Before The Great Dichotomy, the war that ended The Age of Scions, it was common for those with the gift of forging life to bring new species into the world. The Green Thing was fond of plants, believing they should succeed the scions when their time eventually came. She created the diverse trees and bushes, grasses and flowers, which populated the world before the schism. The genmar trees still bear a hint of her great power. They have outlived the scions. They will outlive us.

-The Third Verses of Creation

Sir Jordan and his Timberwolves stand on the right flank of Winter's army. His lieutenants wait to either side of his mount, a sleek six-legged wolf. Kjord Iceblood, Yeshin Reh, Absinthe, and Thuy of Chains. Together the five had become famous among their peers. The Timberwolves: daring warriors and champions. Each wears a cloak of wolf fur as their uniform, each of them having earned honors from The Lords of Winter. Their leader is the most revered knight of The Vanguard, feared by warriors on both sides of the schism.

Winter's forces stand tall. Above fly angels and ravenbloods, singing songs of battle to hearten the troops. Elves and orcs stomp their feet, the originators of the Rumble of Winter. To the tempo of the rumble, yetis, ratkin, serpentfolk, and dwarves dance and chant. Beast of Night snarl and hiss as they await the order to charge.

Across the wide valley known as The Season's Divide, Summer's armies wait. Griffins and pegasi circled above columns of elves and orcs, the first of Summer's children, goblins and centaurs, minotaurs and fairies. Littlefolk and sentient creatures who owe their allegiance to the powers of The Light reinforced their numbers.

Two great ganmar trees stand on either side of the valley, witnesses to the coming proceedings.

The Winter and Summer Vanguards wait eagerly to lead the charge and fulfill the ancient blood rite that is The Season War. The winning side will draw power from The Unbroken Circle and hold dominion over the breath of the land itself. Four years and four months, then the horns blow again, as agreed upon at the end of The Great Dichotomy. As it has always been. A circle. Unbroken.

Summer has won the last ten wars.

Wolves howl as mounted troops approach Jordan's position. His family banner waves alongside that of Lord Hardgrave and The King himself. Jordan dismounts and bows as the sovereign approaches. His lieutenants do the same. Though Absinthe is a bit slow in following protocol and Kjord nudges her in the right direction. The papillon are creatures of dark Winter who have been tamed by neither king nor queen. The King's honor guard take offense, but the monarch doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are for Jordan alone.

"My son, King Malcin would speak with you on an urgent matter," Lord Scoiden says.

The King motions Jordan to stand, and begins to walk, Lords Hardgrave and Scoiden follow on his heels. With a glance toward Kjord and Yeshin, who both shrug, Jordan hurries off to catch up.

The King leads them to a patch of earth where the ankle-high grass sways in the morning gusts. The warm air is soothing, Summer weather. There hasn't been a real winter in forty-three years.

The four stand in relative silence, the lords watching the sovereign and the sovereign staring up at the clouds.

"Are you old enough to remember the last winter?" The King asks.

"No, my liege. My thirtieth name day quickly approaches." Jordan sends a questioning look towards his father who stands stoically.

On the other hand, Lord Hardgrave looks pointedly towards King Malcin. Hardgrave is a beastman from the far north, last of the line of barbarian kings. His son had led the beastmen during the rebellion, but the father is a wiser, gentler sort. He believes in diplomacy over strength in arms. His friendship has been unexpected during Jordan's time in the capital. Where Lord Scoiden is cold and aloof, Lord Hardgrave is friendly and engaging. He's a surprising ally among The Lords of Winter.

"Without a true winter, the fertile lands have had little chance to recharge their soil. The mulch of dying leaves can't become fertilizer for the next harvest. Even the freeze berry, our greatest and most abundant crop, has begun to fail. The hibernating creatures never rest, their hunger placing a strain on food supplies. There are parts of Winter and Summer that suffer from drought for lack of snowfall. In short, our world needs a winter of at least three years in order to reset things to their proper state." King Malcin finally brings his gaze down to earth and the men standing with him. "For the survival of Winter, we must win this war. We cannot have another four years of Summer supremacy."

