The Northern Border Fortress stood as a symbol of resilience, its solid stone walls built to withstand both time and enemy assaults. Wooden torches were placed at intervals, casting flickering light against the encroaching darkness, while the biting winter cold pressed relentlessly against the fortifications.

  Atop the fortress walls, guards kept a constant watch, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of approaching threats. Inside the fortress, patrols moved in pairs, their steps steady and cautious. The harsh conditions and looming danger left no room for complacency—no guard dared to lower their vigilance.

  Far beyond the visible range of the fortress, the cold, dark night stretched endlessly, sending shivers through anyone bold enough to defy its harsh embrace. In this frozen expanse, a group of barbarian warriors stood, their breath visible in the frigid air as they fixed their eyes on the distant stronghold.

  The barbarian commander, a towering figure with a weathered face and piercing eyes, gazed at the fortress's sturdy stone walls. The flickering torches along the ramparts cast faint, defiant glows against the darkness. He turned to the warriors gathered behind him, his voice firm and filled with resolve.

  “Tonight, we will bring those walls down,” he declared, his words cutting through the cold like a blade. “Let those cowardly Song Ren hide behind their stones. It will not save them.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks, growing louder as another warrior stepped forward, his voice booming to rally the men. “The Song Ren have grown soft behind their walls! But we—we—are the children of the wild! The snow is our ally, and the night hides our strength!”

  The warriors roared in approval, their voices merging into a powerful, unified cry that echoed across the frozen plains. Their wolves, sensing the surge of energy, lifted their heads to the sky and howled, the sound mingling with the warriors’ battle cries, filling the night with a fierce, primal chorus.

  The commander raised his weapon high, his eyes burning with determination. ““Prepare for battle! By dawn, the Song Ren fortress will be ours!”

  With that, the warriors readied themselves, their hearts pounding with anticipation as they moved into position, the cold night now ignited with the fire of impending war.

  As the commander’s final words hung in the frigid air, a towering barbarian stepped forward, his breath misting in the cold. From his side, he pulled out a massive horn, carved from the tusk of a long-dead beast and adorned with crude markings of past conquests. He raised it to his lips, and with a deep breath, unleashed a sound that tore through the night.

  The horn’s call was not just loud—it was unnatural. A deep, guttural bellow that seemed to claw at the very soul of anyone who heard it. The eerie sound echoed across the frozen plains, seeping into the cracks of the fortress walls. It was a noise meant not just to signal war, but to unnerve, to break the spirit before the first sword was drawn.

  But for the barbarians, the horn was a spark. The unsettling sound ignited something fierce within them—a primal hunger for blood and battle. Their eyes gleamed with wild anticipation, their breaths quickened, and their muscles tensed like drawn bows. The eerie wail, meant to instill fear, only deepened their bloodlust.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  With a thunderous roar, the barbarians surged forward, their charge like a wave crashing against the silence of the night. The Frostfang Riders led the assault, mounted atop snarling wolves with eyes that gleamed like embers in the dark. They carried strong bows slung across their backs and small wooden shields strapped to their arms, allowing for swift, fluid movement. The wolves moved with terrifying speed, their powerful limbs propelling them across the snow as if they were part of the wind itself.

  Behind them came the foot soldiers, their armor simple and sparse—just enough to protect vital areas, but light enough to keep them agile. They wielded a chaotic array of weapons: rusted axes, jagged spears, crude swords stained from past battles. Some carried heavy wooden ladders on their shoulders, their purpose clear—to scale the fortress walls and drag the enemy down from their supposed sanctuary.

  The ground trembled beneath the fury of their charge, a deafening blend of pounding footsteps, snarling wolves, and the relentless battle cries that pierced the night. The scene was a maddening vision of chaos and raw power—a living nightmare that blurred the line between man and beast.

  At the rear of the assault, the barbarian commander stood tall, his eyes locked on the fortress ahead. But now, they burned not with strategy or cold calculation, but with unrestrained bloodlust. His breath came heavy, each exhale visible in the icy air as a wild grin spread across his face. The thrill of the impending slaughter coursed through his veins, and for a brief moment, he looked less like a man and more like a force of nature—unstoppable, merciless, and driven by the singular desire to conquer.

  With a guttural roar of his own, he raised his weapon high, his voice merging with the unholy symphony of war as he charged into the fray, ready to tear down the walls and the souls behind them.

  The eerie blare of the horn and the ferocious roar of the barbarians shattered the stillness of the night, echoing across the plains and reverberating off the stone walls of the fortress. Atop the ramparts, the patrol guards stiffened, their eyes widening as the dark silhouettes of the charging enemy emerged from the shadows.

  One guard, heart pounding in his chest, opened his mouth to raise the alarm—but before a sound could escape, an arrow whistled through the air with a deadly hiss. It struck him cleanly in the skull, the force snapping his head back. His body crumpled, toppling over the edge of the wall.

  The sickening thud of his body hitting the frozen ground below echoed unnervingly in the silence, a dull, heavy sound that felt final, like the slamming of a coffin lid.

  The remaining guards froze for a heartbeat, their voices caught in their throats. But the enemy's presence was undeniable now—the ground trembled with the weight of charging warriors, the wolves' howls slicing through the cold air.

  A second later, another guard found his voice, his shout piercing the night: “Barbarians! They’re attacking! Get to formation!”

  Inside the fortress, the alarm quickly spread. Torches flared to life, casting frantic shadows against the stone walls as soldiers scrambled to their positions.

  In a modest, stone-built mansion near the center of the fortress, a guard burst through the doors, his face flushed from the cold and the fear gripping his chest. He hurried down the dim corridor, his boots echoing against the stone floor, and flung open the door to the command room.

  Inside, the commander sat calmly at a low table, his fingers lightly tracing a map spread before him. He looked to be in his early forties, his face marked by the hard lines of countless battles. A neatly trimmed beard framed his strong jaw, and his eyes—sharp and unwavering—carried the weight of a man who had seen more wars than he cared to count. The flickering lantern light reflected off the worn armor resting in the corner, a silent testament to his years of service.

  The guard bowed quickly, breathless. “General Zhang! The barbarians—they’re attacking!”

  General Zhang didn’t flinch. His gaze lifted slowly to the soldier, calm and steady, as if the news was nothing more than a change in the weather. He exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of a sigh betraying his frustration—not at the danger, but at the inevitability of it all.

  Rising to his feet with the ease of a man who had done this countless times before, he adjusted the simple robes over his armor and gestured toward the door.

  “Gather the men at the courtyard,” he ordered, his voice low but firm, carrying the quiet authority of experience. “Tell the archers to take their positions on the walls. Lock down the gates—no one in or out until I give the order.”

  The soldier hesitated for a heartbeat, perhaps expecting more urgency. But Zhang’s steady eyes met his, unblinking. “And don’t panic,” he added, his tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “Fear is the enemy's first weapon. Let’s not hand them a victory before they reach the walls.”

  With a quick nod, the soldier turned and sprinted out, his footsteps echoing down the hall. General Zhang remained still for a moment, listening to the growing sounds of chaos outside—the shouts, the clash of weapons being drawn, and the distant, haunting howls of the wolves.

  Then, with a final glance at the map, he strapped on his armor and stepped out into the night, ready to face the battle head-on, as he always had.