Chapter 17 – Whispers in the Snow
The snow had not stopped falling since Frostvale's first night of uneasy peace.
White drifts piled along the rooftops, smoke coiled from chimneys, and the smell of charred meat from last night's hunt clung to the village like a stubborn guest. The air should have been peaceful. And yet—every villager who glanced at the forest beyond the walls did so with a flicker of fear in their eyes.
For Icarus, standing at the northern gate with Selene at his side, the silence felt heavier than any sword.
"Almost too quiet," he murmured. His silver hair shimmered faintly under the morning sun, strands glinting like molten frost. His eyes scanned the horizon, calm but alert.
Selene, tugging her cloak tighter, smirked softly. "You've said that every morning since we arrived."
"Because it's still true."
Before she could reply, Rowan came skidding into view, boots slipping on the icy cobblestones. He barely managed to catch himself on a wooden post, flailing dramatically.
"Okay! Good news!" Rowan announced, chest puffed out. "I volunteered us for patrol duty. Which means I am a hero. You're welcome."
Selene raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered us? Without asking?"
"Yes," Rowan said proudly. "Because teamwork. And because if something horrible jumps out of the snow, I would rather not be the only one screaming."
Icarus pinched the bridge of his nose. "So your great act of heroism is… dragging us along to keep you alive."
"Exactly!" Rowan beamed.
Selene chuckled, unable to help herself.
Before their bickering could escalate, a loud crash echoed from the village square. Splinters of wood flew as a barrel rolled dramatically down the hill, scattering chickens in all directions.
At the center of the chaos stood Sir Alaric, commander of the Holy Knights—his cape caught awkwardly on a fencepost, his arms full of bread loaves he'd apparently tried to carry himself.
"Ah—" Alaric blinked, glanced at the smashed cart behind him, then laughed sheepishly. "Well. That could have gone better."
Villagers sighed but didn't look alarmed. They were used to this.
Rowan leaned toward Icarus. "Strongest human alive. Meteor-puller. Leader of legends. Defeated three demon lieutenants single-handedly. Also: destroyer of chicken coops."
"Rowan," Icarus warned.
But Alaric overheard and grinned. "Destroyer of chicken coops, eh? Don't let that title spread—it undermines my aura of dignity."
"You don't have an aura of dignity," Selene said dryly.
Alaric gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest. "Et tu, Selene?"
Even Icarus cracked a faint smile at the ridiculous display. For all his clumsiness, Alaric radiated warmth that no one could dismiss. Beneath the laughter, though, his eyes held a sharpness. He had seen the shadows beyond the trees too.
Later, when the patrols spread out along the perimeter, Icarus and Selene walked together in silence. Snow crunched under their boots, their breaths clouding the air.
"You've been restless," Selene said after a while.
"I can feel it," Icarus admitted. "Something is stirring. The beasts weren't acting naturally. Someone was guiding them. Testing us."
Selene hesitated, then touched his sleeve. "If it is what you fear—the demons—you won't face it alone. Not anymore."
He glanced at her, and for once, the calm mask slipped. A faint smile curved his lips. "I know. And that's why they'll regret coming."
Their eyes lingered, the silence between them warmer than any fire.
Of course, Rowan ruined it by tripping face-first into a snowbank behind them.
"Rowan," Selene sighed.
"Mmph—help—snow in my mouth—why is betrayal always cold?!"
Icarus shook his head, amused despite himself.
That night, a meeting was held in Frostvale's longhouse. Alaric stood at the head, now less clumsy, his voice firm.
"We've received word from the south," he began. "Demon lieutenants have been sighted near the border of Chronus. Skirmishes are increasing. And worse—rumors claim one of the Ashura may have moved north."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
Even Rowan stopped fidgeting. "The… Ashura? As in, the generals? The ones even you—" He stopped, gulping. "Never mind. I didn't say anything."
Alaric's gaze sharpened. "They are not here yet. But if they are truly moving, then Frostvale may be the first to fall."
The villagers shifted uneasily. Selene reached for Icarus's hand beneath the table, a gesture so small it might have gone unnoticed. But he felt it, grounding him.
He straightened. "Then we prepare. If Frostvale is the first line, we make it unbreakable."
Alaric's grin returned, though it was softer this time. "Spoken like someone already carrying more than his share of the world."
