The Captain's Steed

The first time I guided the first Glacier Steed out of the workshop, the district had already shaken off its sleep. Doors cracked open, morning chatter drifted across the cobblestones, and the air carried that thin chill that always lingered before the sun truly claimed the street.

I had kept my project hidden until completion, but now concealment served no purpose. It was better they grew familiar with the sight early; better they learned that this beast was not a threat. After all, it was only the first of several I planned to release into the district.

When it stepped into daylight, its body caught the pale sun until its flanks looked like carved glass. Children paused mid-run. Civilians stared; some backed away, and one looked ready to scream, thinking a monster had breached the district.

But then they saw me, and I noticed realization dawn in their eyes. They knew of my affinity with ice, but seeing it given life must have been strange, especially in a form that appeared so bestial to them.

The horse understood none of the tension. It stepped through the doorway with slow, uncertain care. Its ice hooves met the cobblestone, producing a clear ringing note. Its head shot up at the sound, ears pricking and nostrils flaring like tiny vents of steam.

"Easy," I murmured, and the horse slowly calmed.

The bridle I'd crafted was simple: beast leather with two thin reins running from the mask it wore. The saddle bore a few runic inscriptions to help keep the rider seated, but otherwise, it was plain, making it easy for any artisan to replicate.

I guided it with light pressure from my knees and a slight shift of the reins, as described in the ancient texts. The creature overreacted to every cue, as if the world might break if it misstepped. When a stray cat darted across the road, the horse flinched sideways with more power than grace, nearly slamming us into a wall.

"Easy," I repeated, the same word, one that it already recognized well.

We moved up and down the street in slow passes, the horse gradually learning the rhythm of its own stride. People peered from behind shutters and half-open doors, and a few brave souls edged closer, curiosity outweighing caution.

Before long, its gait settled. The abrupt, stuttering steps eased into a steadier rhythm, almost natural. We continued riding until the chainrunners' headquarters.

"See that?" I asked, pointing at the chainrunners' emblem, three straight lines side by side, the same I had etched onto the horse's forehead. "That's what you'll be. Part of the chainrunners."

Its nostrils flared again, head lifting as if studying the emblem, and I wondered how much it already understood. "Ready to meet your new master?" I asked, and the horse exhaled a thin wisp of frost as if in answer.

At the entrance stood four apprentices and one veteran chainrunner. Their badges read Harold, Simon, Martin, and Tom. I recognized Harold and Simon, the two I'd unintentionally terrified with the ice bird. Martin and Tom were newer faces, young and stiff-backed, unsure whether to salute or retreat.

All of them hesitated, shifting their weight. I couldn't tell if their fear was directed at me or at the horse's ice teeth. Gorin, the veteran among them, didn't flinch. His eyes followed the horse with curiosity, though one hand remained on the hilt of his sword.

Since Wulric's death, Gorin had hardened. He'd survived more runs than most chainrunners saw in a lifetime under Captain Gustav's command. This wasn't our first meeting since my return, but it was the first time he'd seen one of my creations. He stepped toward me, brow furrowed. "What—what is this thing?"

"This thing," I said slowly, "is a horse." I kept my tone calm, though the urge to correct his wording more sharply tugged at me.

I dismounted, gathering the reins and leading the horse toward the entrance. With a small motion of my hand, a column of ice manifested from thin air and fused seamlessly to the cobblestone—a smooth, translucent post rooted firmly in place. I looped the reins around it, the frost hissing softly where leather met ice.

"A horse, you say?" he asked. "Like in the stories?"

"Not quite the same, it's my version of it. Anyway, is Gustav home?" I asked.

"Ye—yes, if you mean his office. Captain Gustav is in his office," Gorin replied.

"Good," I replied.

"How does it move like that? Is it like the Guardian?" Gorin asked, reaching out to touch its neck.

The horse flinched at his touch, frost crackling briefly along its neck. "Easy, boy. He's a friend," I murmured, and the creature relaxed. I turned back to Gorin. "Not quite like the Guardian, but close."

"Omen… that's incredible. How did you make something like this, something that moves like it's alive?" Gorin asked, awe and suspicion tangled in his voice.

Gorin clearly thought it was nothing more than a complex construct, something that followed preset commands. I didn't fault him; most people assumed the same of the Guardian, a towering figure of ice that rarely shifted and never revealed the will behind its stillness.

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I gave him no answer and turned toward the entrance, ready to head inside, when Gorin blurted, "Wait—hold on. You're not just leaving it here, are you?"

"Yes. It will take only a moment," I replied.

"No, no—Simon, Martin! Go fetch Gustav. Tell him it's urgent and that Omen is here with… a horse," Gorin said, stumbling over the last word. The apprentices exchanged bewildered looks before sprinting inside.

Moments later, Gustav arrived with Artemis and Cedric in tow. "Where is it? Where is it?" Artemis called, shoving the door open hard enough that it bounced off the wall.

She swept her gaze across the street until it landed on the horse. Her eyes brightened instantly, and she hurried toward it without a trace of caution. "Artemis—wait!" Gustav called, and Cedric hurried after her, hand hovering near his sword.

