Chapter 2: The Submerged Legacy

The Frost Reaver—her trident, her final stand—lay here beneath the frozen expanse. He could sense it, a faint pulsing glow beneath the ice, as though it still remembered her. His hand hovered instinctively, but he clenched his fist before his touch could break the ice. It was not yet time.

The wind picked up, sharp and biting, carrying whispers that sounded like mourning. His breath caught as the wind swirled, and beneath him, the ice shifted—a deep groaning sound, as though it, too, mourned her passing. The frost glimmered faintly underfoot, alive and restless in a way that unsettled him.

Her image came to him unbidden: silver-blue hair flowing like a river, aquamarine eyes calm yet fierce, holding the sharp edge of a storm. Her warm laughter had pierced through the darkest days like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, a stark contrast to the fiery determination in her voice when their arguments felt as though they could shake the heavens themselves.

“Even now, you carry burdens I wished you wouldn’t,” her voice whispered in his mind, steady yet achingly distant.

The memory gripped him, its weight pressing down like the chill of the air around him. His gaze lingered on the faint glow beneath the ice, as though it pulsed in response to his thoughts. His breath misted into the cold as he straightened, each step along the snow-laden perimeter stirring fragments of the past.

The frozen surface beneath his boots remained solid, the cold biting through the soles as he stood amidst the vast, frozen expanse. His resolve felt fragile, a simmering tension building in his chest, threatening to overflow. He could hear her voice again: steady, unwavering, commanding even amidst the chaos of battle. She had always been unyielding, calm, even as storms raged all around her.

And then, as always, the memory of her end surfaced, sharp, vivid, and unrelenting.

The Bastion had fallen, its defenders overwhelmed by an unending tide of enemies. Amid the chaos, she had stood at the heart of it all—calm, resolute, and unyielding. Her voice had carried over the din of battle, commanding the remnants of the defense with unwavering clarity.

When defeat became inevitable, she had made her choice. Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she unleashed Pralaya Sphota—a cataclysmic surge of magic that engulfed the battlefield in a tidal wave of destruction. The roar of the sea and cries of soldiers mingled together in a symphony of sacrifice and finality.

She had chosen her end, and the memory lingered like salt in an open wound.

“They’ve forgotten you,” he whispered into the stillness. His voice was barely audible, swallowed by the wind. The frozen lake shimmered faintly, and something shifted beneath its surface.

From the mist clinging over the frozen lake, she emerged—a spectral figure wreathed in ethereal light. Her silver-blue hair swam through the mist like a river, and her aquamarine eyes pierced him with their steady, unwavering calm.

“You still linger,” she said, her voice neither accusing nor kind.

“I couldn’t save you,” he confessed, guilt weighing every word. “I couldn’t save any of you.”

Her form flickered, the glow dimming for a moment. “You were never meant to save us. We chose to stand, knowing the cost. Your guilt is misplaced—it is never yours to bear.”

His voice cracked. “But they’ve forgotten you. Your sacrifice is now just a story, lost in time.”

Her gaze softened, warmth mingling with cold as her presence lingered “The world moves on, as it must. We fought not for remembrance but for what mattered. Guard them, as you once guarded us, even if they never speak our names again.”

The spectral figure began to fade, dissolving into the mist. The Frost Reaver glowed faintly beneath the ice, its light unwavering—a reminder of her strength, her sacrifice, and her choice.

He knelt, reaching toward the ice but not touching it. Her words lingered, etched into his bones. He rose slowly and stood motionless for what felt like hours, grief and resolve warring within him like twin specters, each tugging him in opposing directions. Finally, he turned to leave, his steps heavier now. His heart ached with the weight of her memory, yet a flicker of resolve remained.

Behind him, Aqualis Bastion lay silent, its frozen expanse glimmering beneath the moonlight—a solemn, unyielding testament to the heroism of the woman who had become its eternal guardian.

Dawn broke over Aeloria, casting soft golden hues over its frost-laden rooftops. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, rising before cooling and sinking into the thick morning mist that clung to the rooftops and cobblestone streets. The chill air carried a mingling of scents: the sharp tang of snow, the earthy aroma of damp wood, and the faint sweetness of baked bread wafting from the market stalls. 

The city stirred to life with the sound of vendors shouting their wares, the rumble of carts over stone, and the hurried footsteps of workers beginning their day. Yet amid this bustle, he moved like a shadow, his hood drawn low—not for warmth, but for solitude. His stride was deliberate, his gaze fixed ahead, though his thoughts swirled in quiet turmoil.

