Night yielded to a dawn of brittle blue as the Frostfang survivors marched south, leaving the Vale of Blackspire smoldering behind them. Aldric rode at the head, the Crescent Wolf crest reborn on his armor, his silver eyes cold and bright with resolve.
Rowena rode close to his side, as ever, watchful, the green of her gaze sharpened by exhaustion and hope. Around them marched a tide of battered warriors, drawn from the villages and mountains, from burned halls and broken homes. All had the same mission burned into their souls: destroy the White Lady before she rebuilt her power.
But the path ahead led through a place no sane warrior would wish to enter.
The Drowned Vale.
A land of black marsh and cold waters, of twisted trees and hidden, suffocating darkness. The wind itself whispered mad songs through rotting reeds, and travelers who entered it were said to forget their names before they even reached the other side.
Aldric clenched the reins of his black warhorse tighter, feeling sweat break on his brow despite the cold.
"Does it truly drown the mind?" he asked Rowena, voice low.
She nodded. "Legends say even memory will rot there, if you wander too long."
Aldric frowned. "We have little enough memory left as it is."
She reached over and took his hand, firm and steady. "Then we hold on to each other."
Crossing the Threshold
They reached the Vale's borders by mid-morning.
The landscape changed so suddenly it felt like stepping through a mirror: the air grew clammy, smelling of brine and rotting lilies, and a thick fog rolled over the half-frozen marsh. The trees wore a strangling moss like burial shrouds, their branches twisted into unnatural shapes.
Somewhere in the haze, a raven screamed, so sharp and humanlike it made even the old warriors flinch.
Aldric dismounted, motioning for the column to halt. "Brannoc, see to the rear guard," he ordered.
Brannoc nodded, shouldering his warhammer, ever the unshakable rock behind the Crescent Wolf.
Rowena moved to Aldric's side, scanning the gloom. "I don't like this," she whispered.
"Neither do I," he answered. "But we go."
He drew his sword — a shining silver light in the swallowing dark — and stepped forward.
The Path of Memory
Hours passed, though it was impossible to tell how many. The marsh devoured time the way it devoured men.
Twice, Aldric had to drag soldiers back from wandering away, eyes glazed, mouths mumbling half-forgotten lullabies. One boy had tried to tear off his own armor, claiming it was made of screaming souls. Another collapsed sobbing, clutching a dead branch as if it were his mother's hand.
Rowena stayed at Aldric's shoulder, whispering their names, grounding them in the present with stories of Frostfang — harvest feasts, old songs, warm fires on cold nights.
Each name was a tether.
Each story was a shield.
Visions of the Past
As they pressed deeper, Aldric himself felt the Vale gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The voice of the White Lady returned, softer than a lover's breath:
You are mine, my precious wolf. Return to me…
He stumbled, for a moment seeing Blackspire in flames, seeing his father dying all over again, seeing Rowena's throat slit open by a faceless enemy.
His sword wavered.
Rowena seized his shoulder, voice sharp. "Look at me!"
He looked. Her eyes were so green they felt more real than anything, like the living earth itself.
"I am here," she said.
Aldric swallowed hard, nodding. "I'm here."
The Witch of the Vale
As night fell, the mist seemed to gather itself, drawing shapes from shadow.
A figure stepped out, hooded in a cloak of woven reeds and crow feathers, staff carved with endless runes. Her eyes glowed a pale white, older than winter itself.
The warriors fell silent, weapons raised.
Aldric stepped forward, sword in a half-guard. "Who stands in our path?"
The crone laughed, a sound like dry leaves blown across a grave. "I am the Witch of the Vale. Keeper of these drowned memories."
Rowena stood firm. "We mean to pass, Witch."
"No one passes without a price," the Witch sang.
Aldric's jaw tightened. "Name it."
She pointed her staff, and a cloud of images burst from its tip — faces from Aldric's memories, real and false, swirling around him: his mother, his father, Rowena, soldiers he had killed, the White Lady's eyes.
"You will leave behind one truth," the Witch said. "One truth you will never remember again."
The air seemed to freeze, even the ravens falling silent.
Rowena grabbed Aldric's arm. "Don't listen to her—"
But Aldric lifted a hand. "If that is the price, then so be it."
The Witch leaned closer. "What truth will you surrender, Crescent Wolf?"
Aldric stared into the fog, breathing hard.
Slowly, painfully, he said: "The day I was taken. The day the White Lady stole me."
Rowena gasped. "Aldric—!"
He looked at her, eyes shining. "Let it go. I have no use for that pain anymore."
