The heat made even the ancient stones of Silvana sweat, yet the Winter Wolves advanced as if they were still among perpetual snows. No man or woman was sweating beneath their uniforms, no horse snorted, even with the cicadas chirping like blades in the high branches of the Bosco Antico.
At their head rode Elizaveta, motionless, firm and indifferent to the heat. She rode like one commanding an army of ghosts – yet, even the horses seemed to sense the forest watching them.
Silvana was a city built to vanish. Raised in the heart of the Bosco Antico, protected by tall walls covered in lichen and carved wooden shields, it seemed more an extension of the forest itself than a capital. Its proud towers, walls of living stone and dark wood were as old as the Green League itself. The city gates stood half-open, covered in runes and druidic symbols, as if time within was older still.
Inside, the houses did not rise – they sank into the roots, the branches, the hollow trunks of giant oaks. It was a city buried in itself, guarded by shadows and silence. The roofs, covered in moss and straw, dripped with water from a nearby spring, and in the narrow streets, winding beneath suspended branches, the air was damp as a living cave. One could hear the dripping of leaves, the sigh of trees, and the creaking of wet wood beneath people's footsteps.
The Silvanians did not applaud. They did not greet the Wolves. They watched them from behind embroidered curtains, half-closed windows, high branches. In Silvana, all knew to listen before speaking. And when one listens too much, one learns to fear certain breaths – like the one now spreading through the streets: rhythmic, organised, relentless.
The Wolves' standard was raised in the Old Square, by the Fountain of Seven Leaves. The flag, with a white background and a silver wolf howling over crossed sabres, flapped slow and heavy in the city's heat. No one dared ring the druidic bell of the Council. Not that day.
– Gregor, Dário, with me – Elizaveta said, in a tone that allowed no jest. – We are expected at the palace. The rest of you, try not to kill anyone or make more enemies than we already have in this city.
The Palace of the Green Dome did not rise like those of iron and stone in other kingdoms – it was a serpentine, living palace, as if it had sprouted from the Bosco Antico itself, coiling between ancient trunks and moss-covered walls. The halls were caverns sculpted by human hands and living roots; the columns, ancestral trunks that still breathed when touched; the ceiling, a canopy of interwoven foliage, where summer light filtered through like natural stained glass of jade and gold.
When Elizaveta passed through the gates of black oak, the very air seemed to grow thicker. It smelled of burnt leaf incense, dampness, and ancient roots. A perfume of time and secrecy.
Two soldiers guarded the entrance to the Hall of Eternal Fronds, hooded in green and brown, with staves entwined with ivy. They said nothing as they let them pass. They only struck their staffs on the ground three times. The wood echoed like a war drum.
At the centre of the hall, beneath the living vault where oak, olive, and ash branches intertwined, stood the Throne of Living Roots – an organic, mutable structure, shaped over generations. Seated upon it was Archdruidess Líra Silvanova, guardian of the Green League of Silvania.
Her eyes, green as the leaves of the first summer, stared at Elizaveta without blinking. She wore a linen dress embroidered with vine patterns and lunar flowers. Her hair, long and braided with blossoming twigs, fluttered in the forest breeze that entered uninvited.
At her side, leaning on a twisted staff of white ash, still sprouting new leaves, stood the Elder Druid Oren Silvaforte. His skin was a web of wrinkles like yew bark. One hundred and one summers had passed since his birth beneath the Solstice Star, yet his eyes still burned like black coal, heavy with memory and foresight.
Líra rose with the ritual slowness of one who understands the weight of gestures. Her voice sounded like wind through dry leaves:
– May the peace of the grove be upon you, Elizaveta of the Winter Wolves. Upon you and your soldiers who come to the heart of the League.
Elizaveta placed her gloved hand upon the hilt of her sabre and gave a nod – not a bow, nor a challenge. Something between the two.
– I thank you, Archdruidess.
Oren stepped forward with slow but steady steps, as though treading on invisible roots. When he spoke, his voice was like a falling leaf – faint, yet inevitable.
– You who bring steel… first know the ground you tread. Here, the earth remembers. The trees listen. And blood, when spilled, is gathered by the moss.
– And whoever gathers it also decides who's guilty? – murmured Dário beside Elizaveta, just low enough for Gregor to hear.
The Archdruidess ignored the whisper. She stepped forward twice, extending a wooden cup carved with druidic symbols. The liquid within was light green, thick as sap. A kind of offering.
– Drink, if you come without hostility and if you bring only the truth with you. The heart of the forest does not accept masks, nor lies.
Elizaveta did not hesitate. She took the cup, gazing at it as one might look into a murky mirror. She drank without trembling. When she lowered her arm, the Archdruidess's eyes settled on hers – still and serene as a death postponed.
– Silvania welcomes you… friends. Tell me, then, what is the purpose of your visit?
