The Border
A chronomage traded his remaining years so the rest of them could live. He aged to dust in seconds. A woman of wings fell from the sky. Black feathers tore free from her back. She never flew again. A swordsman who fought with two curved blades lost his head before he understood his mistake. Their leader was gutted by claws. She survived — but not as herself. Soon enough, she became one of them.
She lay in the heart of the forest as the sun bled into the horizon. The wind grew colder against her skin, yet the ground beneath her felt strangely soft, almost cloud like, cradling her in a false comfort. Around her, the world decayed — greens souring into putrid rot, leaves wilting as if the land itself were dying with her. She closed her eyes and, at last, accepted her fate.
Artanis jolted awake with a sharp gasp, mouth wide as cold air tore into her lungs. The sound echoed in the still morning. When her eyes snapped open, they were black as the void. She blinked once. The darkness receded, leaving behind their familiar green. She exhaled slowly and took in her surroundings. She lay where she had made camp the night before — on a roadside cliff crowned by a single massive tree, its branches stretching over her like a watchful sentinel.
From the cliff’s edge, the land fell away sharply. Far below, nestled in the cold forest, lay Ghestvi — the last city before the border. Beyond it stretched the divided lands: the territory of the Empire on one side, and the jagged slopes of the Hovden Mountains on the other, where the independent Orc tribes held sway. Frost clung to the grass around her camp, crunching faintly as she shifted. In the distance, the sun rose behind the city, its pale light spilling over stone and treetops, heralding the arrival of a fresh, bitter morning.
Seated against the tree, spear held loosely across his chest, was Gungir. His arms were crossed over it, posture rigid despite the fatigue weighing on him. He had spent half the night on watch, as he always did. The black cloak of their company draped over his shoulders, shielding him from the cold. He watched Artanis without moving.
“It’s getting worse. The nightmares.”
Artanis slowly pushed herself upright, spine curving as she leaned forward. She dragged a hand down her face, then covered it with her palm, breathing out a soft, flat sound.
“Hm.”
Gungir watched Artanis in silence. He had long since grown accustomed to her keeping the parts of her past that came before him to herself.
Gus, Artanis’s horse, sensed her unease and stepped closer. He lowered his head and brushed his muzzle gently against the side of her face, offering what comfort he could. Artanis wrapped her arms around Gus’s head, holding him close. She brushed her hand slowly over his forehead, fingers sinking into his mane. Leaning in, she whispered softly.
“I’m alright…”
Gungir broke the silence at last. He planted his spear into the ground and used it to pull himself to his feet. Standing at the cliff’s edge, he looked out at the sunrise spilling over the land below.
“We should move. We’re almost at the border.”
Artanis rose more slowly. As she did, a faint grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“You sound scared.”
Gungir blinked, caught off guard.
“Me? No! Well…” He hesitated, then sighed. “Just nervous.” He glanced toward the distant mountains. “If there’s anyone who would turn on their own contracts, it’s a snow Orc.”
Artanis finished fastening her light armor and reached for the sheath of her longsword, settling it across her back. Then she secured a short sword at her left side. From a pouch at her side, she drew a small, flat stone etched with a glowing blue rune. She tossed it toward Gungir. He caught it easily with his free hand.
“Yes. That’s why you’ll keep your eyes open, and use that if necessary.”
Gungir studied the stone. A protective bubble rune. One of Artanis’s creations, forged with equal parts knowledge and magika.
“Always resourceful, aren’t you?”
“I try.” she replied with a smile.
Gungir slipped the rune into a narrow pocket sewn into his custom ring mail. He turned away from the cliff and looked toward the opposite direction, where a dense forest lay coated in a dusting of frost and light snow. He whistled.
Something large crashed through the woods in response — branches snapping, brush tearing apart. A few seconds later, his massive, white-spotted horse burst from the trees at a trot, shattering twigs and flattening small bushes as if they weren’t there.
“There you are, Storm, you huge brute!” Gungir said, patting the powerful horse along the neck.
Artanis finished rolling her sleeping gear into a tight bundle and secured it to Gus’s croup. Nearby, Gungir clicked on a button at the middle of his spear. The spear receeded into a hand sized rod, and Gungir stashed the device at his right side of the belt. He then stamped out the last of the campfire, smothering the glowing embers beneath dirt, stones, and snow.
With the camp erased and preparations made, they mounted their horses. Together, they set off at a steady trot toward the distant mountains rising against the morning sky.
Some time later, as they rode on, Gungir broke the silence.
“So… have you been through these parts before?” He tilted his head toward her.
“No. But I knew someone who had…” Artanis replied, glancing sideways. A grim note crept into her expression.
Gungir grinned. “Someone, eh…?” He leaned slightly toward her. “Perhaps a lover?”
“Fuck off.” She punched his shoulder, playful but firm, knocking him upright in the saddle again, as the jokester laugh it off.
After a few more minutes of riding, they drew close to the only viable passage across the border between the two lands. The Hovden Mountains were encircled by sloping, broken hills, and the sole safe route into that territory lay through a narrow valley carved between two of them.
