[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
06:00 p.m. – At Technologia factory, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (10 February 2026)
The grounds of the Technologia factory sit just outside the city, far enough from Frosthaven's center that the quarantine bell barely reaches us. Far enough that the death eating away at this city feels like a mere rumor... until you look at the faces of the people gathered on the dirt lot between the lab and the half-built factory frame.
About 40 workers and a dozen or so strangers—wives, children, and an old man leaning on a walking stick. Roughly 120 souls in total, huddled together in the cold, their breath rising in cloudy plumes.
The other third didn't show.
I count the gaps in my head. A third of my crew... dead, sick, or simply too terrified to move. Every empty space I see is a life I cannot reach out and save.
I swallow that feeling and step up onto a low stone block so everyone can see me.
As all eyes turn my way, the whispering starts.
"Who is that?"
"Does he work in the lab? I've seen him around Peter."
I let the murmurs build for exactly three seconds before reaching into my coat, pulling out the company's deed of ownership, and flashing it for all to see.
"You might think Aidan Thorne is your boss..." I announce, my voice flat but carrying clearly across the yard. "But actually, I am the Founder of Technologia Company!"
Dead silence. Everyone stares in stunned disbelief. Even Otto and Peter's eyes go wide at the sudden undercover-boss stunt I just pulled. Truth be told, there are very few employees in Frosthaven who have ever spoken to me for more than an hour or two, with the exception of Peter and Murdock, whom I hung around constantly.
But despite the sheer shock of it, everyone simply nods and plays along. Safe from Doubt does its work quietly, sinking into their minds like an undeniable fact.
"I called you here because Frosthaven is collapsing." I drop the act, shifting straight into serious mode. "Our people are turning pale and falling into a sleep they don't wake from. The magic tower is dark. The mages who are supposed to protect us are doing nothing but tallying the dead."
Otto stands at the edge of the crowd. His arms are crossed so tightly his knuckles are white, his jaw clenched into a hard line to suppress his emotions.
"This morning..." I pause, fighting the hard lump in my throat. "Otto and I went to see Murdock... He's gone."
A shocked ripple goes through the crowd. Peter, the young apprentice, looks away and furiously rubs his eyes to hold back tears. The loss guts all of us. Murdock wasn't just a blacksmith; he was the foundation of this place.
"We know almost nothing about what's happening, but I have a picture forming, and I'm hoping it isn't worse than a plague..." I lower my voice. "Murdock had two small puncture marks right under his jaw."
Someone gasps.
Then Peter's hoarse voice cuts through. "Belmara...?"
He spits the word out like it tastes rotten.
I step down from the stone and walk toward them. "What do you know about Belmara, Peter?"
The boy lifts his chin, trying to gather his courage. "The shadow empire to the north... Demons, vampires, dark fae. They don't attack cities with armies. They drain the people dry, collapse the defenses, and then just walk right in."
The old blacksmith behind Peter nods slowly. "I saw something similar happen when I was young... Three hundred people. Looked like melted wax. No signs of a struggle. Just wiped out."
I look back at the crowd. "The tower exploding, the quarantine order, the pale sick..."
"Vampires," Peter confirms, his voice heavy with dread.
The word plunges the crowd into dead silence. Instinctively, a few look up at the sky, as if terrified they might see the Red Moon looming overhead.
I don't feel the innate biological terror of this world thanks to Safe from The Red Moon... but I remember the madness well enough. I remember Dawnspire during the chaos. The first time I witnessed the nightmare of this world. The crimson sky, the roaming demons, and the people in the streets convulsing before their bodies violently exploded right in front of me.
The blood and the gore are still burned into my memory.
If Belmara is draining Frosthaven, the tower explosion wasn't an accident. It was a targeted strike to destroy the city's magical shields.
"What do we do?" Peter asks, his voice trembling.
I look at the 120 lives remaining. I can't save Frosthaven... not tonight.
But I absolutely will not let the explosive carnage of Dawnspire happen to these people. I have to keep them alive.
"Tonight, everyone moves inside the Technologia factory," I order, my voice leaving no room for argument. "We're going to clear out all the machinery and tools, and convert the interior into a temporary shelter. We pool our rations, build fires using the lab stoves, and no one opens a door after dark without two people guarding it."
Murmurs echo through the crowd—this time, it's the sound of relief at knowing exactly what to do to survive.
"Come dusk, we seal every window with wax and cloth. Not a single gap." I turn to the old smith. "You're in charge of bracing all the exterior doors. Make them as secure as humanly possible."
He nods immediately.
"And you," I turn to the boy. "Do a head count right now. Write down every name and their role. If anyone goes missing from the group, you tell me instantly."
"Yes, sir," Peter straightens up, wiping away his remaining tears.
As the crowd disperses to carry out their tasks, I grab Peter's arm before he can walk away.
"Listen, Peter..." I ask, my voice tight. "Do you have any details about events similar to this?"