As he approached the eastern trade square, the sound of a bustling caravan in chaos—men scrambling, voices clashing, and the sharp creak of wooden wheels and strained ropes filling the air—drew his attention. Workers hurried between carts, their breath visible in the cold morning air as they struggled to lift heavy crates and barrels. The caravan stretched across the square, a line of eight carts groaning under the weight of their cargo. A person stood amidst the chaos, shouting orders with a mix of exasperation and urgency.

“No, no, no! That chest goes in the second cart!” bellowed the man, his voice carrying above the din. His graying hair peeked out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and his weathered face bore the intensity of a man used to commanding chaos. His voice cracked with frustration as he added, “That chest goes in the second cart. And where’s the silk shipment? We’re already behind—we should’ve left for Sylrin an hour ago!”.

The goods were as varied as the city itself: barrels of grain, crates sealed with wax to protect delicate items, and bundles of cloth tightly wrapped to fend off frost. A handful of adventurers worked among the laborers, their practiced movements lending a certain precision to the otherwise chaotic scene.

A mage stood to the side, her fingers glowing faintly blue as she directed five crates into the air. The soft light of her Uddharan magic made the crates seem weightless as they floated toward the carts. Nearby, a Beastfolk woman with feline features moved with calculated strength, her tail flicking behind her as she hoisted a barrel onto her shoulder. An elf knelt beside a delicate, carved crate, murmuring an incantation. Vines materialized from the ground, wrapping the crate with glowing tendrils that secured its fragile contents.

Despite their help, the workers bore the brunt of the effort, their rough hands and weary faces speaking of countless mornings like this one.

“You there!” The man’s sharp voice cut through the chaos, directed at the figure observing from the edge of the square. “We’re short on hands, and time’s not on our side. Can you help with the loading? I’ll pay you for it.”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the scene before stepping forward. His hood shifted slightly, revealing sharp eyes and a calm, unreadable expression. “What needs to be done?”

“Thank you,” the man said, offering a quick, grateful smile. “Name’s Garrek. Leader of this fine group of merchants, if you can believe it.” He gestured broadly at the disarray. “If we don’t get this loaded soon, we’ll waste the morning light.”

Without another word, he raised a hand, a faint hum of energy rippling through the air. Crates and barrels lifted from the ground, floating with perfect precision toward the carts. Workers froze, their movements arrested by the sight of goods arranging themselves effortlessly. Even the adventurers exchanged glances of disbelief, their confidence momentarily shaken.

The entire square seemed to hold its breath as the loading unfolded. Each item moved as though guided by invisible strings, settling neatly into place without a single misstep. Within moments, the task was complete. He lowered his hand, the shimmer of magic dissipating into the frosty air.

A hush swept through the square, and as he sensed the weight of all those eyes upon him, he realized that his magic had likely gone beyond what was acceptable in this time. He had meant to help, but now he was acutely aware that he had made himself a spectacle. Staying in the capital, with its prying eyes and endless curiosity, would only invite more attention—something he could not afford. It was clear he needed to move on, to leave this place behind before questions turned into pursuits.

Garrick blinked, slack-jawed. “By the gods,” he muttered, running a hand through his graying hair. “That would’ve taken hours…”.

“You’re… a mage?” Garrick asked, his tone softer now, laced with curiosity. “Whatever magic that was, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen. I owe you more than thanks. Name your price.”

He shook his head. “No need for payment,” he said, his voice calm. “Just drop me off at the outskirts.”

Garrick tilted his head, studying him curiously. “Odd place to disembark,” he said. Then, with a shrug: “But if that’s what you want. Climb aboard; we’ll leave shortly.”

The caravan set off as the creak of wheels and the groaning of the carts mixing with the steady rhythm of hooves against snow-packed earth. The sun climbed higher, its rays painting the horizon with streaks of amber and pale orange, catching on the frost-coated trees and sending shimmering light dancing across the snow. Workers walked alongside, while hired adventurers rode on horseback, their armor glinting faintly in the light. The air was cold but clear, a thin, sharp wind carrying the scent of pine and damp earth through the frozen forest.

The snow-covered road stretched southeast, a winding path that cut through frozen plains and ancient woods. On either side, the forests rose with darkened trees draped in frost. The scent of wood and the sharp tang of the ever-present winter winds mingled in the air. The sound of the caravan—cart wheels, hoofbeats, and the occasional shout from a driver or adventurer—blended into the rhythm of the journey.

The sun dipped low, painting the snow with hues of lavender and deep blue as they set up camp in a small clearing. Fires crackled as they were lit, sending golden light dancing across snowbanks.