The wind had shifted again by the time the scouts reported movement along the northern border. Frostmarch was never silent, not truly. The mountains hummed with the memory of old battles, the forests whispered secrets to those who listened, and the roads carried the weight of every misstep. I had learned quickly to listen.
The report came from one of our newly trained rangers: small groups of green-skinned warriors, moving cautiously, examining the terrain, testing patrols. They were not yet bold. Yet even cautious teeth could bite deep.
Elizabeth stood beside me on the battlements, arms crossed, ice faintly crystallizing around her gloves. Her expression was unreadable, as always, but I could feel the tension beneath it, coiled like water waiting to surge.
"How many?" I asked.
"Twenty-five, maybe more," the ranger replied, voice low. "They are moving fast, but they do not travel alone. Tracks suggest reinforcements to the east. I counted three dead trees felled in the path—they are watching for ambushes."
I considered. Lightning hummed faintly along my skin, water thrumming beneath the muscles of my arms. The land itself responded to me now, and the Orcs, like predators, were testing our nerves.
"Prepare a response," I said. "We do not strike first. We do not invite slaughter. But they will see that Frostmarch will not bend easily."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean deterrence?"
"Yes. A display, not a massacre. Let them measure our strength before they decide whether to challenge it."
The scouts guided us to a high ridge overlooking the border pass. From this vantage, I could see them—Orc warriors, their skin a deep green, their weapons crude but effective, their movements coordinated. At the edge of the group, larger, more imposing, a figure stood taller than the others. Muscles like knotted rope, tusks jutting from his jaw, and a scar that traced a line across his face.
Elizabeth's hand went to her reins. "He is not a common raider," she said softly. "Look at his stance, the way the others react to him. That is a leader."
I felt it too. Magic, instinct, experience—call it what you will. This Orc was different. Calculated. Dangerous.
"Gor'Thrak Blood-Tusk," one of the scouts murmured. "Sub-chief of the northern band. He answers only to the warlord of the Ironfang Tribe. They are testing us… measuring our response."
I clenched my fists. Lightning coiled beneath my skin, water pooling through my veins. I could strike and scatter them before they understood what had hit. But Frostmarch demanded more than brute force. It demanded calculation. Strategy. Deterrence.
I signaled the scouts. "Hold your position. Let them advance a little closer. We will not provoke them, but we will show that we are not to be trifled with."
The Orcs moved cautiously, unaware of the hidden patrols I had positioned along the flanks. Gor'Thrak stepped forward, raising a massive hand in a gesture of observation rather than attack. He studied the ridge, then the soldiers arrayed below, his tusks bared in what might have been a grin or a threat—it was impossible to tell.
Elizabeth's ice magic hummed faintly in the air. She did not strike, did not prepare an attack. She only stood, radiating calm authority. I could feel it in the Orcs, even through the distance: hesitation. Frostmarch had teeth, yes, but we had eyes, and ice, and lightning beneath our skin.
I raised my hand, and a thin arc of lightning leapt from my fingers, cracking along the ridge like a warning shot. It struck the ground between us and the Orcs, splitting stone and earth. The effect was immediate: the Orcs recoiled, their formation wavering. Gor'Thrak's eyes narrowed, but he did not retreat. Instead, he signaled his men to hold position, to watch, to assess.
"Enough," I said quietly, not to Elizabeth, not to the scouts, but to myself. "We will not kill today. We show strength, not savagery. Frostmarch will not be won through rashness."
Elizabeth nodded, and together we allowed the Orcs to study us. Lightning hummed faintly along my arms, water coiled in tension beneath my skin, ready, but restrained. We waited.
The Orcs lingered at the edge of the ridge, shifting uneasily, their leader's gaze never leaving mine. Finally, Gor'Thrak raised his hand once more, then signaled a retreat. Not a rout, not yet, but a withdrawal. They had measured us. They had learned that this territory would not bend without cost.
As they disappeared into the treeline, I exhaled slowly. Elizabeth glanced at me, her expression unreadable, but her ice magic softened, pulsing faintly as though approving.
"They will return," she said simply. "And when they do, they will remember the lightning and the frost."
I nodded. "Yes. And next time, we will be ready for more than observation."
The scouts reported back, murmuring among themselves about Gor'Thrak's size, his scar, the discipline of the Orcs. I allowed them to chatter, knowing that this was as much about shaping perception as it was about assessing strength. Fear, respect, deterrence—these were tools as necessary as swords.
We returned to the keep before nightfall. The villages had been quiet, but I knew the Orcs' presence would be whispered in every hut, in every field, in every frost-bitten heart. Frostmarch was learning that its new viscount did not cower. That lesson alone might save lives.
Elizabeth began cataloging the encounter in her records, noting troop positions, estimated numbers, the Orc leader's behavior. She was precise, meticulous, unwavering. I could see her mind already spinning possibilities, contingencies, and preparations.
In the privacy of the keep, I allowed myself a moment of reflection. Lightning and water, bound together in my veins, had been restraint today, not slaughter. Frostmarch required more than rage; it required discipline. And Gor'Thrak Blood-Tusk had survived to return another day.
Good. I preferred it that way. A recurring enemy was more valuable than a corpse; it allowed learning, adaptation, and strategy. If he had died today, I would have learned nothing about Orcs, about tactics, about their patience and cunning.
Elizabeth approached, her ice magic brushing faintly against the ledger she carried. "They will test us again," she said. "And when they do, you must be ready to demonstrate—not just power, but judgment."
I smiled faintly. She always had a way of stripping away bravado, leaving only clarity. I was beginning to understand that her strength was as lethal as mine, just differently expressed. Lightning struck and water flowed; ice calculated and constrained. Together, we were more than the sum of our parts.
The night was quiet, but I knew it would not remain so. Gor'Thrak Blood-Tusk would return, and next time, perhaps with greater numbers, or a more cunning plan. The Black Banner Consortium, whispered rumors now growing louder, would also watch and test us. Frostmarch's enemies were numerous and diverse, human and otherwise, and each would learn, in their own way, that this land did not forgive the weak.
As I stood on the battlements, watching the treeline, lightning faintly tracing my skin and water thrumming beneath it, I allowed a single thought: Frostmarch was alive, dangerous, and hungry. And I would not feed it weakness.
I exhaled into the wind. Tomorrow, we would ride to inspect the northern passes, to reinforce patrols, to prepare for the inevitable return of Gor'Thrak and his warriors. Frostmarch demanded vigilance, discipline, and foresight. I would give it all three—and more.
The first real threat had shown itself, and we had survived. But survival was only the beginning. Frostmarch had teeth, yes. But I had storm and current, judgment and restraint.
And soon, every enemy would learn that the land and its new viscount were one and the same: relentless, measured, and impossible to intimidate.