The whiteout hit like a wall of broken glass, screaming out of the darkness and tearing the breath straight from their lungs. Blinded by the swirling gale, sixty-two children drifted across the expanse on hands and knees, feeling their way along a river floor that was smooth, black, and agonizingly cold.
Sixty-two children—some old enough to hold smaller hands, others old enough to walk—dragged themselves across the expanse of the frozen river. No one spoke. The only sound was the synchronized scrape-scrape of snow-caked wool and frozen leather against the glaze, a ragged procession of small shadows moving under a winter sun that bled pale light through the mist. Warm breath blossomed into fast, desperate clouds of white before dissolving into the bitter air.
Then, the river groaned.
It began as a deep, subterranean thrum beneath the ice, vibrating directly through their bellies and palms. A split second later, a sharp, metallic crack severed the silence—a fracture splintering fast across the dark surface, tearing open like a lightning strike beneath their feet. Dark water bubbled up through the fresh vein, black and venomous.
"Up!" the lead older boy's voice broke as he turned to look at the younger children crawling behind him. "Get up! Everyone on your feet!"
The silent crawl dissolved instantly into chaos. Panic surged through the line as children scrambled to their feet, slipping, clutching at one another, and finding their traction on the slick mirror. More fractures erupted—a spiderweb of blinding white lineation racing past their boots, snapping with the force of gunshot fire. Huge slabs of ice tipped and groaned beneath the sudden weight of desperate, pounding steps.
They stopped crawling and ran. Small boots slammed into the frost, kicking up spray and chipped ice as the black depths opened up behind them, swallowing the path they had just carved on hands and knees.
A sharp, sickening snap exploded directly under the lead group.
A five-year-old boy slipped into a newly widened fissure, his small gasp cut short as he plunged up to his chest into the roaring, pitch-black current beneath.
Before the boy could vanish beneath the ice sheet, Nou lurched forward, dropping to her stomach and reaching deep into the frigid abyss. She seized the back of his soaked coat, her muscles straining as she hauled him upward against the heavy drag of the current. With a final, agonizing surge, she pitched the boy forward onto the solid surface, sending him skidding safely toward the fleeing children.
But the sudden shift of her weight was too much.
The ice plate beneath Nou shattered with a sound like breaking glass. The floor gave way, and she dropped half her body into the freezing river. The shock of the sub-zero water struck her chest like a physical blow, knocking the air cleanly out of her lungs as the river's merciless current dragged violently at her legs, trying to pull her under the dark ledge.
Reflex took over. As her upper body slid toward the edge, Nou slammed her hands into the raw, pitted surface of the frozen crust. Driven by pure survival, her fingers clawed into the frost, her fingernails biting deep into small ridges of ice. Blood welled around her split cuticles, instantly freezing against the white mirror, anchoring her against the crushing tide that pulled beneath her feet.
She looked up at the five-year-old boy who stood frozen in shock, staring at her.
"RUN!" Nou yelled at the boy. "RUN!"
Seeing the ice crack like a giant spiderweb spreading in every direction, the five-year-old turned and ran toward the others.
With his chest heaving wildly and the harsh clanking of his ankle shackles echoing against the frozen river, Yongyee ran as a father first and a soldier second.
The world around him dissolved. He forgot about the Magoli archers poised on the high watchtowers, forgot about the cruel countdown Möndör had shouted through the blizzard, and forgot the mountain of bodies scattered across the bloody ice. All he knew, with every agonizing breath burning in his chest, was that he had to reach his daughter.
For a terrifying second, doubt clawed at his heart. Had he misheard? Was it merely a mirage born of frost and sheer desperation, a cruel trick played by a mind that missed his children too fiercely?
Then, the muffled sounds grew sharper. The weeping and whimpering of small, terrified children rose above the howling gale, cutting through his despair like a beacon. He was heading in the right direction.
Without warning, a small, dark shadow bolted straight out of the dense white fog and slammed into his chest. The momentum knocked the runner backward, tumbling into a wave of huddling, shuddering children behind them.
Yongyee skidded to a halt, his heavy iron-tipped pine staff held low as his eyes adjusted to the whiteout.
Dozens of small, shivering faces stared up at him in absolute terror, their hands raw from the frost and their thin burlap rags flapping in the winter gale.
Before Yongyee could speak, the teenage boy leading the orphans scrambled to his feet. Spreading his arms wide, he stepped directly between Yongyee and the little ones, who shrank back into a tight, weeping circle. Seeing their leader stand his ground, the other older children immediately closed ranks beside him, their tiny, frostbitten fists raised to face the looming silhouette in the mist.
"Don't hurt them!" the teenage boy shouted, his voice cracking with fear and fierce defiance. "Don't you dare touch them!"
"Children... what are you doing out here in the middle of winter?" Yongyee asked, his voice trembling with disbelief as he lowered his iron staff into the snow.
At the sound of his voice, little Mong—hidden behind a taller girl—peeked out. The gaunt, frost-covered man standing before them looked nothing like the proud commander he remembered, but that voice... that voice belonged to his father.
