Camp Arca

The Northwestern Icefield lay along the border between the Human Empire and the Orcish Alliance, its vast expanse of frozen wasteland keeping the two peoples at a great distance. Though called a border, there were few places that could truly be considered outposts—for the icefield was simply too immense, and most of it was an uninhabitable wasteland where no living thing dared venture. Not even the most resilient of magical beasts could easily survive in such a place, let alone humans.

The Northwestern Icefield remained cold and desolate year-round. Even in the height of summer, one needed special garments to ward off the chill; in the dead of winter, the cold was beyond endurance. Though spring had come, the weather was still harsh, and every day the military’s logistics division supplied each soldier with at least one vial of anti-cold potion. The number of vials depended on rank and daily duty: for instance, a soldier of the lowest grade, while off duty, received but one bottle to meet his basic needs.

Such was the demand for anti-cold potions that a saying had taken root across the icefield: "You may lose your weapon, but you must not lose your anti-cold potion."

Lose your weapon, and you might yet survive; but lose your anti-cold potion, and death is all that awaits you.

Arca Camp was an ordinary outpost on the northwest front, set some distance back from the border with the Orcish Alliance and forming part of the third line of defense. Here, the camp lay closer to the hunting grounds of ice and snow. Each year, when spring arrived, the frigid air masses that had gripped much of the icefield would recede toward its heart, and the vacated regions became the domain of adventurers and hunters—hence the name "hunting grounds."

Nearing midday, a patrol squad returned to camp, entering by the side gate with laughter. Their long-haired, horned warhorses were burdened with the carcasses of snow rabbits and ice wolves—a clear sign that the patrol had combined official business with a little private hunting. At Arca Camp, this was an ordinary occurrence; patrols often passed through the hunting grounds, and it had become something of a tradition for soldiers to bring back small game after their shift.

Rather than heading straight to their quarters to rest, the soldiers gathered by the main parade ground and spread out their spoils, counting them before handing most over to their squad leader. As they tallied up the take, a small, slender figure wrapped in a black robe approached from the far side of the parade ground. Compared to the soldiers, bundled in layer upon layer of heavy clothing, this person’s robe seemed thin indeed. Yet that very fact commanded respect: on the icefield, to move about lightly dressed meant one of two things—either the person possessed such martial prowess that cold no longer touched them, or they were wealthy enough to be amply supplied with anti-cold potions or gear.

The former implied strength, the latter wealth, and both commanded deference.

The returning patrol instinctively straightened at the sight of the figure. Their squad leader strode forward, laden pouch in hand, saluted smartly, and offered the pouch with care. The figure hesitated, then produced a small box from within their robe and exchanged it for the pouch. The soldiers, watching from a distance, could barely contain their excitement. Only after the figure had moved away did they rush to their squad leader, eager to see what was inside the box. But the leader kept them at bay, opening it himself and counting out several small vials, which he then divided among them.

Teresa walked slowly away, pouch in hand, a smile playing at her lips as she listened to the soldiers’ jubilant cheers behind her. The patrol had twice escorted her into the hunting grounds to collect alchemical materials, so they were well acquainted. Their squad leader was a sharp one, well aware of her need for basic ingredients, and would often arrange for his men to bring her back supplies. She, in turn, had long since felt embarrassed to accept their help for nothing, so she traded her own potions in exchange—a deal the soldiers welcomed. While the materials could fetch money on the open market or be exchanged for points with the logistics office, here on the icefield, neither money nor points could guarantee potion; the soldiers naturally preferred Teresa’s direct form of barter.

Teresa returned to the logistics building. She had barely entered when Archil came striding toward her, dressed in full uniform and looking older and more mature than his years.

“Hey, you’ve got some good stuff again!” Archil’s eyes lit up at the sight of the pouch. He darted forward, rummaging through its contents, and upon discovering two snow rabbits, immediately began plotting how best to prepare them for a meal.

Teresa was long used to his gluttony. She merely reminded him to save the pelts for her to make gloves, then took the pouch and returned to her room.

The soldiers had brought her fresh herbs, ice wolf blood, and wolf bones. The herbs were useful enough, but it was the wolf blood she prized most—she was in need of a neutralizing agent for her latest piece of beginner-level armor.

She poured out the wolf blood, mixed it with powder, and set it aside to rest. Then she turned her attention to the wolf bones, sorting through them on the table. Soldiers’ weapons had shattered most of the bones, leaving only a few intact finger bones worthy of use.

Turning the bones over in her hands, Teresa gazed at them, faint traces of ice-magic lingering in their pale surfaces. She pondered how best to use them, when suddenly a streak of pale gold entered her line of sight—it was her alchemical golem, an eight-legged golden spider, obediently wiping down the table as she had instructed.

The spider had been working for some time, and its magical reserves were running low; its legs sagged limply, here and there, moving with slow inefficiency. At the sight, an idea sparked in Teresa’s mind—she realized exactly how she could use the wolf finger bones.

Flooded with inspiration, she wasted no time. Her eyes swept across the table as she quickly selected a finger bone. With a flick of her right hand, a slim and razor-sharp blade appeared between her fingers. She set the bone against the blade, spinning it deftly, her hands moving almost without thought, as if guided by their own will. Fine white shavings fell in a thick layer to the floor.

One finger bone finished, she reached for another, wholly absorbed in her work. Her green eyes watched as the bones took new shapes in her hands, and a faint golden glow flickered between her fingers, dancing like flame…