– We bring a warning. The calm you feel here now is an illusion. To the south, the Kingdom of Aurelia sharpens its claws. You still have time to prepare for war, but not much. The crown's armies are making ready, gathering gunpowder, soldiers, and promises of glory. King Alaric and the vipers around him already dream of these forests of yours, and have already sent cartographers to redraw your borders.
Some of the younger druids glanced at one another, but Líra did not move. With a calm gaze, she seemed to be listening more to the forest than to human words.
Before she could answer, Elias Ventresca, with dusty glasses and eyes bearing a weary fire like those who have lived under siege, stepped forward:
– In the south there are only rumours of a threat – his voice was deep, unadorned, cutting like a war knife. – Ladies and gentlemen, the true threat lies in the north. Minierossa has resisted and bled for five winters. Alone. We have pushed back Ferralian steel with gunpowder and rage. But we will not win without aid. If the Green League remains neutral, then it signs our death sentence and hands the north to the Iron Dominion of Ferralia, which will seek retaliation against those who have helped us in our fight.
Líra did not reply immediately. She merely fixed her gaze on Elias, with the tranquillity of a mountain listening to thunder.
– You speak with courage, man of mines, of flame and rust – she said at last. – And you, Lady of Wolves, bring voices of blood. Yet not all blood is called to run.
Elizaveta narrowed her eyes. She recognised that kind of language – sweet as nectar, but with serpent's venom in its undertones. And she also knew the game of silence and symbols that the druids played.
Old Oren struck his staff on the ground. A leaf fell, slowly, as though awaiting the gesture.
– War is a storm. But also mist. And mist, at times, is planted like a tree… – he murmured. – The southern winds shall not blow strong anytime soon, Lady Volkova. King Alaric has been blinded by echoes.
– Our eyes are within the halls of Aurelia – Líra continued, lifting her chin slightly. – Our winds whisper lies into the right ears – she paused, as if savouring her next words. – The Kingdom of Ventora appears to be sharpening swords near the southwestern border. The Principality of Azuria prepares its ships to raid the eastern coasts of Aurelia. Or so the Aurelian generals believe.
Gregor let out a brief whistle through his teeth. Dário raised an eyebrow.
– All of it your doing? – he asked, with a crooked smile. – You're playing with shadows and whispers.
– We play with roots, young Solvani – Líra corrected, with a lightly cutting tone. – And these grow better when the soil of the enemy is unstable.
– But what of the north? – Elias asked, clenching his fists. – Will you let us fall, while you water your lies in the south?
Líra did not smile. Nor did Oren. But her reply was as firm as the damp earth beneath the palace:
– The north is not forgotten. But branches grow with time, not haste. The League will help… as the forest helps: it shelters, it disguises, and it waits.
– So… – said Elizaveta, in a tone as sharp as frost, – you're betting your branches will hold until the storm passes?
Oren nodded, eyes like embedded roots.
– We bet on the earth. It always survives. Men… not always.
The silence that followed the Archdruidess's last words hung like a damp veil, in which even the insects seemed to hold their breath.
– And yet… – Líra began again, in a tone that crept like the song of a hidden spring, – the flame of the north burns faster than the dawn of the south. You, Elias of Minierossa, do you carry in your eyes the smoke of hope? Or is it the smoke of ambition?
Elias held her gaze. For a moment, he seemed about to spit out some rigid reply, but he held back. The room demanded restraint. The branches were listening, and Minierossa depended on what he would say.
– What do you want from us? We have already bled for this cause. Dante leads men who have no homeland but pain.
Líra stepped closer, her steps unhurried, each word as measured as a prayer.
– We wish that your pain not be in vain. We wish that, should your iron bring down the rotten foundations of Ferralia, the new kingdom that rises from it is not merely free… but bound. If the Green League offers you more than arms and promises, if it gives you thorns to wound and roots to shield, then we demand what is just. Ferralia will be reborn as a Kingdom, yes, but a kingdom under the forest's tutelage. It shall obey the old rites. And you, Elias Ventresca, tell your commander: the throne shall be his… if he kneels before the druids.
The silence that followed was as heavy as a stone. Elizaveta did not move. Nor did Elias, as if even his breath had been torn from his chest. The proposal, though gilded with gold, was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Ferralia would have a better and fairer ruler, but it would not be truly free at the end of the conflict – not entirely. On the other hand, the rebels could still fight for an independent kingdom.
But for how much longer could they face the relentless tide that was the Ferralian war machine? Another five years? Ten, if they made the most of their rare victories? Their hands would be soaked in blood, but the forest's roots would always be ready to snare their legs.
– You want a vassal kingdom – he said at last, dry as a splinter. – A throne built from green wood instead of the iron one that stands today, so that your branches may reach ever further.
The Ancient Druid, motionless like an oak statue, raised only one thin, gnarled hand.