And in the shadows of the longhouse, frost flickered faintly against the window—like unseen eyes watching from beyond.
The morning after Alaric's warning meeting, Frostvale no longer felt like a quiet, snowbound village.
Hammers rang against wood as men reinforced the palisade walls. Smoke rose from forges where smiths worked through the night, shaping crude spearheads and arrow tips from whatever scrap could be found. Children ran messages, women carried buckets of water to quench flames or hauled supplies to the growing armory.
For once, every villager moved with a common purpose: survival.
Icarus stood on the training ground at the village's center, watching a ragged line of farmers and hunters swing wooden staves. Their forms were awkward, their stances uneven. But their eyes—hard, determined—spoke louder than any technique.
"Your grip is wrong," Icarus said gently, approaching one of the older men. He corrected the man's hands on the stave, adjusting the angle. "Like this. You'll keep better balance when the strike comes."
The man nodded, sweat streaming down his brow despite the cold. "Thank you, Master Moonborn."
Icarus almost winced. He wasn't used to titles, especially ones that carried so much weight. But he said nothing, simply moved down the line, correcting, encouraging, teaching.
Beside him, Selene drilled another group, her voice sharp and clear. Unlike Icarus's patient tone, hers cracked like a whip—commanding, confident. The villagers straightened under her instruction, inspired by her authority.
From across the yard, Rowan shouted dramatically.
"Alright, my squad! Today we learn the ancient art of… running away bravely!"
The villagers assigned to him blinked in confusion.
Rowan planted his hands on his hips, grinning. "Step one! Always scream loudly—it distracts your enemy! Step two! Trip over something—your allies will laugh, and in that moment, their morale will soar! Step three—"
"Rowan." Selene's voice was flat.
He froze mid-pose. "Yes?"
"Do. Something. Useful."
Rowan cleared his throat. "Right! Very well, squad. Forget everything I said. Instead, let us… uh… perfect the art of stabbing very enthusiastically!"
To everyone's surprise, his animated demonstrations—complete with exaggerated lunges and overly dramatic battle cries—actually got the villagers laughing. And as they laughed, the tension in their shoulders eased. They swung harder, moved quicker, and forgot, for a few minutes, how close the shadows of the forest loomed.
Selene glanced at Icarus, who was watching with a small smile. "You won't admit it," she murmured, "but he's helping."
Icarus nodded. "Rowan always does. Just… in his own way."
By midday, the Commander himself strode into the yard, cape fluttering in the icy wind. His usual clumsiness seemed to vanish as he took in the sight of the villagers training.
"Not bad," he said, voice carrying authority. "But it won't be enough if the real enemy comes."
He raised a hand. Frost sparked faintly in the air—not his own power, but his control over the environment itself. With a flick, he lifted half a dozen training staves into the air.
Gasps erupted.
"Focus," Alaric commanded, his tone sharper than anyone had ever heard in Frostvale. "Your enemy will not wait for you to ready your blade. They will strike while you blink."
The staves shot forward, faster than arrows. Villagers flinched, some stumbled. Only two managed to parry with shaky timing.
Alaric's eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. "You will learn. Because you must."
Even Rowan, normally quick with a quip, stood silent. The villagers looked at Alaric not with fear, but with awe. In that moment, they saw not the bumbling man who crashed carts into fences, but the Commander who legends claimed could drag meteors from the sky.
"Train them harder," Alaric told Icarus and Selene. "But remember—strength without unity is nothing. Teach them to fight as one, or they will fall as many."
Then, as if realizing how grim he sounded, Alaric scratched the back of his head, laughed awkwardly, and tripped over Rowan's discarded spear.
The tension broke, laughter echoing across the yard. But the awe remained.
That night, patrols doubled. Torches lined the palisade, their light stretching long shadows across the snow. Icarus, Selene, and Rowan walked the northern wall together, breath steaming in the frigid air.
"Still too quiet," Icarus muttered.
"Do you want something to happen?" Rowan hissed. "Because that's how something happens."
Selene ignored them both, eyes scanning the tree line. Her hand never left her sword hilt.
Then Icarus stopped. His silver eyes narrowed.
There—just at the edge of sight, between the trunks of the frostwood trees—something moved. A figure, cloaked in shadow. It vanished as soon as he focused, but the air left behind felt… wrong.
