The snow grew thin as they walked.
White sea giving way, bit by bit, to patches of dark earth and brittle grass. Trees rose more frequently now—lean pines and skeletal birches, their branches scratching faint lines into the gray sky. They were leaving the deep barbarian wilds behind and inching closer to the fractured edge of noble territory.
Vanhart land still lay ahead.
But its shadow was already touching the air.
Kel walked in front, his dark coat fluttering behind him in low, tired arcs. The wind played in his hair, pushing stray strands across his eyes. He didn't push them away. His gaze was steady, his steps precise, the bow at his back resting diagonally over his shoulder like a quiet promise.
Reina moved at his left, boots silent even on half-frozen foliage, spear balanced easily in her hand. The fur of her cloak brushed the haft each time her fingers tightened—habit, not anxiety. Her eyes scanned their surroundings, taking note of movement between tree-lines, the crunch of snow that wasn't theirs.
Landon took the rear, sword strapped at his side. His shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of his cloak, not from fatigue, but because he'd gotten used to winter pressing weight onto his back. Each footfall sank deeper than Kel's or Reina's, his mass reminding the ground what a walking mountain felt like.
Sera walked between Kel and Landon, cloak of barbarian make thrown over the noble cut of her clothes. The mix of styles made her look like a piece of two different worlds stitched together. The fur collar framed her pale face; silken cuffs peeked out from beneath rough leather.
Her eyes were on the road leading north-east.
Home.
If the word still belonged to her.
The forest's quiet broke with a low, echoing roar.
Every muscle in the group tensed in the same breath.
The sound rolled through the bare trunks, rattling snow from branches. Birds that had stubbornly lingered took flight in a panicked rush, dark shapes against pale light.
Reina's spear lowered, point dipping toward the sound.
Landon's hand went to his sword.
Kel's head turned.
"Left," he said.
The thing came crashing through the underbrush before the word had finished leaving his lips.
It was massive—somewhere between a bear and a boar, covered in uneven slabs of black fur and bony plates under the skin. Frost clung to its back like shards of broken glass. Its tusks were crooked, one jagged and splintered, the other slick with old blood and frozen saliva. Its eyes, sunken and pale, gleamed with the feral hunger of something that had run out of easier prey.
A Frostmaw Devourer.
Kel's fingers slid to his bow.
"Formation," he said quietly.
The others moved as if they'd been waiting for the word.
Reina darted forward along the beast's right flank, her cloak snapping briefly in the air. Landon stepped half a pace ahead of Sera, becoming a lean wall between her and the charging monster. Sera's eyes narrowed, breath misting in short, controlled bursts.
The creature thundered toward them, earth shaking beneath its weight.
Kel drew.
Arrow nocked.
The string pulled back in one smooth, unstraining motion.
He aimed not at eyes.
Not at the throat.
At the joint just above the beast's leading foreleg—where bone, tendon and momentum became a vulnerability.
He loosed.
The arrow cut the air with a clean hiss, embedding itself deep into the flesh of the limb. The Devourer roared and stumbled, its charge breaking unevenly as its front paw failed to fully support its bulk.
"Now," Kel said.
Reina did not hesitate.
She darted in, spear tip gleaming dully in the gray light. Her step was clean, measured, the twist of her waist fluid as she drove the weapon in under the creature's armpit, where even thick hide gave way to something softer.
Her shoulders flexed. The spear sank deep.
Blood—dark and sluggish—spilled onto snow.
The beast snapped blindly in her direction, tusks gouging earth where she had just been.
Reina vanished sideways, cloak swirling, boots hardly leaving sound.
Landon moved the moment the Devourer lowered its head.
A slow, heavy step forward.
Both hands on the sword.
He brought it down in a brutal arc onto the creature's other foreleg. Steel met bone with a sound like cracking ice. The leg buckled. The beast crashed to one knee, a bellow tearing free from its throat.
Sera stepped around Landon's shoulder, her expression turning cold and distant.
Not the raw, self-consuming cold of her curse.
The focused chill of someone who still remembered how power had once eaten her life.
She placed both palms lightly together, breath tightening, not to summon killing frost, but to condition her body—a habit she hadn't fully unlearned yet.
Kel watched.
The Devourer tried to rise—
Kel's second arrow slammed into the side of its skull, just behind the ear. A third followed, punching into the beast's throat. It stumbled. Its roar turned into a choked gargle.
Reina darted back in, delivering a clean, merciful thrust to the heart.
Silence fell as quickly as the snow did.
Steam rose from the corpse.
Their breaths clouded the air.
Kel lowered his bow.
Reina straightened, wiping the spear's head in the snow with calm, repetitive motions.
Landon stepped back, letting his blade angle toward the ground, blood dripping off the tip in thick drops before quickly freezing.
Sera stood very still, eyes on the cooling body.
"Less effort than last time," Landon observed quietly.
Kel exhaled in a faint huff.
"Less handicap," he replied, voice dry.
Reina glanced at him, a fleeting look.
He didn't look winded.
He didn't look strained.
His hair moved as a breeze slipped between them, eyes calm, posture relaxed in a way that still felt new.
They didn't linger.
They had no reason to.
Beasts here were common.
The real battle waited further north.
By the time the sky dimmed fully, the wind had changed.
