The cold wasn't just a season anymore. It was something permanent—an old god no one named, but everyone obeyed. It pressed in from all sides, numbing the skin, creeping through wool and leather, biting down until your joints ached and your breath came short.
Maverick stood at his post, spear in hand, staring out over a world buried in snow.
The torchlight behind him flickered in the wind, casting long, thin shadows over the stone wall. His eyes tracked the treeline beyond the plains—black silhouettes of dead trees, rooted like ancient sentinels watching the kingdom die slowly beneath the frost.
Nothing moved. Not a bird. Not a fox. Not a breath of life in the frozen expanse.
He shifted his weight, the frost beneath his boots cracking softly. The cold had long since settled into his bones, but he didn't shiver anymore. Not outwardly. He had stood enough watches through enough nights that the body had learned to stop complaining.
But still, he hated this shift.
The kingdom called it the "blessing of winter." After the harvest. After the festivals. After the songs. But Maverick knew better. The bounty was only a lie they told to keep fear at bay. It was true the granaries were full. It was true the salted meat hung in the storerooms like trophies. But food didn't stop frostbite. It didn't stop wolves. And it sure as hell didn't stop people from vanishing when the roads turned white and no one dared follow.
He pulled his cloak tighter, the wind howling over the battlements like it wanted inside.
Below, in the courtyard, a stable lantern swung weakly in its hook. No sounds came from the keep. No night patrols marched. Just him, on the wall.
They'd thinned the guard rotations again.
Maverick's hand tightened on the spear. The haft was smooth, worn from use, the tip dusted with ice. He adjusted his grip and let his eyes scan the horizon once more. Nothing. Just the same trees. The same blank, white field stretching out toward the black edge of the world.
He hated this quiet.
He found himself thinking of the forge. Of the clang of metal and the smell of coal. Of the weight of a hammer in his hand instead of a spear. He imagined his father's voice, blunt and clipped, giving instructions without raising them to the level of conversation.
He imagined the heat. The blessed heat. Enough to sweat in, even in this cursed season.
Instead, he was here, freezing his blood into dust on a castle wall no one had attacked in fifty years.
Somewhere in the village, his mother would be awake. Likely boiling herbs or tucking his brothers in beneath heavy quilts. She never truly slept until he came home. She'd deny it if asked, of course. She always did.
And Selene… he thought of her too. Likely at the hearth of Brune's inn, wrapping the day's bread loaves and humming that little melody she thought no one noticed.
He allowed himself the smallest smile.
Then his grip tightened again. He couldn't afford to drift tonight.
"Maverick."
The voice came low, steady. Familiar.
He didn't turn right away.
"I see your ears haven't frozen off," Alric muttered as he stepped up beside him.
The older man stood with a grunt, wrapped in twice as many furs as Maverick. His beard bristled with ice. He smelled of old smoke and stronger drink.
"Evening, sir," Maverick said, still scanning the plains.
Alric squinted into the darkness, then rested a calloused hand on his sword hilt.
"You know," Alric said after a pause, "when I was your age, the wall was always buzzing at night. Sentries talking, practicing stances, gambling. Not this… graveyard silence."
Maverick shrugged. "Not much to gamble when everyone's short on coin."
Alric chuckled. "Your father would've said the same. Gods, I miss him chewing me out for sword drills."
"He still curses your name," Maverick said, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch.
They stood in silence for a while.
Then Alric muttered, "You hear the latest about the roads?"
Maverick shook his head.
"Trade caravan from Varek never arrived. And the merchant lords up in Darrowfield sent word they're shutting two of the western roads entirely. Snow's too thick, they say. But that's not the real reason."
Maverick frowned. "Bandits?"
Alric snorted. "Too organized. Too clean. One wagon burned, three vanished. No tracks. Just gone."
There was a long silence between them.
"Probably a cover-up," Alric said at last, but Maverick could tell he didn't believe his own words.
Alric let out a breath and gave Maverick a light smack on the shoulder.
"Don't stay up here too long. Frost's starting to climb your boots."
"Understood, sir."
The sergeant nodded and shuffled back down the stone stairs, the echo of his boots fading into the dark.
Maverick exhaled through his nose. The wind had picked up again.
