the Empire. They have the ability to resist the toxic energy of ownerless Vestigium and know how to control that extraordinary power with the least possible loss.”

The Castilian Queen held her head high, looking straight at her cousin with determined eyes: “I know, you don’t have many fond memories of the Vestigium. But you are a soldier, you clearly understand the value of a tool. To you, whatever brings victory on the battlefield is worth using. And believe me, brother... This is the most elite and special force that Castile can entrust to you right now. No matter which of the three options you choose, if you lack the guidance and protection of the Reliquiario, you are unlikely to survive the first week.”

Edward did not answer immediately. He interlaced his fingers. The silence lasted so long that one could hear the snow falling rustlingly outside the stone roof.

“If I go,” Edward spoke slowly, his eyes shifting to look at Juliet, who was still gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles were turning white. “Then what will happen to my wife and child?”

“A warm apartment in central Barcelona, under the direct protection of the Royal Guard,” Isabella answered without a second of hesitation. “Hot water, full rations, and a good school for your son. She won’t have to burn red lime to heat the cow barn, and the boy won’t have to see snow covering the bodies of people on the street anymore.”

“Why Barcelona and not some remote estate?” Edward narrowed his eyes, questioning. “Do you want to keep them as hostages to ensure I don’t betray Castile?”

“It is the safest place left in the Empire,” Isabella looked at him frankly. “And yes, brother. In this war, a soldier’s loyalty needs a foothold. I provide life for them, in exchange, you provide victory for me. Very fair.”

Edward continued to ask a series of other practical questions. From where the monthly allowance for his family would be taken from during the crisis, who would be directly in charge of the force protecting Juliet, to how the court would treat his wife and child if he died on the battlefield. Isabella answered each question concisely, clearly, and transparently to the point of being chilling, a thorough preparation of someone who had calculated every move in advance.

Until Edward looked straight into his cousin’s eyes and let out the final question in a deep tone:

“Then what if I refuse? What if tonight, I take my wife and child and leave Marrakesh, disappearing completely from this tattered world?”

No cold air could compare to the stagnation in the room at that moment.

The polite smile and royal composure on Isabella’s face vanished. She stood up abruptly, the wooden chair pushed back with a jarring sound.

“I just said that earlier. You are stubborn enough, brother!” Isabella gritted her voice, her slender shoulders trembling with anger. “Where do you intend to take them? Rush into a snowstorm and freeze to death in the wilderness? Or wait for the West Romans to swarm in and butcher everyone one by one? Do you think you are a hero protecting your family? You are just being selfish and running away!”

Isabella’s voice choked. Tears rolled down her porcelain-white skin, gathered at her chin, and dripped onto her dark red velvet dress. She sobbed, brushing aside the hand Marco intended to reach out to reassure her:

“You were once an Admiral of the British Empire... You are my brother! I traveled through the snowstorm not to watch you commit suicide with your small family in this smelly cow barn!”

Edward was stunned. He had faced Portuguese warships, stood before the Atlantic storms without flinching, but he had never known how to deal with the tears of his little sister from years ago. Although the rational brain of a general told him that this outburst might just be a carefully calculated emotional manipulation, that choked grip and those red eyes were too real.

He sighed deeply, all the toughness in his sitting posture collapsing.

“Alright, sister... Don’t cry anymore,” Edward lowered his voice, exhaustion evident on his face. “Give me two days. Two days to think and arrange things with Juliet.”

Isabella wiped the tear on her cheek quickly. Very quickly, the cold, proud look of a Queen returned to her face, as if the downpour that had torn the sky had disappeared in the blink of an eye. She adjusted her fox-fur-trimmed cloak and nodded:

“Two days. Exactly forty-eight hours from now, Marco will lead people here to pick up your family. Don’t let me down, Edward.”

After that, Isabella adjusted her dark red velvet cloak and nodded to signal her two guards. Marco stepped forward, using his thick leather-gloved hands to pull the heavy oak door open.

A biting gust of snow immediately rushed into the house, accompanied by the small figure of Edward’s son toddling through the doorway. The boy was covered in a layer of white snow, his cheeks red from the cold, his two hands curled up, clutching his chest.

Seeing that sight, Isabella did not hesitate to step forward. The Queen of Castile knelt on one knee on the cold stone floor, not caring that her expensive velvet dress was getting dirty. She took the soft silk handkerchief from her wrist and gently brushed the snow off the boy’s shoulders and head, then gently wiped the boy’s dirty face.

“Good boy,” Isabella smiled, her tone warm, different from her earlier authoritative demeanor. “What is your name?”

The boy timidly looked at the gorgeous woman in front of him, then whispered: “I... My name is Remi.”

Isabella paused for a beat, a complex emotion flickering in her amber eyes. She looked up at Edward, who was leaning against the doorframe:

“Remi? Is it... Reminisce?”

“That’s right,” Edward nodded, his eyes thoughtfully sweeping past Juliet standing nearby. “Reminiscence, remembrance. To remind us of what has been lost, and what needs to be preserved.”

Isabella smiled, turning back to look at the boy. Both Edward and Juliet stood still, listening intently to the conversation between the two.

“Remi,” Isabella gently stroked the boy’s snow-dried hair, “Tell me, do you like living here? A place where it snows from morning to night, and your father has to burn red lime outside the cow barn for warmth?”

The boy shook his head vigorously and answered honestly: “I don’t like it. I’m very cold. I wish Father didn’t have to go to the cow barn every night, I wish our house had lots of firewood and hot bread like Mother tells me...”

“So if I give your family a big house in Barcelona, where the stove is on all day, there is a fun school, and you never have to worry about running out of hot bread, would you want to go there?”

Remi’s eyes lit up. The boy turned to look at his parents with great anticipation: “Is that true? Father, Mother... let’s go there!”