– Not vassal. Brother. The land does not enslave the river, it merely guides it.
Elias glanced at Elizaveta, as if seeking a judgement cooler than his own. But she said nothing. She was no ambassador. Here, she was merely the bearer of tidings from the south and a guest of Líra, just like him. The decision he had to make was not hers.
After what seems like an eternity, Elias nodded. Slowly, with the weight of one who carries the burden of an entire city hidden in the mines and in the corpses.
– Tell your gods and trees that I accept your proposal in the name of Dante Ferroso. He shall be king, if the forest accepts him. But know this… he will bend the knee, but never the soul.
Líra closed her eyes for a moment. Perhaps in prayer. Perhaps in calculation.
– That will suffice. For now. And to demonstrate our good faith, you shall not depart alone, Elias of Minierossa. The north awaits you, and you shall carry with you the winds of the ancient canopies.
A murmur passed through the gathered counsellors, but Líra did not falter. Her eyes shone with the fervour of ancient times, of when the Green League united in sacred war to drive invaders from their holy forests, of the fury their warriors displayed when they felt their home was under threat.
– Three thousand Rangers of the Forest shall escort you to your commander. They know how to kill without being seen. They shall cross the mountain paths, the fields and swamps with you like shadows at twilight. They shall be your cloak and your blade.
Elias did not reply immediately. He knew who the Rangers were. They were said to be children of the very Bosco Antico, men and women who abandoned their names upon being chosen to serve. They dressed in green and brown, with camouflage cloaks. It is said they can move through the forests as if they were the very animals that dwell there, and that their weapons are forged from meteoric iron, which makes them incredibly resistant to the wear of time and use.
– But Minierossa will not sustain itself with an escort alone. The flames you kindle need firewood. Thus, two divisions of our army shall march with you to support the rebellion. Beyond them, four more divisions, seventeen thousand of our sons and daughters of war, shall make for Spadaguarda. They will besiege the fortress and the entire southern border of Ferralia will be consumed by uncertainty. Your enemy's troops, divided between defending the walls and protecting their supply routes, will be forced to choose, and no choice will bring them peace.
Elizaveta raised an eyebrow, not hiding the respect such a manoeuvre deserved. It was shrewd. Not a direct attack, but a calculated one – a war of distraction, of pressure, of arteries cut from afar.
– If I may, Archdruidess… – Elias said, with a contained but firm voice. He seemed suspended on a threshold, almost breathless, – you are sending half your army based on a promise.
– No, Elias – Líra smiled, but it was not a soft grin. – I send our forces for a seed. And seeds need fertile soil, but also fire. They grow with blood, they bloom with conviction. And you have both.
Elias' gaze dropped briefly to the ground, where a small root was winding between the living stones. As he raised his head again, he nodded.
– I will relay everything to Dante. May the gods of the forest and the mountains be with us.
– They are – said Oren, with the certainty of those who have died and returned. – And they are always watching.
Líra now approached Elizaveta with slow, firm steps, in a way that caused a flicker of surprise in the commander of the Wolves.
– Now tell me, Lady of death and fear, what price do you demand? – her voice was no more than a whisper. – Will your Wolves fight as well? A fight that is not only for glory, but for alliance?
Elizaveta did not answer at once. She felt Elias' eyes on her, and Oren's too. The old druid did not speak, but listened to everything, like the forest itself.
Elizaveta passed her hand along the hilt of her sabre, in contemplation. Dário and Gregor remained still behind her, like armed shadows.
– You ask that my Wolves throw themselves against the mountains of Ferralia alongside Dante Ferroso?
– You cross mountains like wind, and fear neither steel nor siege. The Silvanian armies will fight with honour and die with honour. But you, Lady Volkova, you know how to make an empire bleed from within.
Silence. A bird stepped outside. The sound seemed strange, as if the forest itself were holding its breath to listen.
– Tell me, then, what is your price? – Líra asked again. – For every step taken, for every man you kill, for every secret you whisper into the rebel commander's ear… what do the Winter Wolves demand?
– Blood and silver. But not in equal measure.
– Explain.
– Five hundred pieces of silver for each month of campaign. And a thousand if we are wounded before the end of autumn – Elizaveta stepped forward. – And more: we want dominion over Spadaguarda and all lands up to the Flumen Aureum, once Ferralia falls. Cold lands, mountainous… but fertile for us. Let the Wolves have their den.
Líra remained silent for a long moment. Oren murmured something to her in an ancient tongue. Then, the Archdruidess nodded, slowly.
– Done. Silver you shall have. Lands you shall have. And blood too, for it shall pour like red rain over the fields of Ferralia.
– So be it – said Elizaveta. – May your forest gods walk with us.
With the conclusion of the negotiations, Elizaveta and her Wolves smiled, for they knew that war was calling them once more.