THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR-Chapter 354: SENTINELS OF THE NORTH

Snow whirled across the frozen landscape, turning the world into a canvas of white and gray. The biting northern wind howled between jagged rocks, carrying crystalline flakes that stung any exposed skin with winter's merciless kiss. Against this bleak backdrop, the Horizon Sentinels Fortress rose like a defiant fist—a massive stone structure perched atop a sheer cliff face, its weathered towers puncturing the leaden sky.

The fortress walls, blackened by centuries of harsh weather and occasional sieges, bore the scars of time with stubborn pride. Watchtowers decorated each corner, their narrow windows glowing with the warm light of hearth fires within. Smoke curled from multiple chimneys, dispersing into the snowstorm like ghosts fleeing into oblivion. From a distance, the outpost resembled a monstrous creature of stone crouching upon the mountainside, vigilant and implacable.

In the fortress barracks, warmth and laughter pushed back against the chill that seeped through ancient stonework. A dozen soldiers clustered around a central hearth, their faces flushed with ale and firelight as they listened to a bard pluck at his worn instrument. The musician's voice carried above the crackling fire, weaving tales of distant heroes and impossible feats.

"—and so the last son of De Gror, once derided as 'trash' by his noble kin, led his platoon into the heart of darkness," the bard sang, his fingers dancing across taut strings. "When demons possessed his men, he stood alone against the devil's might, emerging victorious with the blood of fiends upon his blade. Thus was born the legend of Spross Banner, hero of the realm and—"

A wooden mug sailed through the air, narrowly missing the bard's head before clattering against the wall behind him.

"Enough of that rubbish!" shouted a red-faced soldier from the back. "Sing something worth hearing—a tavern song or a proper war ballad!"

The bard ducked instinctively, though he seemed more annoyed than frightened by the interruption. He adjusted his cap with exaggerated dignity while soldiers around him roared with laughter.

"He's right," called another voice. "We've heard enough about Lord David's supposed exploits to last ten winters!"

Eric, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, knocked his wooden mug against his companions' in a toast before turning toward the bard. Unlike his more boisterous comrades, curiosity rather than mockery lined his weathered face.

"Is it true?" he asked during a lull in the commotion. "Did David De Gror actually accomplish those feats? I've heard the stories since I was stationed here, but they grow more outlandish with each telling."

The bard wiped ale from his sleeve and offered Eric a knowing smile. "Truth, my friend, is less important than what men choose to believe. Legends aren't born from facts—they're born from dreams. Better to wonder than know for certain, wouldn't you agree?"

Eric slapped his forehead, disgusted with himself for even asking. "What nonsense. How did I fall for this rubbish?" He drained his mug in a single gulp, then grabbed his black military coat from the back of his chair. "I need air," he muttered to no one in particular as he made his way toward the stairs.

The corridors of Horizon Sentinels Fortress twisted in labyrinthine fashion, designed to confuse potential invaders. Eric navigated them with practiced ease, his footsteps echoing against stone walls adorned with ancient battle standards. After several turns and a climb up a narrow spiral staircase, he emerged onto the eastern watchtower's balcony.

Marco, a lanky soldier with perpetually disheveled hair, leaned against the parapet, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. He straightened at Eric's approach, anticipation brightening his otherwise tired eyes.

"Tell me you brought food," he pleaded, hands already reaching toward Eric's coat pockets.

"Chef said he'd chop off my hands if I tried sneaking any more jerky," Eric replied with a shrug. "Said to wait your turn like everyone else."

Marco groaned dramatically, slumping back against the parapet. "Seven hours I've been up here, and five more to go." He patted his stomach, which growled in response. "A man can't keep watch on an empty belly."

"You'll survive," Eric said, his unsympathetic tone betrayed by the half-smile tugging at his lips.

"Let's talk about something more interesting," Marco suggested, straightening from his slouch. A mischievous grin spread across his face. "How many have you had?"

Eric furrowed his brow. "How many what?"

"Women, you daft fool!" Marco cackled, slapping Eric's shoulder. "How many women have you bedded in your illustrious career as a border guard?"

"I have a wife at home," Eric replied stiffly, removing Marco's hand from his shoulder.

"Oh, my poor, deprived friend." Marco's expression shifted to exaggerated sympathy. "You'll never know the joys of experiencing different types of women—tall ones, short ones, those with curves that could make a—"

Marco's teasing halted abruptly as his posture changed, eyes narrowing as he focused on something in the distance. All traces of jest vanished from his face, replaced by the alertness of a trained sentinel.

"PEOPLE!" he shouted toward the courtyard below. "East gate! Two figures approaching through the snow!"

Guards below scrambled into defensive positions, crossbows trained on the massive wooden gates as their commander barked orders. Through the swirling snow, two cloaked figures emerged, their dark outlines stark against the white backdrop. They stopped several paces from the gate, seemingly unbothered by the weapons aimed in their direction.

A soldier mounted on horseback approached the gate from inside, his voice carrying authority despite his youth. "Halt! State your business. No one leaves the empire without proper documentation unless you're exiles running from imperial justice."

The taller of the two visitors groaned audibly, shoulders slumping with evident irritation. Before the soldier could respond, the shorter figure dropped her hood, revealing a face of striking beauty framed by chestnut hair. The guard's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing across his features.

The woman produced a medallion bearing the De Gror crest—two winged female knights in profile, facing each other while jointly grasping a single sword raised toward a golden sun. "We are retainers of House De Gror," she stated, her tone leaving no room for debate.

The mounted soldier's demeanor shifted instantly. "My apologies," he stammered. "Please wait while I fetch the commander."

Left alone outside the gates, the taller figure turned to his companion. "Amilia," he grumbled, his accented voice rich with displeasure, "why did the captain send us here of all places? My people aren't built for this cursed cold."

Amilia's attire—white armor accented with gold over a short skirt, complemented by a crown-like golden headpiece—marked her as someone of significance despite her apparent youth. She carried a massive ornate staff that seemed too large for her frame, yet she handled it with casual ease.

"Stop whining, Svara," she replied without sympathy. "We have a mission to complete."

Privately, however, she understood his complaint. Svara's people, the Masaai tribe, thrived in desert heat, their bodies adapted to scorching temperatures rather than this bitter cold. His dark skin and minimal armor—favoring mobility over protection—made him particularly susceptible to the northern climate.

Minutes later, the gates creaked open as the fortress commander rode out with the younger soldier in tow. The commander—an imposing dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard—assessed the visitors with experienced eyes.

Amilia began to present her identification again, but the commander raised a hand, a smile warming his stern features.

"No need," he said, genuine respect in his voice. "I recognize the Rouge Saint when I see her." His gaze shifted to her companion. "And the Hero of the Waste, Novus Swordsman of the Masaai tribe. Your reputations precede you."

The young soldier beside him blanched, stammering apologies that went unacknowledged as the commander dismounted.

"I am Lord Dubal, commander of Horizon Sentinels," he announced, bowing his head slightly. "Please, come inside. A warm meal and some hot broth would be my honor to provide after your journey."