The Falcon’s Beak’s Welcome

Before dawn, the night still lingered, yet its darkness had already begun to thin.

Silvery moonlight spilled across the snow-dusted pine forest, each shimmering patch on the path like fallen starlight.

The girl, cloaked in a pristine white fur cape, trod along a path where the snow lay neither too deep nor too shallow. As she moved through the trees, stray pine needles would occasionally dislodge snow onto her hood.

Yet, these flakes would melt the instant they touched the fur, silently giving way to a layer of frost that crystallized over the seemingly soft strands.

From the deep shadows and gloom of the surrounding thickets, flickering blue flames paused their dance, collectively fixated on the girl who advanced as if utterly alone in the world.

Further she ventured, the sparser the trees became, and the more distinctly the temperature plummeted. Barren, grey weeds grew wild, and grotesque, decaying wood twisted like the wailing corpses of the dead.

It was as if an invisible boundary sharply cleaved life from death.

Observing such a dramatic shift in the landscape, Daphne knew she had not strayed from her path.

As she neared the foothills, a faint, fluorescent green light pulsed ahead, revealing tall thorn hedges and grisly bone ornaments in the distance.

Before she had fully emerged from the pine forest, a small squad of nearly a dozen skeletal guards shambled out from the darkness, surrounding her with their crooked forms.

These skeletal soldiers were stooped, their tattered armor reflecting a cold sheen under the moonlight. Each wielded a wooden kite shield and an iron longsword, clearly having been elite imperial infantry in their former lives.

Daphne remained unperturbed. She swept open her cloak, revealing a sinister ring crafted from a human finger bone.

“The Great Lich’s Falcon’s Beak, glorious vanguard of the dead, I demand to see your commander.”

Upon seeing the ring’s symbol, the skeletal soldiers collectively recoiled half a step, creating a respectful distance between themselves.

This was not due to any inherent intelligence that allowed them to recognize the insignia. Bodies forcibly reanimated by low-level necromancy completely lost their minds upon rising, retaining only the primal instincts of tearing and destroying.

However, necromancers could control the dead. Even the greenest necromancer apprentice could command a small squad of undead.

Thus, the presence of these patrolling skeletal guards around the camp inevitably indicated a necromancer nearby.

A shadowy figure slowly emerged from the gaps between the skeletal soldiers. Clad in a grey-black hood and cloak, their build suggested a young man in his early twenties.

A living being.

Klogrotia was not solely populated by the dead. Many mages, deeply engrossed in necromancy, considered Klogrotia a sacred land. They would go to great lengths to evade imperial sentinels, secretly traversing the mountains to reach the desolate, frigid other side, believing it to be the true source of truth and dreams.

Alas, what they failed to realize was that Klogrotia’s class structure had long since solidified. The immortal liches had monopolized power and wealth, making any ascent to higher ranks a bloody coup.

Newly rising liches constantly challenged decaying, weakened ones, with backstabbing occurring daily. Ordinary necromancers were relegated to managing low-level army squads, unless they could one day grasp the true essence of necromancy and transform themselves into immortal liches.

The hood obscured the young necromancer’s face, but his tone dripped with disdain and suspicion.

“I see your silver fangs, wretched half-blood. What trickery are you attempting?”

“Fool!” Daphne retorted sharply, though her voice wasn’t particularly menacing. “I come from the Ice Tombs, bearing the will of Great Lord Arsuga. How dare you treat me with such disrespect? Bring Grover Crane out to meet me!”

The necromancer was visibly stunned by Daphne’s self-assured defiance. He trembled, pausing for a long moment before finally reacting, his voice turning shaky once more.

“Please, follow me.”

‘Honestly,’ Daphne thought, ‘these youngsters nowadays don’t even recognize Lord Arsuga’s death insignia. They need a good scare to learn their place. Klogrotia is truly declining with each generation.’

The skeletal guards lifted their encirclement and retreated back into the forest’s gloom to resume their patrol, while the young necromancer led Daphne towards the camp not far ahead.

The thorn hedges formed a defensive wall that stretched endlessly in both directions. High above, skeletal sentinels with burning death-flames in their eye sockets stood watch on arrow towers, as putrid falcons with bulging eyeballs and dripping flesh shrieked and circled overhead.

This camp, belonging to the undead army, was established at the foot of the Dunau Mountains, within a blind spot beyond the Empire’s vigilance, yet remarkably close to Kord Town.

Stationed here were the Great Lich’s most favored Death Hawks, the Vanguard of the Dead, led by Grover Crane.

Known as “Falcon’s Beak,” he was a renowned lich and an exceptionally talented commander, considered the sharp eye that soared above Klogrotia’s frigid clouds.

The Dunau Mountains longitudinally divided the Empire from Klogrotia. If the Great Lich wished to invade the Empire from the west, they would inevitably need to find a way to cross these treacherous, cloud-piercing snow peaks.

The Great Lich’s army consisted mostly of undead, who, though immune to the cold, would still suffer significant losses if forced to climb the steep mountains.

The narrow Silvermoon Gorge, cutting horizontally through the mountains and leading almost directly to the Northmarch, was the optimal invasion route. However, this pass was constantly monitored by imperial sentinels. Their beacon fires would transmit warnings southward, making any subtle movement known, rendering it unsuitable for small-scale advance forces or reconnaissance.

Thus, they turned their attention to the dwarven tunnels.

This cold, harsh land was not worth the declining and exhausted Highridge Dwarves’ blood and treasure to contend for. Under the Great Lich’s increasingly determined offensive, the dwarves eventually decided to retreat to the warmer south. Upon their withdrawal, they sealed the tunnels connecting north and south, completely abandoning this hidden barrier that once obstructed the dead.

Now, those extensive dwarven tunnels belonged to the Great Lich, a fact the Empire remained completely unaware of.

When Kord Town and Rocanthene, and even the entire Northmarch, eventually fell, they would not even know where Grover’s undead army had truly emerged from, as the Silvermoon Gorge’s beacon fires would never have been lit.

Evidently, this camp was built around the entrance to these tunnels, with the surface portion being merely the tip of the iceberg.

The young necromancer instructed Daphne to wait outside the camp gate while he went to consult with Commander Grover.

Daphne, too, was disinclined to further trouble this subordinate. A short wait would be fine.

Less than two minutes later, the same necromancer scrambled out of the camp gate, tumbling and stumbling, tears and snot streaming down his face as he prostrated himself before Daphne.

“I-I’m so sorry! I was utterly foolish, to have slighted the messenger of Great Lord Arsuga! Please forgive my insolence and ignorance!”

A spectral whip, shimmering with purple energy, lashed the young man several meters away. The whip, though seemingly soft, was sharp as a blade, tearing through his fur cloak and thick winter clothing, causing blood to gush from the fresh wound.

The young necromancer writhed in agony on the barren snow, rolling repeatedly and begging for mercy, the white ground beneath him rapidly staining crimson.

Daphne remained unmoved, simply observing with cold eyes.

The clatter of metal chains and the crisp sound of iron medals rubbing against each other announced the arrival of another. What slowly emerged next was a gaunt, withered skeleton, yet it carried an undeniable aura of authority.

Its bones were a dark gold, riddled with cracks, and a deep, jagged scar diagonally bisected its face.

“Such composure. You are indeed a true death messenger of the Great Lord, genuine and authentic.” The skeletal figure mechanically twisted its head, and within the hollow depths of its eye sockets, fierce, cerulean flames blazed. “I am Falcon’s Beak of the Death Hawks, Lich Grover Crane. It is an honor to meet the Death Messenger.”