There is no mercy in the North.
Only frost, iron, and the silence of old mountains.
The northern realm of Vaelgard was carved from stone and war. Its people were not farmers or traders—they were born from blood, bred for hardship, and trained to kill or die. And within Vaelgard, there was one domain feared more than others:
Kaelstrid Hold.
Perched high in the cliffs of the Redfang Range, the hold looked more like a fortress than a home. Its black-iron gates never opened without reason. Its walls bore no banners, only the deep gouges left by weather, siege, and time.
It was here, beneath the weight of gray skies and older ghosts, that Riven Kaelstrid was born.
And it was here, at the age of six, that he first touched a sword.
He stood barefoot in the frost-bitten training yard, surrounded by mountain mist. The steel in his hands was dulled for safety, but it still bit his skin with every clumsy grip.
His father—Lord Darnic Kaelstrid—watched from above. No cheers. No praise. Just silent evaluation.
His mother—Veyra—knelt in the dirt beside him. Her eyes were sharp as broken glass, her hands quiet, deliberate.
Once, she had been a shadow in the east—a contract killer from the lost city of Nhalveth, where secrets were worth more than silver. She had killed kings and vanished into crowds.
Now she was a mother. But the killer remained.
"You hold it too wide," she said, adjusting his grip. "Tighten your stance. Lower your hips."
Riven obeyed.
She circled behind him.
"You don't train to look noble," she whispered. "You train to survive."
A cold wind slipped through the yard.
"Strike the post."
He moved. Quick. Clumsy. But he struck.
The sword hit wood with a dull thunk. His arms shook. He stepped back, breath ragged.
Then he felt it.
A blade—cold and real—pressed to the base of his neck.
His mother's voice again. "You forgot to listen."
She'd moved behind him. Quiet as snowfall.
"In battle, your enemy won't wait for you to finish your strike. One distraction," she said, "and you're dead."
She lowered the knife and stepped back.
Riven's father finally spoke.
"Kill fast."
Then, after a long pause:
"Or die slow."
That night, Riven slept with the practice sword beside him. The stone walls of Kaelstrid Hold offered no warmth, no softness, no dreams.
Only steel.
And silence
There is no mercy in the North.
Only frost, iron, and the silence of old mountains.
The northern realm of Vaelgard was carved from stone and war. Its people were not farmers or traders—they were born from blood, bred for hardship, and trained to kill or die. And within Vaelgard, there was one domain feared more than others:
Kaelstrid Hold.
Perched high in the cliffs of the Redfang Range, the hold looked more like a fortress than a home. Its black-iron gates never opened without reason. Its walls bore no banners, only the deep gouges left by weather, siege, and time.
It was here, beneath the weight of gray skies and older ghosts, that Riven Kaelstrid was born.
And it was here, at the age of six, that he first touched a sword.
He stood barefoot in the frost-bitten training yard, surrounded by mountain mist. The steel in his hands was dulled for safety, but it still bit his skin with every clumsy grip.
His father—Lord Darnic Kaelstrid—watched from above. No cheers. No praise. Just silent evaluation.
His mother—Veyra—knelt in the dirt beside him. Her eyes were sharp as broken glass, her hands quiet, deliberate.
Once, she had been a shadow in the east—a contract killer from the lost city of Nhalveth, where secrets were worth more than silver. She had killed kings and vanished into crowds.
Now she was a mother. But the killer remained.
"You hold it too wide," she said, adjusting his grip. "Tighten your stance. Lower your hips."
Riven obeyed.
She circled behind him.
"You don't train to look noble," she whispered. "You train to survive."
A cold wind slipped through the yard.
"Strike the post."
He moved. Quick. Clumsy. But he struck.
The sword hit wood with a dull thunk. His arms shook. He stepped back, breath ragged.
Then he felt it.
A blade—cold and real—pressed to the base of his neck.
His mother's voice again. "You forgot to listen."
She'd moved behind him. Quiet as snowfall.
"In battle, your enemy won't wait for you to finish your strike. One distraction," she said, "and you're dead."
She lowered the knife and stepped back.
Riven's father finally spoke.
"Kill fast."
Then, after a long pause:
"Or die slow."
That night, Riven slept with the practice sword beside him. The stone walls of Kaelstrid Hold offered no warmth, no softness, no dreams.
Only steel.
And silence.