That passage had once been critical during the great war against the Elves nearly seven thousand years ago — an era remembered as the Ashen Reckoning. The Orc tribes had turned the valley into a choke point, halting Elven advances and ambushing smaller detachments with ruthless efficiency. It was there that the Elves had failed to break through, and because of it, the orcs had remained independent, never forced to bend the knee to the Empire.
As they neared the pass, both riders slowed to a stop. At the mouth of the valley stood a wooden structure, a gate. They exchanged puzzled looks. Neither had heard of any such construction here—the pass was meant to be open, unguarded. Moving closer, the truth became unmistakable: It was a border gate.
“Well, well…” Gungir muttered, adjusting his dark cloak. “Looks like the Empire lands has been having trouble with the Orcs.”
Artanis watched the structure in silence for a moment before shaking her head.
“No.”
She raised a hand and pointed toward the small walkway atop the gate. A guard stood there — a snow Orc, his skin pale as frost, clad in finely crafted lamellar armor, a spear resting easily in his grasp.
“This wasn’t built by the Empire, it belongs to the Orc tribes.”
They reined in before the massive wooden gate and looked up. The structure reeked of old, rotting timber, its crude construction betraying amateur workmanship. Every beam looked weathered, every joint strained. An orc shouted something down at them in Orchish. The call wasn’t hostile, only loud, carried by necessity from the high walkway above. Neither Artanis nor Gungir understood a word of it.
Without replying, Gungir reached into his cloak and took out a round medallion. He hurled it upward. The orc caught it cleanly and examined it in silence. After a moment, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment and compared the medallion against it. Satisfied, he tossed it back down to Gungir and made a brief hand signal to the others.
Silence followed. Glances were exchanged — riders to guards, guards to riders. The tension built, sharp but hollow. Then, at last, the gate began to open, it creaked and groaned as it moved, the sound of old wood protesting every inch. The entire structure looked as though it might collapse under its own weight.
Gungir looked up once more and offered the guard a small bow. The gesture was met with a cold stare, and nothing else. They rode through without a word. Only when the gate lay far behind them did Artanis finally speak.
“That was unexpected.”
“Unexpected and fucking weird.” Gungir added. “What do you think?”
Artanis shrugged. “Maybe they’re just paranoid now.”
Gungir frowned, considering. “No. I don’t think that’s it.”
She looked at him, silent but questioning. He continued.
“I think they’re organizing. Maybe there’s a new ruler.” He paused. “A real one. Not just a chieftain, but someone trying to unite the orcs as a single new kingdom.”
Artanis shot him a skeptical glance. “Really? They’ve been devoted to freedom and independence since their earliest days. Their culture doesn’t revolve around a single ruler.”
“Then how do you explain the armor?” Gungir countered. “Or the discipline? They moved like they had orders, chains of command.”
Artanis’s expression shifted as she considered it. “And why call us now? They’ve handled monsters on their own for generations.”
Gungir answered without hesitation. “Maybe they want recognition as future clients.”
He trailed off as the narrow passage widened, the oppressive walls of stone giving way to open land. The world unfolded into a vast tundra, pale and endless beneath the cold sky. In the distance, rising far beyond the horizon, loomed the largest mountain in the world — its peak lost in cloud and ice, dwarfing everything around it.
“…Or maybe…”, he finished quietly, “…there’s something out here they can’t deal with.”
As they rode deeper into the tundra, the sun climbed higher into the pale sky. From time to time, they passed abandoned wooden cottages, their weathered frames built in the stark, Nordic style the orcs were known for. The further inland they went, the colder the air grew, the snow thickening beneath the horses’ hooves and forcing them into a heavier trot. The scent of the tundra filled the air — clean, sharp, and thin. It was noticeably lighter than the stagnant smells of the swamp where their journey had begun.
After a while, Gungir broke the quiet. “So, strong warrior… or diplomatic leader?”
Artanis glanced at him and grinned. “Oh. Strong warrior, for sure.”
Gungir tilted his head toward her. “Hmm. I’m not so sure, friend. They’ve been in constant conflict for centuries. It’d take someone with a silver tongue to make them stop fighting each other.”
Artanis exhaled sharply through her nose, dismissive. “Hmpf! And you think Orcs would follow a weak one?”
A broad, mischievous grin spread across Gungir’s face. “Not only do I think that,” he said while getting closer, “I’m willing to bet on it.”
Artanis met his look, playful and defiant. “Fine. We’ll bet our share.”
Gungir spread his arms slightly. “Ah! I can’t wait to see your fa-” Thwck! “Oof!”
The sound cut through the air — sharp and final. Something struck Gungir square in the chest. The impact ripped him from the saddle and hurled him backward into the snow as Storm surged forward. Artanis’s carried on for some strides as Storm, trained well, veered away and thundered back toward safety. Artanis shook off the shock and brought Gus to a halt. Her hand went to her weapon strapped on her back as her eyes snapped forward, scanning the treeline. There! — half-hidden behind a frost-coated trunk slightly off the path, not far ahead. Dressed in hide armor, an orc with a bow — the shooter.