"Did you see that?" he asked quietly.
Selene nodded. Rowan shook his head. "See what? No, don't tell me, I don't want to see what you saw."
Before they could investigate, a horn sounded.
From the eastern wall came shouts, the clang of steel. Icarus and Selene sprinted across the snow, Rowan stumbling behind.
They arrived to chaos. The watchmen were down, groaning in the snow. And from the forest, dark shapes leapt—too fast, too coordinated to be beasts.
Demon scouts.
Their skin was ashen, eyes glowing crimson, blades forged from jagged obsidian. They moved with unnatural precision, cutting through defenses with ease.
Icarus's silver aura flared, wards snapping into place around the fallen. Selene charged, blade flashing arcs of light. Rowan grabbed the nearest spear and screamed louder than the demons.
The clash had begun.
The first demon lunged for Icarus, blade raised. He sidestepped with calm precision, his palm glowing as a sigil flared. Silver chains erupted, binding the creature midair before slamming it into the ground.
Selene's sword cut another cleanly through the chest, her movements fluid and merciless. She fought not just with strength, but with elegance that left even Rowan staring.
Rowan, meanwhile, tripped over his own spear, accidentally driving it into a demon's foot. The creature shrieked, distracted long enough for a villager to finish it with a hammer.
Rowan pumped his fist. "Yes! Totally intentional!"
The fight dragged on, but under Icarus and Selene's command, the tide turned. The villagers—frightened but determined—fought with grit. Alaric arrived mid-battle, a casual wave of his hand sending half a dozen demons flying.
But the victory came with a cost.
One demon, cornered and bleeding, hissed words in a tongue that chilled the air.
"The Ashura… are coming."
Then it dissolved into black smoke, leaving only silence behind.
The village square filled with the wounded. Fires burned to ward off the creeping cold. Villagers whispered of what they'd seen, of the crimson-eyed scouts and their chilling words.
Selene sat beside Icarus on the steps of the longhouse, her shoulder brushing his. "They'll keep coming, won't they?"
"Yes," Icarus said. His silver eyes reflected the firelight, calm but resolute. "But we'll be ready."
Rowan staggered over, face pale but triumphant. "And if anyone asks, yes—I was totally fearless. Absolutely heroic. Please ignore the part where I screamed like a dying goose."
Selene laughed softly. Even Icarus chuckled, the sound rare but real.
Beyond the walls, the forest lay silent. Watching. Waiting.
And somewhere, farther north, something older than fear stirred in the snow.
The battle had ended hours ago, but the echoes of it still haunted Frostvale.
Snow lay stained where blood had fallen, dark patches frozen into the white. The villagers moved quietly now, voices hushed, as though too loud a word might summon more horrors from the forest.
In the longhouse, the wounded were tended to. The place smelled of smoke, herbs, and iron. Crude beds lined the walls, where men and women groaned softly, clutching at bandaged arms and legs. Children sat beside their parents, silent, wide-eyed.
Icarus stood near the hearth, silver light shimmering faintly around his hands as he passed over a young boy's wound. The boy flinched, then sighed with relief as the pain dulled, replaced by a warm numbness.
"Thank you," the child whispered.
Icarus smiled faintly, but his eyes were tired. "Rest now. Your strength will return."
Selene entered carrying a basin of melted snow. Strands of her hair had escaped her braid, and blood—not her own—stained her tunic. She set the basin down with a controlled heaviness, as though the weight of the night pressed on her shoulders.
"They're stabilizing," she said, though her voice held little relief.
Icarus nodded. "For now."
Across the room, Rowan was… less helpful. He had appointed himself storyteller-in-chief, and with dramatic flourishes, he reenacted the fight for the children clustered around him.
"And then," Rowan declared, standing atop a stool, "the mighty Rowan leapt from the wall, spear in hand, shouting a battle cry so fearsome it made demons weep!"
One child gasped. Another giggled. Selene arched a brow.
"You tripped and fell into the snow," she reminded him.
Rowan waved dismissively. "Semantics."
The children laughed, tension breaking like thin ice. Even Selene allowed herself the ghost of a smile.
For a brief moment, amid the smoke and blood, there was warmth.