Peter freezes for a moment. He meets my gaze, his eyes swirling with a mix of fear and bitter memories, before answering in a hushed tone.
"Do you want to hear about the city of Gagin?"
---
[POV Third-Person Omniscient] [Tense: Present]
06:00 p.m. – At Frosthaven Castle, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (10 February 2026)
The Governor's chair still faces the window pane.
For thirty years, Lord Edvar Calne has sat there every evening, watching the lamplighters perform their duties in sequence across the square. In life, his steward often tells guests it is a matter of discipline, while his wife merely scoffs that it is arrogance.
And now, he sits there still.
It is the same chair, the same window pane, and the same view of the lamplight below as it is every day.
However, Lord Edvar's eyes no longer track the lights. They remain wide open, staring through the glow aimlessly, glassy and fixed. His lips part slightly, dry and pulled back from rows of teeth that can no longer close. His hands rest on the armrests, arranged with meticulous precision—fingers spread, palms down, nails immaculately trimmed.
Furthermore, his face bears a light dusting of powder, and his lips and cheeks hold touches of color that exquisitely mask the traces of death. This is the aesthetic hobby of Angelique Noctis, a woman who finds herself deeply captivated by the art of post-mortem makeup.
The great hall smells of cold stone and something hidden beneath—not the stench of rot, but the fragrance of lavender water. Angelique applies it with a careful hand, fully aware that the aura of death in a nobleman's study sends the wrong message to any unsuspecting visitors.
Angelique Noctis stands before the writing desk.
Her form is diminutive compared to the grandeur of the hall. The edge of the desk rises as high as her collarbone. Pure white hair falls in two partitions over a collar of black lace, and a layered gown of dark silken fabric sweeps across the stone floor, making a sound like whispering shadows. She holds a quill between her fingers, painstakingly inscribing a story into her novel notebook in Lord Calne's exact handwriting.
She has practiced this forgery for four days.
"Supply convoy delayed—treacherous roads... The order to seal the city remains in effect. The city remains peaceful, without incident."
She reviews those words before setting the quill down. She turns to touch the Communication Magic Stone on the desk, transmitting her intent and message into a magical current. It casts out directly to the Guild and the Capital in a wave of energy that flawlessly mimics Lord Calne.
"Done."
She turns toward the window pane. Below, a lamplighter walks with a limp past the fountain. Flames ignite, casting orange light to drive back the encroaching twilight.
Angelique watches this with the precise scrutiny she applies to all things, her mind constantly cataloging the patterns of the living.
"He always lights them in the same order," she speaks softly to the emptiness. "The northern post first, next is the fountain bracket, and then the east. Every evening... he has done it for so long that his physique moves on its own without thought."
She exhales a small sigh.
"Routine... truly is a gentle cage."
The door opens without a knock.
Morrigan Nightshade strides in with an aggressive bearing, carrying herself as though she is the master of every territory—which, the narrator notes, she often believes she is. She wears a traveler's leather suit over dust-stained black armor. Her blood-colored eyes sweep across the hall—taking in Calne on the chair, the novel notebook on the desk, and Angelique at the window—before her lips tighten with profound irritation.
"Are you still occupied with sitting here writing a storybook and painting a corpse's face?" Morrigan demands.
"I am refining art and intent," Angelique replies, not turning back. "Sending a magical message to deceive the Guild requires the correct emotional current. I must make it perfect before they audit the magical flow tomorrow."
"The Guild's magical flow, is it?" Morrigan steps boldly into the center of the room, the sound of her steel boots striking the stone floor echoing loudly. "Lady Noctis, we have four thousand demon knights camped in the subterranean tunnels, and there is a route that must be breached to reach the southern flank of Rhamnale before the month's end. I do not march my army to this place to endure watching you daub colors on a dead man's face or write sentimental fiction!"
Angelique turns back from the window.
Her face remains serene, her grey eyes clear, her skin like glazed porcelain. She gazes at Morrigan with the chilling calm of one who holds all the invisible strings.
"You are wrong, Morrigan," she says in a smooth tone. "You act here because Malakar and I share a mutual agreement... He is the warlord who uses physical might and the sword's edge to breach and strike, while I am the one who uses intellect and strategy to dictate from behind. Our status and rights are equal in every respect. Remember this well."
Morrigan's jaw tightens, her military mind chafing at the perceived delay.
"Your plan is too slow."
"The plan progresses perfectly," Angelique says, walking slowly to a side table. "At this very hour, Belmara leads forces to crush their magic tower into flat ground. This city is completely cut off. And the Lord Governor here"—she gestures gracefully toward the lifeless, beautified form—"continues to send deceptive magical messages. His advisors still foolishly think they deal with an epidemic. Not a soul knows they fall into my hands."
"And the shops that just arrived?" Morrigan's voice grows harsh. "The wagon train from that thing they call 'Technologia' outside the eastern wall? How do you deal with that?"