A naive remark from a child, but it struck a blow directly at Edward’s hesitation, making his chest tighten.

Isabella continued to ask the child: “Remi, do you get to go to school to learn to read and write here? Do you want to go to school, where there are books smelling of old paper and friends your own age?”

Remi scratched his head, his eyes showing a touch of sadness: “I... I only know a few words my father taught me. I really want to go to school, I want to know many things like Mother still tells me.”

Isabella reached out to stroke the boy’s messy hair, her eyes showing rare tenderness: “It will be soon. In Barcelona, you will go to the best schools and learn things worthy of your potential. Never stop desiring to expand your intellect, okay?”

Isabella stood up, the smile on her lips becoming even more bittersweet. She leaned down and pinched Remi’s cheek:

“So when you grow up, what kind of wife do you want to find?”

The boy scratched his messy head, looking from Mother Juliet to the woman as gorgeous as a painting in front of him, then answered innocently: “I want someone... beautiful and capable like Ms. Isabella!”

Isabella’s hearty laughter rang out, dispelling some of the oppressive atmosphere in the stone house. She patted Remi’s head one last time, then turned to look at Edward and his wife:

“The boy has good taste, Edward.”

Isabella smiled lightly, her eyes stopping on Remi’s innocent face. She leaned down and placed a light kiss on Remi’s forehead as a farewell. The boy was stunned by the surprise. Isabella stood up, the smile on her lips now becoming very distant, then she turned and nodded to Juliet with minimal respect.

She stepped out the door, Romeo and Marco followed immediately, opening the door of the carriage waiting in the snowstorm. Isabella stepped in, and the thick wooden door slammed shut. The sound of carriage wheels crunching on ice and snow faded away, leaving the small stone house immersed in the suffocating silence of the two-day countdown.

Inside the carriage, Isabella leaned back into the soft cushions, letting the darkness swallow her slender form. She raised the hand that still held the warmth from Remi’s forehead, pressed it to her lips, and inhaled slowly. In Isabella’s mind, Remi’s face gradually blurred, overlapping with the rugged features of Edward, the only man she had never truly reached, and a smile rarely seen appeared on the Castilian Queen’s lips.

Marco, feeling that strange atmosphere, spoke up to dispel the unease: “That boy... looks very much like him, Your Majesty. As if he were a perfect copy from the past.”

Isabella whispered, her voice trembling with an excitement that Marco could not understand: “A copy? No, Marco... It is even more than that.”

Having said that, Isabella turned away and closed her eyes, leaving Marco to sink into a knot of thoughts that he could never solve.

That evening, Juliet took Remi to bed earlier than usual. After a day of tumbling in the cold snow, the boy quickly fell into a deep sleep, his steady breath releasing thin clouds of smoke in the corner of the room. The stone house fell into stillness, with only the sound of firewood cracking in the stove and the wind howling through the door cracks.

Edward sat on the wooden chair. Juliet walked over, said nothing, knelt on the cold stone floor, and rested her head on his lap.

The woman sobbed, her thin shoulders shaking constantly with every stifled sob that compressed her chest. Juliet’s hot tears poured down, silently soaking Edward’s rough goatskin shirt.

“Edward, I’m so scared...” she whispered through her tears, her voice lost from sobbing. “Every time I see the silhouettes of soldiers in iron armor or hear rumors of mutiny, the scene of the day London was burned flashes in my mind. The bitter cold of that day, along with the sound of cannons and chaotic screams... everything is no different from now.”

Sighing bitterly, Edward used his rough hands to caress his wife’s weather-beaten face, gently wiping away the remaining tears. On the day London fell to the flames of war and the cruelty of the ice age, the two of them were people from two completely different worlds. One was a naval Admiral pouring all his effort into clearing a bloody path to evacuate the last civilians, and the other was a naive country girl trapped in the heart of a burning city.

In the chaos of that year, it was his hand that grasped hers, pulling her from the reaper’s scythe. That bitter yet warm bond connected them, together overcoming the thousands-of-miles-long evacuation journey to reach this land of Marrakesh.

“We were strangers back then, yet you were still able to shelter me...” Juliet looked up at her husband with red, teary eyes, her voice choked. “Now I am your wife, yet you are preparing to leave me. I am truly so scared...”

Edward squeezed Juliet’s shoulder gently, his eyes staring fixedly at the red embers writhing in the stove. He expressed slowly, full of determination:

“I have made my decision, Juliet. I will return to England.”

Juliet’s hands suddenly went rigid. She looked at her husband in astonishment, her trembling lips about to speak words of discouragement. She desperately wanted to plead with him to choose the position of fleet commander, or any other path, as long as it wasn’t returning to that deadly island full of monsters and ruins.

However, the objections that welled up in her throat were swallowed back. Juliet chose to remain silent. Through years of surviving together, she understood her man better than anyone. Edward’s decision never stemmed from impulse or temporary pride. Behind the return to the dead land were many deep calculations to ensure a safe refuge for her and their child, a future not to be turned into a pawn completely in Isabella’s hands.

Juliet rested her head on his chest again, her arms wrapping tightly around Edward’s back as if to hold onto the last bit of warmth.

“I understand... I understand you do everything for the future of us both,” she whispered, accepting her fate bitterly.

Edward patted his wife’s back, giving instructions for the upcoming journey:

“Tomorrow, you and Remi will help me pack our belongings neatly. The day after tomorrow, I will slaughter the entire herd of cows outside the barn to host a feast for this area. After all, they have shared every straw of warmth with us through several cold winters.”

He paused for a beat, looking toward the grayish wooden door covered in thick snow and ice:

“At dawn the day after tomorrow, when Marco’s people arrive, we will officially set