Later, when the wounded slept and the fire burned low, Alaric called the three into a side chamber of the longhouse. His face was unusually serious, the familiar bumbling grin absent.
"They weren't just scouts," he said, voice quiet but heavy. "Those demons were testing our walls. Testing us."
Selene crossed her arms. "Then they'll be back."
"Yes," Alaric replied. "And not just scouts next time. We need to be ready for a warband… or worse."
Rowan leaned against the wall, trying—and failing—to hide his unease. "Define worse. On a scale of stubbed toe to… oh, I don't know, apocalyptic doom?"
Alaric's gaze darkened. "Ashura Generals."
The name alone seemed to drain warmth from the room. Icarus felt it in his chest, like the shadow of something vast looming just beyond reach.
"The Ashura haven't been seen this far north in decades," Alaric continued. "If they're moving again, it means something is stirring in the Demon King's ranks."
Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of firewood.
Then Rowan tried to laugh. "Well, good news is—we're clearly irresistible. Who wouldn't want to invade a quaint little frozen village with excellent soup?"
No one laughed this time.
When the meeting ended, Icarus stepped outside. Frostvale lay quiet under the moonlight, snow glittering like scattered stars. He breathed in the crisp air, the cold sharp in his lungs.
Selene joined him, her boots crunching softly on the snow. She didn't speak at first, just stood beside him, gazing at the sky.
"The moon's bright tonight," she murmured.
Icarus followed her gaze. The silver disc hung low, luminous against the dark, its light catching in her eyes.
"Yes," he said softly. "Almost too bright for a night after bloodshed."
Selene looked at him then, studying his profile—the way his silver eyes reflected the moonlight, the calm he wore like armor. Yet she could see the weariness beneath it.
"You carry too much," she said quietly.
"I carry what I must."
She stepped closer, their shoulders nearly touching. "And who carries you?"
For a moment, words failed him. He wasn't used to someone asking, wasn't used to letting anyone close enough to see past the silence he wore.
Finally, he answered, voice low. "No one. Not yet."
Selene held his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the world felt still—snow, moon, firelight fading into the background. She reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed a strand of hair from his face. Her fingers lingered, just for a moment.
Icarus's chest tightened. He didn't pull away.
Then Rowan's voice broke the spell.
"Ah, there you are! I was wondering why my favorite brooding moon-gazers vanished!"
Both turned sharply. Rowan leaned against the doorway, smirking, though his eyes twinkled with something more knowing than he let on.
Selene sighed, stepping back. "You ruin everything."
Rowan grinned. "It's a gift."
The next morning, a group of villagers approached Icarus with hushed voices. Among them was Elder Thalos, the oldest man in Frostvale, his beard as white as the snow around them.
"Moonborn," the elder said, bowing slightly. "I saw the way the demons looked at you. As if they recognized something… deeper."
Icarus frowned. "What do you mean?"
Thalos's eyes clouded, as though peering into memories long buried. "When I was a boy, my grandfather told me stories. Of the Ashura. Of how they once battled the Moonborn, not as scouts and shadows, but as equals in power. He said the Ashura feared the silver flame."
Selene leaned forward. "Silver flame?"
The elder nodded slowly. "A light born not from fire, but from will. A gift of the first Moonborn. They say it can cut through any darkness, even the shadow of the Demon King himself."
The villagers shifted nervously, murmuring among themselves.
Rowan scratched his head. "So… just to be clear… Icarus has a super secret ancient moon-fire power that might possibly, maybe, save us all from apocalyptic doom?"
Thalos smiled faintly, a sad, knowing smile. "If the old tales are true, then yes. But such gifts do not awaken without cost."
His words lingered like frost on the air.
Icarus said nothing, but deep inside, something stirred.
The following days were restless. Patrols reported strange noises in the woods—branches snapping, whispers on the wind. Hunters found tracks in the snow, too large and too sharp to belong to any beast they knew.
The villagers grew tense, but their training continued. Selene drilled them harder than ever, her sharp voice cutting through the icy air. Rowan kept morale up with antics, often turning drills into competitions—who could yell loudest, who could hold their spear longest without dropping it.
And Icarus? He spent his nights on the wall, silver eyes scanning the forest, searching for shapes that never came.
Yet he felt them. Watching. Waiting.
One evening, as the village settled by the fires, Selene found Icarus again near the palisade.