"Queen Shakia is the most skilled commander Summer has had in over three thousand years," Lord Scoiden says. "She has outmaneuvered us in ways her mother could not and even when we've managed to get soldiers close enough to strike, she has single-handedly cut them down. She fights with the skill of Sir Oberon and a natural talent we've seen in only one other warrior."

Jordan begins to understand.

"The two of you trained together. You know her, you know her tactics, you fight in the same blade art style. Son, you are best poised to challenge her."

"My lords, The Timberwolves are to attack the enemy flank, drawing out their knights and harassing their reserve." Jordan's mind races. He hasn't seen Shakia, Queen Shakia, in ten years. This would be his chance, but the truth was he'd rarely bested her in combat. Her constant victories will have made her an even more formidable opponent. "Our role is integral to the battle plan..."

"That was all subterfuge to mislead Summer spies," Lord Hardgrave says. "We know there are those in high places who sell us to Summer. This time we will use it against them." A grin of sharp teeth splits his feline face. "My shock troops will punch a hole in their center, creating a breach for The Timberwolves to break through and gain access to their back lines. She won't retreat, she never does."

Jordan's heart quickens. He's made her retreat many times.

"We need this, Sir Scoiden," The King says, closing the distance between them. "I can only do so much with my diminished power. For the people and for the freeze berries, you must prove victorious."

The last is said with a hint of a smile. Beneath The King's stern mask is desperation.

"I will do my best, your majesty," Jordan bows.

King Malcin nods and slowly walks towards his awaiting honor guard. Lord Hardgrave pats the knight on the shoulder and follows his king. Lord Scoiden paces, looking out across the divide at the awaiting forces of Summer.

"This is the moment we've waited for."

"We?" Jordan asks. He's well aware that this is his chance to see Shakia after so many years, but he's sure that isn't what Lord Scoiden means.

"Yes. We. My advisors, the people of Oresine Provinces. We have all been waiting for an opportunity to earn The King's favor."

"Is... is that why you ransomed me to Summer?"

"Don't be dense." The lord directs his gaze towards the trunk of the massive ganmar who's shadow hangs over most of the valley. "It is only part of the reason. Our province is small and poor. Our power and influence comes from our alliances and geopolitical position. We need help and The King will give it to us if we can give him something he needs."

Jordan holds his tongue, but his anger is often written all over his face. It isn't the knowledge of being used, he'd figured this out long ago. It's Lord Scoiden no longer seeing a need to hide the truth. Somehow the honesty of the moment wounds him.

"You'll finally have the reunion you've craved."

"Is this why you've kept me from seeing her, so you could use it against me at the moment of greatest impact?"

"What?" Lord Scoiden met his gaze. "Never. I plot and scheme, but I've also loved and lost. I wouldn't wish that pain on my greatest enemy, let alone my heir." He closes the distance between them and inspects Jordan's chainmail. "The Queen made a request that shook her people to their core. The Leaders of Summer have spent years making sure the two of you are never in the same place."

"What was the request?" Jordan inspects his father's platemail. His hands shake and he doesn't know why.

"It is not my place to say, but know they can't stop you from seeing her, not here. Reach her, and ask your Queen yourself."

Jordan's mind cycles through the possibilities as he returns to his Timberwolves. He knows those last words had been an intentional spur in the side from Lord Scoiden. Schemes and plots. The man cannot change who he is. He uses truth as often as he uses lies. What had been Shakia's request? What would make Summer defy her?

Kjord helps him into the saddle and waits eagerly to hear about the audience with The King. Jorden barely notices him. He removes a trinket from the inner pocket of his wolf cloak. The white and gold glove stokes a flame building in his gut.

He signals for his lieutenants and they huddle around.

"Our orders have changed, Timberwolves." Jordan's words quiver with his excitement. "We're not harassing the flank today, we're going right up the middle and attacking the big piece."

Yeshin's face grows stern and speculative, but Kjord and Absinthe are excited.

"We go for The Queen, sire?" Thuy asks cautiously. "She is the sun. Are we prepared to face her heat?"

Yeshin nods as if she's voiced his concerns. Jordan hears her words, but is too focused on the coming battle to truly digest their meaning. He looks back at his one hundred troops, men and women each chosen by at least two of his lieutenants. The Timberwolves are formidable. If they can't succeed, no one of Winter can.