The horse flinched at her nearness, but the moment her hand gently touched its face, the creature eased, its frost-ridges settling. Cedric and Gorin kept their grips tight on their swords, unconvinced by the sudden calm.

"Don't worry, it won't hurt anyone," I said, then hesitated as the vision of its jagged, glass-like teeth flickered in my mind. "Probably."

Cedric shot me a look that made it clear my choice of wording wasn't reassuring.

Gustav's gaze shifted back and forth between me and the horse. He watched how it leaned into Artemis's hand, how its breath quickened and slowed with her movements. Understanding dawned on him before it reached anyone else, the realization that this creature wasn't a construct. It was alive.

"Omen, tell me you didn't drag a creature out of the fog and into the district," Gustav said, his voice tighter than before.

"No," I said. "It's part of my preparations for the run. I made it myself."

Artemis ignored the conversation entirely, running her fingers along the horse's neck with childlike fascination. Everyone else fixed their attention on me. "So it's an elaborate runic construct?" Gustav asked, though the doubt in his voice betrayed him.

"It bears many runic engravings, but it isn't merely a runic construct. It is part of a living race I created, the Frostkin," I explained. "This one is a Frostkin shaped after the horses described in the ancient texts."

They stared as if I'd spoken in another language. Gustav finally found his voice. "A… race you created?" He blinked, as though repeating the statement would make it easier to accept. "Am I hearing this right?"

"Yes," I said. "They're built for us to ride, to help us reach the lower districts far faster than any chainrunner could manage on foot."

"To ride? On that?" Gustav asked, incredulous. I didn't blame him. Riding had been common once, so common the old tales treated it as mundane, but attempting it now felt almost absurd.

"Yes. This one is yours," I said. "And more will follow. Once you try it, you'll understand what it can do."

The first Glacier Steed was intended for Gustav, not only because he was the captain but because I trusted he could learn to ride it and teach the others. Someone had to set the example.

"You can't be serious, Omen. I have no idea how to do that," Gustav said.

"It's easier than you think," I assured him. It had surprised even me the first time I attempted it. "Riding is simple enough. Fighting from the saddle, that's the difficult part."

"Omen, hold on," Cedric said, stumbling over his words. "You're telling us you can just… make life? Like a God would?" His voice cracked in disbelief.

That was precisely right. But it made me pause; truth was not always the best course, as Guile had taught me well.

Instead, I replied, "No, of course not. I can only make the vessel for a spirit to occupy, a spirit born in battle, captured within the core at a beast's death, then placed within this frost vessel of my design."

The lie slid too easily from my tongue, shaped to fit their understanding of the world.

Gustav seemed to accept this more easily. "So if we had more beast cores, you could make more of these? But we used the last of our reserves rebuilding the cannonball reserves we spent on—well… you."

I briefly considered mentioning that I had dozens of ebony cores collected during a night hunt, but instead chose to push the lie further.

District 98 held nearly four hundred chainrunners, far more than the mere dozens in Lirien's era. And criminals were no longer forced into the ranks; the harshest punishment now was banishment into the fog rather than conscription by fear.

It was a new era in which many actually wanted to become chainrunners, largely due to Lucious's work. The equipment produced in District 97 made the fog far less deadly, and the increased numbers allowed the formation of different regiments—necessary, because too many chainrunners together would attract excessive beasts and slow the run.

Furthermore, only half of them had the full equipment from Lucious; many carried only a runic spear, and the rest standard gear. And few were as capable as Artemis, Gustav, or even Cedric.

The increase in their numbers didn't necessarily translate into greater strength, as they had proven when their defensive line shattered so easily during my arrival.

That reminded me of the Abyss and how Sjakthar didn't grow fierce beasts by nurturing their numbers. His method was different; he let them fight their way to the top. Brutal, but undeniably effective.

So I looked at them and let the lie settle easily. "It's not just the core, but the spirit captured in battle. This one came from a beast you slew years ago, Gustav. Which means this mount is bound to you and you alone. It can carry others, yes, but it will always be bound to you."

He fell silent for a moment, weighing my words. The mount had never been designed to bind itself to any single rider, but living things had a way of choosing where to place their loyalty.

If Gustav trained it, fed it, guided it, and fought alongside it, then the connection would form naturally. No chains, no runes, no physical bindings. Just the quiet, inevitable pull that existed between two living beings who learned to trust each other.

"A… mount. This changes everything, the way we operate, the runs, everything." Gustav said.

The apprentices stared at him with new, almost reverent curiosity.

"Indeed." I continued. "This is how we'll reach the lower districts. The next step for the chainrunners. But to trap a spirit within a core, one has to slay the beast himself. And for that, I devised a trial."

At that, I thought of Kharvad, the trial performed by the orcs from Rogara's homeland.

"A trial?" they all echoed, even the apprentices, who now seemed quite invested in the conversation.

"Yes. A trial. The Grey Hunt," I said at last.

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