"You never rest," she said softly.
"I don't need much."
She shook her head. "That's not what I mean."
He glanced at her. Her hair caught the torchlight, her expression softer than usual.
"You think if you watch long enough, you'll see them coming," she continued. "But you can't carry the night alone."
"I'm used to it," he admitted.
"Then get unused to it," she replied firmly. And before he could respond, she pressed a small bundle into his hands.
Inside was a scarf, carefully woven, patterned with silver thread.
"I made it," Selene said, cheeks faintly pink in the cold. "It's not much, but… it might keep the cold off while you brood on the walls."
For the first time in a long while, Icarus felt something warm that had nothing to do with fire. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, fingers brushing the fabric.
"Thank you," he said quietly. And he meant it.
Selene smiled, small but real.
From the shadows, Rowan peeked around the corner, grinning ear to ear. "Ah, young love in the middle of impending doom! My favorite genre!"
"Rowan," Selene said without looking.
"Right, right, leaving!" He vanished, whistling cheerfully.
That night, Icarus dreamed.
He stood on a plain of endless snow, the moon burning brighter than the sun above. Shadows gathered at the horizon, stretching, writhing. And from them rose towering figures—Ashura, their eyes like coals, their blades dripping with night itself.
One stepped forward, voice echoing across the frozen world.
"Moonborn. Your light will break. And when it does, the world will kneel to shadow."
Icarus's silver flame flared in his chest, but when he raised his hand, only darkness spilled forth.
He woke with a gasp, the scarf warm around his throat, Selene's gift grounding him in the present.
But the echo of the voice remained.
The warning came at midnight.
A sharp, shrill horn split the quiet, and within seconds, Frostvale was awake. Torches flared to life along the wooden palisade, casting trembling light across the snow. Children cried, dogs barked, and men scrambled to grab spears they'd only just learned to hold steady.
"They're coming," Alaric said, stepping out into the torchlight, his clumsy air gone. His eyes were hard now, sharp as blades. "This time, it isn't scouts. It's a warband."
Icarus stood at his side, silver eyes catching the flickering flames. Beside him, Selene tightened her grip on her blade, while Rowan muttered something about how his stomach had just settled from dinner and this was profoundly inconvenient timing.
The ground shook.
From the forest emerged shadows—dozens of them. Demons, larger than the scouts, with twisted horns and jagged weapons, eyes burning red in the night. Their growls rolled over the snow like thunder.
The villagers faltered, fear thick in the air.
Then Alaric spoke, voice calm but ringing with command.
"Steady your hearts! This is your home. Your families stand behind you. Fight with me, and not one demon will leave here alive."
The fear shifted, hardened into something else. Resolve.
The first wave of demons surged, howling. The villagers raised their spears, shields trembling but held firm. Arrows loosed from the palisade, clumsy but effective, striking down a handful of the front runners.
Icarus lifted his hand, silver light blooming across his palm. A wave of shimmering energy burst forth, striking the charging demons and slowing them, as though the snow itself clung to their limbs. Selene darted in, her blade flashing as she cut one down, then another.
"Rowan!" Icarus shouted.
"On it!" Rowan replied—though his version of "on it" involved slipping on ice, narrowly avoiding a demon's swing, and somehow skewering the creature through the chest in the process.
"See? Totally intentional!" Rowan crowed, earning a half-laugh from the villagers who witnessed it.
The battle grew chaotic. Demons smashed against the wall, clawing at timber, while others leapt over in unnatural bursts. The villagers fought desperately, their training just enough to keep them alive but not without cost.
Alaric moved among them like a storm. Gone was the clumsy commander who tripped over his own boots. Now he was terrifying, every movement efficient, his sword a blur of light. With a sweep of his hand, unseen force ripped demons from the walls, flinging them into the snow like ragdolls.
"Stay with me!" he roared, his telekinesis pulling spears back into the hands of villagers who had dropped them, lifting fallen shields to block blows before they could land. He was everywhere at once, a shield and sword both.
For a moment, hope flickered.
Then the second wave came.
From the treeline emerged hulking forms, larger than any the villagers had seen. Demon lieutenants—massive, armored in bone, wielding blades taller than men. Their roars shook the air.
The villagers faltered, some nearly breaking.