"Prepare the troops," he orders.

He misses the strained glances Yeshin and Thuy share before she slithers off to comply. Alone, staring off towards the center of Summer's line, Jordan wonders how the years have changed Shakia. He's known her as a friend, a rival, a lover, and a princess. Thanks to the politics of the seasons, he's never had a chance to speak to The Queen since her coronation. Once more, Lord Scoiden's words replay in his mind and Jordan wonders the nature of her controversial request.

A sound like a thousand horn-blows splits the heavens and shakes the earth. The World Horn blares.

A child is born on a distant planet who will one day use lies and inflammatory rhetoric to conquer his world.

Two worlds collide, destroying their inhabitants but birthing a new and greater celestial body.

A continent is hurled into the heavens where it floats midway between surface and stars.

An eye opens at the bottom of the ocean and a scion closely watches the events of this day.

In his core, Jordan feels the compulsion to fight so strongly that he can barely think of anything else. He holds tightly to the reins of his mount as hundreds of beasts surge forward and down into the valley. A primal song rises from the creatures in answer to the horn of war.

The generals give the call to charge. Winter and Summer answer.

As one, the warriors pour into The Season's Divide, kicking up a dust cloud visible from the peaks of The Cyclops-Tooth Mountains. One moment he is clinging to his wolf's neck as branches snatch greedily for his locs and his armor, then he is through the trees and into the lowlands. Around boulders, fallen pines, and the carcasses of long-dead monstrosities, he barrels towards the swiftly approaching Summer banners. Finally, swords meet shields and axes meet flesh on the banks of a shallow river. Here, the compulsion to fight becomes feverish and there is no need to hold back.

Blood soaks into this sacred battleground as it has since the beginning of the age. A circle. Unbroken.

The beastmen barbarians lope into the front lines of the Summer Vanguard with feral reckless abandon. They don't look like soldiers but wild beasts of fur and claw. The centaurs are caught off-guard by their ferocity and take a moment to regroup. Through that window, the Timberwolves pierce the Summer defenses and are suddenly in the heart of their formations. They cut their way through a unit of orcish bowmen and suddenly find themselves in a clearing.

Behind them, the Summer frontlines smash against the Winter. Ahead of them, Summer's reserves rush to engage. Jordan scans the various units and banners for the one held highest, shrouded in gold and white.

He howls and raises his bloody sword. "Today, we claim checkmate!"

He spurs his mount and the six-legged wolf lopes into an advancing force led by an armored centaur. The warrior's lance pierces the wolf's shoulder and the impact throws Jordan from the saddle. He sails through the air and is caught by Thuy of Chains. She transfers him to her back and tramples over two elven swordsmen, her claws rake through armor with the strength of steel.

"Down," she bellows in serpentkin, and The Timberwolves drop to the ground.

She raises her blindfold and stone-death sweeps over those enemies too slow to scramble out of the way. The few who survive retreat, nursing limbs turned gray and heavy. Kjord and the unit foot soldiers take the lead and are immediately engaged three to one. It's the kind of odds the orc lordling loves. Absinthe attacks their flank with a conch-like insect carapace. She blows into it and the dust that erupts out the other end sets unprotected skin ablaze. A littlefolk mage summons a gale and sends the incendiary dust back upon The Timberwolves. Thuy weaves through this fight and comes upon a hill where a figure in resplendent gold waits alone.

"The Queen," she whispers.

"The Queen," Jordan repeats.

She's taller than he remembers and wears her mother's armor. Her nimbus of light makes it painful to look directly at her, but he can't look away. Jordan taps Thuy on the shoulder and she slithers forward. She swerves as a griffin crashes to the ground, a ravenblood's head in its talons and a pike through its heart. Shakia shifts her grip on her sword, but focuses on the battle in the heart of the valley. His heart thunders with excitement and anticipation.