The Witch nodded once, solemn and terrible. "So be it."
The images around her staff vanished with a sound like breaking glass.
The price was paid.
Beyond the Witch
She stepped aside, staff tapping against the marsh mud, and pointed them onward.
Aldric felt suddenly lighter, as if a chain had been cut from around his neck. The memory of being enslaved, drugged, twisted — it was gone, leaving a raw emptiness but also a terrible clarity.
He had chosen to forget.
Rowena held onto him, as if she feared he might vanish altogether. "I'm with you," she reminded him, voice a lifeline.
"And I with you," he answered, with a smile that felt younger than he had worn in years.
The Stronghold Revealed
At last, the fog broke.
A fortress stood on an island of stone in the middle of the marsh — black as night, walls dripping with sickly green moss, towers that looked like broken teeth stabbing the sky. Banners of white silk fluttered from its ramparts, the mark of the White Lady stitched in blood-red threads.
The place stank of rot and power, a twisted reflection of Blackspire's proud silhouette.
Aldric narrowed his eyes. "There," he growled. "That is where she hides."
Rowena nodded, spine straightening like an arrow drawn back to its string. "Then let us finish this."
Preparing for Siege
The Frostfang forces set up camp on the fringes of the marsh, safe for the moment on a rise of dry land.
Tents snapped in the wind. Cookfires burned low, their smoke carried into the night. Wolves from the wild packs — drawn by Aldric's presence, sensing the Alpha reborn — circled the camp perimeter, their yellow eyes like living lanterns.
Brannoc hammered pegs into the frozen ground with methodical determination. "If we can break her walls, we can break her spine," he rumbled.
Rowena shook her head. "It won't be so simple. She has magic — and a corrupted army to shield her."
Aldric listened, brow furrowed. His mind was clearer than it had ever been, freed of that one poisoned memory, focused like a blade newly honed.
"Then we find a way," he said quietly. "Even if it kills us."
The Quiet Before the Storm
That night, Aldric could not sleep. He walked among the soldiers, speaking to them by name, remembering their stories. A boy who had lost his father to plague, a woman who had buried her children after the enemy's first raid, an old swordsman whose hands shook but whose heart burned with courage.
He listened. He promised.
And each face gave him strength.
When he returned to his own tent, Rowena was waiting, eyes red from weeping she would never show in daylight.
"You gave up so much," she whispered.
He took her hands, kissed them. "What matters is that I'm here now."
Rowena's tears fell on his chest as they embraced, two souls battered by war but bound by something unbreakable.
Dreams of Wolves
That night, Aldric dreamed.
He was a wolf again, running through snow so bright it hurt his eyes, free and powerful, with no leash upon his soul. He howled, and other voices answered: Brannoc, Rowena, even the wolves of the forest, a great pack rising together.
Beyond them, though, a shape moved through the fog — a woman in white, crowned with a crown of broken moonlight, smiling with all the cruelty of winter itself.
I am waiting, she whispered.
He snapped awake, heart pounding, cold sweat beading on his neck.
Rowena stirred beside him. "Another nightmare?"
"Just a warning," he murmured, voice low. "She will not run."
Dawn of Vengeance
When the sun rose, harsh and pale, the Frostfang banners were already lifted to the wind.
Aldric stood before his warriors, sword drawn, voice ringing over the marsh.
"We have come far," he said. "We have lost brothers, sisters, friends. We have carried our dead on our backs, burned our own homes rather than yield them to the White Lady. We have bled for the hope that our children might live free."
He paused, letting the silence settle.
"Today," he continued, "we finish this. And if we must burn this fortress to the stones — then let its ashes be a warning to every tyrant who would think wolves easy prey."
A roar answered him, the sound of the pack rising as one.
Rowena stood at his side, eyes blazing. "For Frostfang!" she cried.
The soldiers took up the call, shaking the earth itself:
"FOR FROSTFANG!"
March to the Stronghold
They advanced through the shallows, the mud sucking at their boots, shields raised against arrows from the black walls.
Aldric led them, unafraid, sword in one hand, banner in the other. The corrupted soldiers of the White Lady poured from the gates to meet them, their faces twisted with unnatural devotion, their eyes empty of anything but obedience.
It was like charging into a nightmare.
Blades clashed. Spears broke. Wolves tore apart armored men, snarling, unstoppable.
Aldric fought with a savage grace, each swing of his sword cutting through memory and darkness alike. He would never let himself be caged again.
Rowena danced beside him, blades flashing, every movement a prayer for freedom.
Together, they reached the foot of the fortress gates.