To be certain, the boy took a hesitant, trembling step forward.
"Ba-ba...?" Mong's tiny voice piped into the freezing wind.
Yongyee's heart nearly stopped. The world around him vanished. He lunged forward, dropping to his knees and gathering Mong into a fierce, desperate embrace.
"Oh, my boy..." Yongyee wept, hot tears spilling over his frostbitten cheeks as he buried his face in his son's hair. He pressed a long, lingering kiss against Mong's temple, holding the frail body as if he might disappear again. "Where is your sister?" Yongyee asked frantically, lifting his head to scan the frightened, unfamiliar faces around them. "I heard her voice... I know I heard her!"
"I heard her too," Mong sobbed, burying his face into Yongyee's coat. A torrent of tears finally broke free now that he felt the warmth of his father's arms—knowing at last that he was safe, and that no one would ever dare hurt or eat him again.
"She's over there," the boy cried softly, pointing a small, shivering hand into the dense whiteout.
Yongyee turned his head toward the direction Mong pointed, and his breath hitched.
A sharp, ominous groan echoed beneath them. Webbing fractures were shooting across the riverbed straight toward their position. He suddenly realized the grave peril they were in: they were standing on the absolute center of the Nuazas River—the deepest section, and the very last part of the water to freeze solid.
An agonizing dilemma gripped Yongyee's heart, tearing him apart from the inside.
Every path before him was a trap. If he fled right now with the children toward the free territory of Zouis City, the hundred loyal men standing on the ice—and the thousand Paayasian captives left behind on the bank—would face immediate execution under Möndör's archers. But if he brought these sixty-one children back with him to Ngabo, they would become prisoners of war, subjected to slave labor and slow starvation as the brutal winter set in.
Deciding in an instant, Yongyee reached out and gripped the arm of the brave teenage boy leading the orphans.
"Take these children and keep walking in that direction," Yongyee instructed, his tone firm yet gentle. "Within five minutes, you will reach the far bank and encounter people. If they raise their weapons at your throats, do not be afraid." A soft, reassuring smile broke through his haggard face. "They won't harm you. It's only for show."
"Ba-ba... what about you?" Mong pleaded, terror flashing in his eyes as he clutched Yongyee's coat, terrified of being separated again.
"I am going to get your sister, and then we will meet you on the bank," Yongyee promised, smiling down at him with an unshakeable warmth. "Now go with them. Wait for my return."
With a heavy, breaking heart, Yongyee forced himself to gently pry Mong's small fingers from his coat. He nodded sharply to the teenage leader, signaling him to move the group along.
Yongyee stood up and watched the children shuffle away into the mist, his eyes tracking their retreat.
"Don't disappoint me, Hmagol Eastern General..." Yongyee muttered under his breath, praying Chinua's legendary mercy would hold true.
Turning his back on safety, he stepped slowly and deliberately onto the cracking ice, wading deeper into the whiteout toward the spot where his daughter was still fighting for her life.
Meaning while, standing with his heart pounding against his ribs, Möndör realized that the count of one hundred had long passed, yet Yongyee and his men had not returned.
Slowly, the roaring winter wind began to die down. The dense whiteout thinned, allowing Möndör and his Magoli archers to peer further out onto the vast, frozen expanse of the Nuazas River. Shadows began to emerge, moving slowly through the lingering mist toward the bank.
Annoyed, and determined to ensure his authority was never taken as a joke, Möndör turned to his men with a cold, ruthless glare.
"Shoot them down as they approach," he ordered, his voice laced with venom. "Make sure everyone here learns to take my word seriously."
"Yes, Captain!" the archers shouted in unison, drawing their bowstrings taut. Every arrowhead glinted in the pale light, locked onto the approaching silhouettes to prove their young commander's point.
As the wave of shadows drew closer and broke through the final curtain of white, the archer standing beside Möndör froze. His face drained of all color, and his hand trembled on his bowstring.
"Möndör..." the archer stammered, his eyes wide with shock. "They're... children."
Möndör stared at the dozens of tiny, shivering figures in ragged burlap, their frostbitten hands clinging to one another as they shuffled forward.
"Hold your fire," Möndör whispered, his hand rising to halt his men.
Approaching slowly behind the sixty-one orphans were the hundred Paayasian soldiers Yongyee had taken into the storm. They marched in silent formation, shielding the little ones from the wind.
"Where is your captain?" Möndör's deep, booming voice echoed across the ice, making several of the younger Magoli archers swallow hard.
One of the veteran Paayasian soldiers stepped forward, holding his head high despite his shackles. "Captain Yongyee went back into the storm to save his daughter."
The corner of Möndör's lip curled up into a cold, mocking sneer.
"Ten of you, come with me," Möndör commanded, yanking his heavy spear free from the frozen ice with a sharp crack. He turned his towering frame toward the mist, ten of his elite warriors falling into lockstep behind him. As he stepped onto the open river, he cast one final, deadly look back over his shoulder at the watchtowers. "If anyone else tries to flee... kill them all."