They reach the crest of the hill and a golden sloth plows into Thuy like an avalanche. Jordan leaps from her back, tumbles into a run, and arrows straight for The Queen of Summer. Yeshin beats him to her, a curved blade in each hand. She meets his blades with her own and all of his talent amounts to nothing. Their clanging tornado ends in a blur, Yeshin's weapons fly one way and his bleeding body falls the other. The Queen tosses her helmet as she turns to meet Jordan and their eyes lock.

She's in his head so fast it doesn't seem like conscious effort. In the back of his mind, she is a storm of emotions: surprise, elation, suspicion, anger.

They circle one another, sizing up their opponent like Sir Oberon taught them.

"Jordan," her voice is cold in his head. "Why now? Why here?"

Her brusqueness unbalances him.

Her eyes flick to his bastard sword. "They sent you to challenge me?" Her laughter is bitter, the ice in his mind is almost painful. "The way I'm feeling right now, they're going to wish they'd tried harder."

"Shakia– Queen Shakia, you look– it's been– I've missed you."

It is her turn to be unbalanced. Her stance falters for a moment, her blades dipping.

"You miss me? You've refused every attempt I've made to contact you, ignored every missive I've sent... you..."

She races through his head like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes grow hard then bulge in surprise.

"They lied!"

Those beautiful round eyes glisten with unshed tears, then narrow. Her presence in his head becomes a searing thing, threatening to boil his mind. Jordan pushes her out, surprised that he can even as he realizes he's never tried. He shakes his head to clear away the pain.

"They lied to me. They said that you received my letters and sent them back unopened. The postage appeared authentic, and, like a fool, I believed them..." They continue to circle one another, but she no longer talks in his head, her anger making her speak loud and clear. "Did they even extend my proposal to The Lords of Winter? Did they ever send it to you?"

In the valley the armies clash in bloody combat, most of their formations replaced by an all out melee.

"What proposal?" Jordan asks, sensing the answer despite his ignorance.

Anger, always beneath the surface, boiling within him. In his heart, he'd always felt there were external forces keeping them apart. But to know it in truth was like feeding fuel to embers he struggled to control.

"I proposed, you fool." This time, when she laughs it is a sound of mirth. "The Summer Council demanded that I marry and beget an heir, and I told them the only man I would marry is a foolish Winter Knight who wouldn't even open my letters."

"I didn't get your letters... I didn't– You told The Council you would only marry me?"

"You've spoiled me for anyone else, Sir Jordan Mdu Scoiden. I gave you my heart long ago."

The surge of joy that flashes through him leaves Jordan's legs weak. He stumbles as his world is jarred from its moorings. His heart feels as if it might explode, and words fail him for a moment.

"You've always had mine," he finally manages.

Yeshin groans as he eases to a seated position. "The Council won't let you be together, your majesty. I don't think The Lords of Winter will like it either."

The pair stare at him as if they'd forgotten he was there. He tries to shrug, but it worsens his wounds.

"I am Queen," she says with regal authority. "They can't stop me."

The ratkin nods and lays back in the grass. Jordan grins despite himself. Years since the last time they were together and just being around still makes him smile.

"First things first," he says, assuming an offensive stance.

She beams, radiating light like a second sun. Strangely, it doesn't blind or dazzle him any longer.

"Yes. First I win this war. Then I claim my prize."

She gives him a suggestive wink that makes his cheeks darken, and then she's on him. Her sword and dagger flash for his old blindspots, the places he'd always struggled to protect, but Jordan has had years to improve. They both laugh as he easily deflects her attacks. She anticipates his ripostes as easily as he does. Their years of training together have made them masters of their craft and their steps complement one another. Their fight becomes a graceful dance, mirroring the deadly elven blade artists who originated the form. They are Summer and Winter personified.

"Cutting Shower!"

"Winding Fissure!"

Blades of blade art bombard the ground as a scythe formed of motion and aggression carved a zigzagging swath between them. Jordan dodged the falling projectiles, deflecting Shakia's assault even as she vaulted the widening crack in the earth.

Breathing.

Swords clash, ringing across their private field of battle. It's music to their ears. The rest of The Season' Divide fades, the world fades. All that exists is The Queen of Summer and her Winter consort, the future father of her children. She knows this with her special gifts, bestowed by the Summer Crown. He knows this because their hearts are one. Slash, cut, slice, hack.