But Icarus stepped forward. Silver light burned brighter around him, spilling from his eyes, wreathing his hair in a faint glow. The snow at his feet hissed as though heated.
"Stand your ground," he said, calm and steady. "They will not break us."
One lieutenant charged, its great blade cleaving through the air. Icarus raised his hand, catching the strike with a barrier of silver flame. The force rattled the palisade, but the blade stopped inches from his head.
He pushed, and the flame erupted outward, blasting the demon back in a shower of sparks.
The villagers gasped, hope rekindled.
Selene was at his side in an instant, her strikes precise, coordinated with his magic. Where his flame staggered enemies, her blade finished them. Together, they carved a path through the chaos, a harmony of steel and light.
Rowan, meanwhile, had managed to climb onto a demon's back, clinging desperately as it spun and thrashed.
"This is not as heroic as it looks!" he shouted, before stabbing downward wildly. By some miracle, the blade pierced the demon's spine, and the creature collapsed with a crash. Rowan landed in a heap, blinking. "I… meant to do that."
Even in the terror of battle, laughter rippled through the villagers. And that laughter steeled their hands.
At the far side of the village, three lieutenants struck together, tearing through the palisade like kindling. Panic surged.
Alaric moved.
He strode into their path, his sword low, his eyes blazing with fury. With a gesture, the very air trembled. The ground cracked, timbers flew, and the three lieutenants were ripped off their feet, suspended like puppets.
"You dare," Alaric growled, "to threaten my people?"
His sword rose, and with it, a thousand shards of broken timber, stone, and steel.
"All Encompassing—" His voice was thunder.
The sky lit as the shards blazed, ignited by his will.
"Divine Shower!"
The night itself seemed to fall. A rain of blazing meteors, thousands of them, crashed down upon the lieutenants. The earth shook, fire roared, and when it ended, nothing remained of the demons but scorched craters.
The villagers stared in awe. Alaric, their clumsy commander, had become something godlike.
Then he staggered, his breath ragged. Sweat dripped from his brow.
"Keep fighting," he rasped. "I can't hold it forever."
But the point was made. The villagers roared, emboldened, and pressed forward once more.
Icarus felt the shift before he saw it. The demons rallied, focusing their fury on him. Their eyes burned with something more than bloodlust—recognition. Hatred.
"Moonborn," one snarled, its voice guttural. "We know your light."
The word echoed in Icarus's mind. He had heard it before, whispered in legend. But to hear it from their mouths, with such venom—it was as if centuries of rage poured into him.
They charged.
Icarus raised his hand, silver light erupting, brighter than before. His hair flared, silver strands burning like fire, and his eyes blazed.
The silver flame surged, forming wings of light that spread behind him, casting the battlefield in brilliance.
Demons shrieked, shielding their eyes, stumbling back.
Selene's voice rang out, fierce and clear. "With him! Stand with the Moonborn!"
The villagers rallied, pressing forward under the cover of his light. Rowan whooped, charging with reckless abandon. Even Alaric, drained though he was, grinned.
Together, they turned the tide.
At last, the warband broke. The surviving demons fled into the forest, howls fading into the night. The village was battered, bloodied, but still standing.
The villagers cheered, raising weapons and voices in triumph. For the first time, they had fought not as prey, but as defenders.
But Icarus's flame did not fade.
He stood still, wings of silver fire blazing, eyes locked on the horizon.
Because he saw it.
Far beyond the treeline, barely visible in the moonlight, a figure stood watching. Tall, armored, with horns like curved blades. Its presence pressed against him even at this distance, suffocating and vast.
An Ashura.
Their eyes met. And though the distance was great, Icarus felt the weight of its gaze, ancient and unyielding.
Then the figure turned, vanishing into shadow.
The flame dimmed. Icarus staggered, breath heavy, the scarf Selene had given him warm against his throat.
"It's only the beginning," he whispered.
Selene caught his arm, steadying him. Her eyes, fierce and unyielding, met his. "Then we'll face it. Together."
Rowan stumbled over, bruised and grinning. "So… dinner now? Or do we wait until the next apocalyptic wave?"
Alaric laughed hoarsely, the sound weary but alive. "Dinner first. Then apocalypse."
And under the frozen stars of Frostvale, amidst ruin and hope, they knew the true war had only just begun.