The wind off Loch Marna carried a damp chill, seeping into the stonework of the border fort and into the bones of those stationed upon its walls. Three days of silence had dulled nerves more than combat ever could. The cadets of the Red Citadel, Merigold Wither and her squad, waited in the uneasy quiet, knowing the storm would break soon. When the blizzard came, so too would the Graveholt mechs: snow-ghost constructs that always advanced with the stormfront. Everyone knew it. Everyone dreaded it. The knowledge sat in their stomachs like ice, a constant reminder that peace was only a pause before slaughter.

The fort itself was a relic of an older war; its walls patched with new stone that never quite matched the old. The corridors were narrow and drafty, the ceilings low enough to feel oppressive. Cold air seeped through every seam, and even the braziers seemed to give little warmth. Men and women stationed here wrapped themselves in extra layers, slept with lances propped nearby, and jumped at every groan of the ice. There was no sense of safety, only delay.

Meri stood on the rampart, watching the frozen water. Her copper hair, dulled by frost, whipped in the restless wind, strands clinging to her cheek. She refused to flinch, her posture a dare to the storm itself. Behind her, her squad murmured in low voices, sharpening blades, cleaning armor, or checking lances for the tenth time that morning. Restless ritual was all that kept their hands steady, for they could not pace or fidget without showing weakness. The silence of the fort made every small sound louder: the rasp of whetstone, the metallic click of a lance resetting, the shallow exhale of nervous breath. Even the flutter of a banner made shoulders tense.

Every squadmate handled the tension differently. Fred T hummed tunelessly under his breath, a half-sung prayer to no god in particular. Lupa carved tally marks into the stone, each one a measure of how long they had endured this waiting game. Grace stared at the horizon until her eyes watered, trying to see shapes in the clouds. Each ritual was a shield, fragile and personal.

Julian lingered among them, an odd fit in their ranks. He had been groomed to serve as liaison to Vaeliyan and the rest of the 90th, to be the bridge between them and Command. That path had been stripped from him without ceremony. High Commander Ruka had closed that door, banishing him to uncertainty. Now, for lack of anywhere else to go, he stood with Meri's squad. His orders were vague, little more than a promise on paper: when graduation came, if the 90th survived and so did he, he would be assigned to them. Until then, he was a shadow haunting the edges of Meri's squad, he never quite felt like belonged. He worked with them, shared meals and laughs, but felt the weight of their pitying glances. He knew they thought of him as a friend. But he felt like a placeholder at best. The rest of the Command track had been deployed elsewhere, and he hadn't even been given the chance to return to the basic structure. He had already been moved to special duty, a duty that crumbled like ash the first time it was supposed to be needed.

Julian caught himself clenching and unclenching his fists, fingertips raw from the cold. He wanted to speak, to assure the others, to prove he could be more than an unwanted observer, but no words seemed right. He had been cut away from his intended role and forced into this one. Command had promised him a place among Vaeliyan's people, if he survived long enough. That promise rang hollow in the cold. He wondered whether High Commander Ruka's intent was to test him, to bury him, or both. His silence made him feel smaller, even as he tried to stand tall, and every heartbeat reminded him that he was not meant to be here. He was meant to be elsewhere, and that ache gnawed at him.

"Quiet," Kuri muttered, not turning her head. Her voice cut through the whispering like a blade. "The lake's been too still for too long. The storm is coming soon."

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The rest of the squad stiffened. They all knew what she meant. Loch Marna never stayed still unless it was holding its breath for the storm. The surface was a mirror of dark glass, unbroken even by wind. When it broke, it would not be with waves, but with the charge of machines rising out of white fury. Each of them pictured it, the storm screaming, the mechs tearing free from the gale. Their imagination was punishment enough, yet no one dared to deny the vision.

Deic had not waited. She had taken Vaeliyan's words to heart: act, do not linger. She had left behind the Red Citadel, transferring to the Blue. The rest of her class had refused to follow her, claiming she was too hot-headed and rash, unwilling to gamble their futures on her decision, even when she told them the idea had not been hers. Only Alex chose to stand with her, leaving the others behind. The atmosphere of Graveholt was one of constant readiness: barracks carved into stone cliffs, training fields slick with frost, and endless drills beneath the looming threat of storms. Deic threw herself into it, unwilling to be seen as anything but relentless.

Her new squad in the Blue was not as tight as her old one, and the bonds felt shallow compared to what she had lost, but she refused to fall back on the anger that had once cost her years. Being a first year again was never an option. She had clawed her way back, retaking her fourth-year standing and even claiming the Headmaster's apprenticeship in a challenge that shook the Blue. It was not where she had wished to be, but it was the only way forward. Alex had become her anchor, the one piece of her past that reminded her of who she had been before. Together, they carried the burden of proving that leaving had not been a mistake. Deic reminded herself daily that her decision was a path carved in blood and ice, and there was no turning back.

Deic and Alex were stationed at a fort Rackhost, set into the western face of the Antilies range. The fort guarded a contested pass where troop movements could turn the war. Rackhost's halls were narrow and cold, carved out of stone that seemed to breathe frost. The walls were etched with old scars from battles fought years before, and every echo in the tunnels carried a weight of memory. Every legionnaire stationed there knew the pass would bleed when the storm came. Deic was certain of it, and though fear knotted in her gut, she masked it with stubborn fire. She expected the storm would bring her hardest fighting yet, and she braced herself for it. She carried her ambition openly, like armor, and refused to let anyone glimpse the doubt that lingered beneath. The Blue cadets whispered about her, calling her reckless, but they could not ignore the steel in her eyes.

Meri and her squad were the first to feel the storm hit. The fort's walls trembled under the weight of anticipation. The stones sweated frost, each crack filled with ice. The air smelled of iron, frost, and fear. Even the torches guttered nervously, their light struggling against the press of the looming storm. Boots scraped, lances shifted, and the silence was cut only by the occasional cough or prayer muttered under breath. A few cadets tapped the hafts of their lances rhythmically, trying to trick themselves into believing they had control.

The blizzard clouds gathered far too close to ignore, dark against the white, a rolling wall of snow and shadow. The first howls of wind reached the fort, carrying with them the dry, powdery sting of what was to come. The troops along the ramparts stirred, some whispering prayers, others kissing charms or scratching marks into the stone. A few muttered jokes that no one laughed at. Rituals of the doomed, each clinging to whatever comfort they could muster. All of them knew what came with the snow: not merely cold, but enemies wearing it like a cloak, enemies older than their own courage. Some of the veterans muttered that the mechs had no souls, that they were emptiness given shape, and the younger cadets believed them.

Meri's smirk flashed in the gloom, sharp as her voice. She turned her head just enough for her squad to see the spark in her eye. "Steel yourselves," she said. "The death is coming."

The words hung in the frozen air, more command than warning, more promise than fear. And with them, the storm seemed to quicken, eager to prove her right. The first flakes of snow howled against stone, melting, then freezing again, like the fort itself was drawing breath before the scream. The waiting was almost over, and every heartbeat stretched longer than the last.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.