Angelique lightly strokes the cover of her novel notebook.
"I do not concern myself with mere shops of lowborn civilians," she answers, glancing toward a city map on the desk. "At this hour, the only things I focus upon are their military camp, the ruins of the magic tower Belmara destroys, and the layout of this city... Let the merchants do what they will. Once they enter this quarantine zone, they never leave."
She closes her eyes for a moment.
"No one in Aurelthorn knows this city belongs to us, and no one shall know, until I desire them to witness it."
Morrigan stares at the small woman before her, entirely failing to comprehend her meticulous methods.
"You truly enjoy this play-acting, don't you?" Morrigan states in a flat voice.
Angelique ponders the question seriously, searching her own vast, quiet mind for the truth.
"I am gratified by its results," she concludes. "Play-acting is trivial, but this is a work of art... If you use might to crush, you gain only fragments and ruins, and ruins naturally attract the enemy's gaze. But I want a city that still breathes, still sends magical communication currents, and lights its lamps—while room by room, street by street, it gradually falls to us in absolute silence."
Angelique steps to stand beside Calne's chair, placing a small hand on the shoulder of the corpse she makes up so well.
"Whosoever perishes in this city awakens to serve me... Though my way is slow, it is far more noiseless than Malakar's blade. And when it ends, Frosthaven remains a city, not a killing field."
She reveals a faint smile.
"A city under new rule."
Morrigan exhales heavily through her nose. In her heart, she knows well she cannot argue against this strategy. She accepts the agreement Malakar and Angelique laid out together, but her warrior's instinct recoils at it.
"I will have the knights begin moving through the tunnels before midnight," Morrigan says, cutting the conversation short.
"Excellent," Angelique says, picking up the quill once more. "And Morrigan..."
Morrigan pauses her footsteps at the door.
"When you lead the army to breach through to Rhamnale," Angelique says without lifting her head, "send a magical message back to me. I must know the path is open wide before I begin turning the page to the 'next chapter' of this city."
"And what is your next chapter?"
Angelique dips the quill's point into the ink, setting it down upon the page of the novel notebook in Calne's handwriting once more.
"It is making sure... that no one in Frosthaven ever remembers again... what the flavor of normal peace... tastes like."
The door slides shut.
Below the window, the lamplighter finishes his task and disappears around the corner of the building, leaving the square illuminated by orange light in obedient circles.
Angelique watches until he is gone from her sight.
Then, she touches the Communication Magic Stone once more, before returning to continue chronicling the new chapter in her novel.
---
Four nights ago.
The fog rolls thick and heavy through the cobblestone streets of Frosthaven. Lord Edvar Calne pulls his fur-lined cloak tight around his shoulders, his breath pluming in the freezing air. He finishes his administrative tasks late at the castle, the burden of the kingdom's wars and the recent border skirmishes weighing heavily upon his aging bones.
As his carriage halts just outside the wrought-iron gates of his sprawling private estate, a sound pierces the damp chill—a soft, wretched sobbing.
The omniscient eye sees the threads of fate pulling tight, but Lord Edvar only sees a shadow huddled against the cold stone pillar.
He steps down from the carriage, waving his driver back. Huddled in the darkness is a little girl. She is small, her frail frame shivering violently. Her clothes are tattered, stained with mud and dark patches that look terribly like dried blood. When she looks up at his approaching footsteps, her wide, tear-filled eyes reflect the dim, obedient orange glow of the streetlamps.
"Please," she whispers, her voice trembling like a brittle leaf in the winter wind. "My family... the war took them. The soldiers burned our wagon. I have nowhere to go."
Lord Edvar is a man of strict discipline, yet beneath his stern exterior, he possesses the soft heart of a father. Looking down at her, he sees only absolute innocence. He sees a tragic casualty of the world's cruelty, a broken child crying out for salvation.
He reaches out a thick, gloved hand. "Come, child," he says softly, his voice thick with sudden affection and pity. "You will freeze out here in the dark. You may warm yourself by my hearth tonight."
He does not notice how her sobbing instantly ceases the very moment his invitation is spoken.
He does not see the faint, predatory gleam that flashes in the depths of her innocent eyes, nor does he feel the unnatural, corpse-like coldness of the tiny hand that slips so trustingly into his own.
In his profound pity, the Lord Governor pushes the heavy iron gates of his estate open. He guides the frail, shivering creature across his threshold, leading her past the ancient magical wards carved into the doorway meant to keep monsters at bay. He does not realize that such wards are rendered entirely useless the moment the master of the house freely and verbally invites the monster inside.
He smiles down at her, believing he is performing a noble act of mercy.
He does not know that he is walking a quiet, creeping death directly into his sanctuary. He does not know that by taking this sweet, weeping girl by the hand, he is condemning not only himself, but his wife, his servants, and his entire household to an agonizing, bloodless dark.