He looked down at his boots. Ice had begun to form at the edges of the soles.
He stamped once, twice, trying to break the layer. Then leaned back against the wall, letting his legs rest just slightly. His eyes wandered back to the tree line. Still no movement. Still no sound.
He drew a small, folded note from the inner pocket of his coat. The parchment was soft, the edges worn smooth from repeated handling. A tiny red heart had been drawn in the corner of the page.
It was from Selene, of course.
Not signed, not formal—she hated writing letters—but she always sent them anyway. Short, practical. Unsentimental on the surface, but every word carefully chosen.
He ran a gloved thumb over the familiar handwriting and imagined her voice reading it aloud.
"Don't forget to eat. The stew's in the clay pot. Ren made you something awful from wood again. I miss you. Don't die."
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
He folded it neatly and tucked it back into his coat, letting the weight of it settle over his chest.
A noise behind him: footsteps.
The stairs creaked, and a second guard emerged, younger than Maverick, scarf half-tangled around his face, cheeks red and eyes wide.
"Sorry! Sorry—I overslept, the bell didn't ring, and—"
"You're here," Maverick cut in. "That's what matters."
The younger man looked sheepish, then hurried over to warm his hands at the torch.
Maverick nodded once, then turned to descend.
His shift was over.
The lower ward lay quiet beneath a blanket of snow. Maverick's boots left fresh prints in the packed frost that covered the narrow cobbled paths. The torch-lit street twisted between squat stone houses with steep, snow-laden roofs, their windows glowing faintly from the fires within.
He passed the baker's cottage, the front window fogged with warmth. A few loaves cooled behind the glass on a wooden rack. An old washerwoman's house, shutters tied with frayed rope, her cat nestled on a chair just inside the door. Beyond that, Brune's inn, the biggest building in this part of the ward. A hand-carved sign—worn but cared for—creaked overhead, shaped like a wooden tankard.
The porch had been swept clean. Someone had salted the steps. A faint orange glow pulsed behind the windows, and Maverick caught a glimpse of movement inside—soft shadows passing between firelight and curtain. One of them had long ash-brown hair tied back in a loose ribbon.
Selene.
He slowed, just for a moment, then kept walking. She'd ask questions. Not tonight. Not until he knew how to answer them.
The wind rushed between the buildings, pulling at his cloak.
At the edge of the ward stood the Voss cottage and forge, both built of dark stone, their roofs patched with old slate tiles and layered straw. A wooden fence ringed the property, mostly for the twins' mischief than for any real defense.
The forge sat to the left of the main house—its chimney still puffing a lazy ribbon of smoke into the sky. Its interior was a blacksmith's domain: wide, single-roomed, with an anvil at the center, bellows near the back wall, and iron tools hanging in rows along one side. Dusty shelves held buckets of coal, strips of leather, and broken blades waiting to be reforged. A small clay stove in the corner still glowed faintly, casting heat across the soot-stained floor.
To the right, a narrow door led into the living quarters—a connected cottage that housed the family. Inside, there were two rooms.
A common room, with a hearth, a kitchen nook, and a sturdy old table surrounded by mismatched chairs.
A small back hallway, leading to the three sleeping spaces: one for his parents, one for the twins, and a cramped room at the end that belonged to Maverick. He slept there less often now, but the bed still bore his imprint, the old blanket still tucked the way his mother liked it.
He entered through the forge's side door, shutting out the cold behind him. The heat hit his face like a wave, instantly waking up every nerve dulled by the frost.
Coals still glowed in the forge bed, and the anvil stood clean. His father had likely closed early.
On the corner shelf, under a folded cloth, sat a wooden bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread, still warm.
Maverick sat on the low bench beside the worktable and pulled the bowl toward him. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He just ate—quietly, methodically, the way men do when they're trying not to think.
The stew was thick, spiced just right, with strips of meat that pulled apart in his mouth. His mother's doing. Selene had her cleverness, her sharp eyes and practical hands—but no one cooked like Elira Voss.
He smiled faintly.
Somewhere deeper in the house, muffled by stone and wool, the floor creaked.
His father. Maybe one of the boys turning over in bed. He didn't go check.
Instead, Maverick finished the last bite of bread, wiped his hands on a towel, and leaned back into the heat of the forge.