The Northrend Empire, by all means, was the clearest definition of a powerful sovereignty. It held the farthest north, and it was said that most wars ever brought to it died before reaching its borders.
Unlike the Elven Empire of Sylvanna, the Northrenders were not isolated by choice, but simply because most were terrified of them—brutes and warriors bred from a constant fight for survival against both the beasts that surrounded them and against themselves.
Their entire lives were built on a simple ideology: a man’s worth could only be decided in blood and ash.
Nothing would be taken from their hands unless they were dead and cold, and nothing from their empire unless it was reduced to ashes. These men of constant cold were as harsh and brutal as their climate.
And as if they weren’t terrifying enough, they possessed martial artists of realms most could not even fathom.
It was an unspoken rule, but one most knew: life was always better when the men of winter were left alone.
However, the Byzeth King had become cocky... greedy.
Most refrained from engaging in any business with the Northrenders, given their nature. Trade with them was a dangerous yet profitable endeavor. For that reason, they had only traded with the Draken Empire—the dragon riders. Like the Northrenders, the Drakens were ones to be feared, after all, they had managed to obtain the secret of taming sacred beasts such as dragons.
This balance of enormous power maintained a level of fear and respect between the Drakens and Northrenders that allowed them to trade for many, many years.
However, the Drakens sold to the Northrenders at heavily inflated prices. The Northrenders had no choice but to buy from them, as no one else would trade with the men of winter.
This knowledge gave Aszer Hait, the King of Byzeth, a brilliant idea: if he decided to sell to the north at market price—which was almost fifteen times less than the steep prices of the Drakens—the Northrenders would obviously choose the Byzeth Kingdom as their preferred trade partner, giving Byzeth the trading power of an entire empire.
This was Aszer’s first vital step in his plan to take the Valerian throne.
And it was also what had gotten him and his people slaughtered, their kingdom reduced to rubble, and what started one of the many wars Aric had to fight.
However, this outcome was years into the future, but this knowledge was vital.
"Isn’t there a single town where we can stop?" Lerai groaned, leaning further back into the carriage seat.
"Yeah," Serina agreed. "This path is far more desolate than I expected."
Since the start of the journey, she had always scolded Lerai’s complaints, telling him it wouldn’t be as long or tiring as he assumed. Well, she was wrong.
Both men nodded as the driver directed the horses to a corner.
The two mages followed behind the fourth prince, who seemed very aware of where he was going. With his face barely visible, he made his way through the town almost expertly, as though he had been there before—well, he had.
They reached a building, and like most in the small town, it was made of wood and had quite a minimalist design. The notable difference was the strong, almost revolting smell of alcohol that oozed from within, along with loud, obnoxious conversation.
Aric, followed by Lerai and Serina, stepped into the tavern. Eyes glanced at them, noticing they looked far different from those of their similar "profession." Aric walked over to the bartender.
"Please, a large pint of beer," he requested, passing over a gold coin.
The bartender nodded, swiftly turning to retrieve his request. As he did, Aric made an inquiry, loudly.
"Pardon me, but I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Borag."
Immediately upon hearing that name, tension fell upon the tavern. Some tried to remain discreet in doing so, others were not, but weapons began to slowly be drawn.
"No?" Aric looked around, as though trying to make eye contact with each man. "He’s not in? Out in the field, perhaps? A shame."
He turned to the bartender, who placed the large pint of beer before him. The jug was made of wood and iron.
"Thank you, good sir," Aric said, taking a sip.
"Then perhaps Twicher is present?" Aric rubbed the beer foam off his mouth with his sleeve.
"You’re one audacious bastard, aren’t you?" one of the men spoke. His hair was long and brown, his forehead marked with a scar.
"Ah, Twicher," Aric’s face flashed with recognition as he held his beer in hand, approaching where Twicher sat.
"Most know better than to say those names so loosely," Twicher said, drawing an axe and placing it on the table before him as Aric reached his table. "The blade of my axe still has warm blood on it, and that man had done far less than spout my name. I had thought the foolishness of men would eventually see its limit, but I guess it is imp—"
The sickening sound of the wooden jug Aric held smashing against Twicher’s skull resounded through the entire tavern. Aric had broken the wood into several pieces as he swung it into the man’s head, knocking him unconscious in a single hit.
"You talk too damn much... I forgot how much it pissed me off."