Breathing.

"Pillar Prison!" she shouts, calling up columns of blade art to trap him within range of her sword.

Jordan tackles her into one of the pillars of white light, knocking the breath from her lungs and canceling her technique. They stumble as the column suddenly fades. Off balance, he falls as she kicks his feet out from under him. Tumbling to his feet, he strikes.

"Rolling Waters!"

She takes a deep breath, catches his attack on the edge of her blade and perfectly mimics his motion. In an instant of recognition, he scrambles away.

"Greater Counter!"

The attack rebounds back, faster and more powerful than any technique he's ever managed. The edge of the blade art cuts across the links of his chainmail, sending steel rings flying in a tearing cascade that ruins the armor. Most of what's left of his armor falls away.

"Sir Oberon taught me that one not long after they gave me the crown," she said, reading the shock on his face.

Bleeding from a multitude of small wounds, he begins to circle his opponent. Glancing down into the valley, he sees that Winter is slowly being overwhelmed. Beastmen and his Timberwolves keep reinforcements from rallying to The Queen, but the strategy will only hold for so long. Winter's only chance is to make Shakia yield. Even as he accepts this, he must accept a simple truth: he's outmatched. The key to a counter is knowing the breath and motions of an opponent's attack as well as they do. They were taught the same moves and drilled on them repeatedly until they were second nature. Greater Counter renders his techniques useless.

"Don't yield," she says, again proving how well she knows him. "I will make The Council see that you are worthy of me, but first you will show them that you are my equal. Come at me with all you've got."

The set of her jaw says she's serious, her stance says deadly so. Those Council members watching would know if she fought with anything less than her best. Jordan must do the same.

He changes grip and stance, and The Queen's eyebrows raise. She spares a glance at the ratkin on the ground. Jordan nods.

Ratkin blade arts aren't as flashy or precise as elven techniques, as they were created by a short-lived people. They would never be taught by a proud elven master. This makes them alien to the young queen.

Jordan rushes in and they join swords for the final time. She is still faster, he is still stronger, but their dance shifts. She loses seconds, misreading his attacks and makes up for them immediately. They punish one another yet steely grins shape their lips.

Breathing.

He waits until she picks up his rhythm, soaking up more damage as he waits for his moment.

"Needle Storm. Storm Tail. Tail Arch."

Three attacks in rapid succession, controlled by one great breath. Blade art crashes into her, denting her armor and cutting a gash down her shoulder. She backpedals, he follows on her heels. Swinging for her gut, he realizes she's goaded him. He sees her breathe in, he feels the art forming, but he's too close to retreat.

"Behind!" Yeshin warns.

Jordan reacts on instinct, striking in an arch even as he twists away from Shakia's coming attack.

Against all logic, she rushes forward, and it all goes incredibly wrong incredibly fast.

His blade cuts a line across the artery along her throat, her sword exploding through an elf only just becoming visible. Jordan drops his sword as she lashes out, her dagger carving his face from brow to chin. Light expels from her in a rush, throwing him and the elf in different directions. He loses sight in one eye as he hits the ground and rolls, half-blind and smoking.

The burning of his face means nothing as he scrambles to his feet and runs to her. There's blood. There's pain. There's tears. He calls on Mona Lyssah's lessons, but it doesn't stop the red flow.

Breathing. She isn't breathing.

Lord Hardgrave kneels beside them, taking a wrist between his fingers to check for a pulse. Whatever he says, Jordan is too lost to understand. The war continues, but for Jordan it is all over.

Hardgrave's words finally penetrate.

"What have you done, my boy? What have we done?" Hardgrave closes her sightless eyes. "With no heir, where will The Light go? You haven't just killed a queen, you've killed Summer."

The World Horn blows, the ground shakes, and two members of The Summer Council explode in geysers of solar flame as The Light desperately tries to find a new host within them. Two more renounce their connection to the source rather than risk the same. Summer dies all around them. Winter has won.

Jordan retreats into himself even as his feet take him from the proving grounds of The Season's Divide. He doesn't make a conscious effort to run, but he does, and doesn't stop for a day and a night. He tries to escape what he's done, but he can't. He's the Sunkiller.