The cold remained, but there was less… emptiness in it. The snow was shallower. The land softened subtly—flatter, less jagged. In the distance, faint, uneven dots of warm light broke through the gray veil.
An inn.
A lonely structure along a seldom-used road—two stories, its roof heavy with snow, smoke rising from a crooked chimney. A wooden sign out front creaked on rusted chains, its faded paint depicting a stag with a missing antler.
Kel halted.
"We'll stop," he said.
No one objected.
They approached, boots thudding against packed earth now instead of ice. The warm glow spilling from the inn's small windows washed over them as they stepped inside—replacing the bitter chill with the smells of smoke, old ale, cheap stew, and people trying to forget their lives for a few hours.
The interior was crowded but not full.
Hunters.
Small-time merchants.
A few mercenaries with mismatched armor.
An old bard sleeping near the hearth with his instrument unstrung beside him.
Heads turned briefly as the group entered—gauging threat, wealth, usefulness.
Kel's gaze did a sweep of the room without looking like it did. He caught the layout—table placements, exits, stairwell, blind corners.
He approached the counter.
The innkeeper, a man with a heavy jaw and thinning hair, peered at them over the rim of a chipped mug.
"Rooms?" he asked.
"Two," Kel replied. "Two beds each."
The innkeeper squinted.
"Names?"
Kel didn't pause.
"Heral," he said.
He gestured lightly with a tilt of his head.
Reina followed the cue. "Rina."
Landon: "Dane."
Sera hesitated a fraction of a second.
"Seren," she said at last.
Kel heard the ghost of her real name beneath the slight change.
The innkeeper hummed, uninterested in their truths.
He slid two rough-hewn keys across the counter.
"Second floor. End of the hall," he grunted.
Kel nodded.
He turned, moving toward an empty table in the corner where the lamplight didn't quite reach. Reina set her spear near the wall and sat with her back to it, angled to oversee both stairs and door. Landon chose the chair nearest the exit. Sera sat beside Kel, hands folded loosely in her lap, cloak adjusted so it hid the finer details of her clothing.
A serving girl approached—a young woman with tired eyes and reddened fingers.
"Dinner?" she asked.
"Four," Kel answered. "Anything hot. And tea, if you have it."
She nodded and left.
The murmur of the room flowed around them.
Kel leaned back against his chair, posture relaxed but gaze sharper than his body language suggested. The lantern above them flickered, casting shadows over his features—making his eyes seem deeper, darker, older.
He waited until the serving girl had left earshot.
Then he spoke.
His voice was calm. Unhurried.
"Now then," he said, turning slightly toward Sera. "If you don't mind… can you tell us your 'long story'?"
Reina's eyes flicked from Kel to Sera, curiosity clear beneath her composed face.
Landon's focus settled fully onto the former barbarian chief, his usual stoic stillness now edged with quiet attentiveness.
The corner of Sera's mouth pulled faintly.
"...You didn't forget that," she said.
Kel's lips curved in the ghost of an answering smile.
"I try not to forget important things."
Her fingers tightened slightly over each other.
She inhaled.
The noise of the inn faded a little in her ears.
"My story isn't special," she began.
Kel's head tilted, just a fraction.
Sera's gaze dropped to the worn wood of the table—a scarred, scratched surface that had seen too many careless strikes and too few gentle hands.
"I am the only daughter of Count Vanhart," she said. "He rules the northeast under Duke Rosenfeld."
Her voice carried the faintest echo of formal speech—the kind nobles used at banquets and formal courts. But it was frayed at the edges, worn by years of shouting in snow.
"It started with a friendly match," she continued, eyes unfocused.
Kel said nothing.
Neither did the others.
"Father's old friend," Sera said, "a viscount whose lands border ours to the east, came to visit. He brought his daughter. She was about my age—nine years old. We played in the gardens. It was… peaceful."
Her throat tightened.
"Then the idea was born," she said. "Two friends, two heirs. What better way to celebrate than a friendly match? A small duel. Wooden weapons. Laughter, applause. Nothing serious."
She let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
"My uncle," she went on—voice cooling, "Father's older brother—heard of it. He requested permission to oversee my training until the match."
Kel's eyes narrowed slightly.
Reina's jaw clenched.
Landon's fingers tapped once against the table edge, then stilled.
"Father agreed," Sera whispered. "Because my uncle was… good at combat. A veteran. A man who had carved criminals and foreign raiders into examples."
She raised a hand slightly, as if seeing her younger self in its outline.
"Training was harsh," she said. "But I was proud to endure it. Every time I completed a drill, my uncle gave me a potion. Small vials. Bitter. He said they would improve my recovery, strengthen my body. Make me shine in front of the guests."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"I believed him."
The serving girl came, placed bowls of steaming stew and cups of lukewarm tea on the table. The scent of herbs and meat briefly intruded on the moment. No one touched the food.
Sera continued, voice quieter now.
"The day of the match came. The arena was filled—Father, his friend, nobles, retainers..." Her fingers curled against the table. "At first, everything felt light. My opponent smiled nervously. I smiled back. Then the signal sounded."
She swallowed.
"It changed. My body heated. My muscles tightened, then stretched. I felt… strong. Too strong. My skin burned like there was a fire inside my veins. My grip on the training sword felt wrong. Not like a toy. Like a weapon."
Her eyes were far away now, reflecting fire that wasn't in the inn.
"She advanced, like we practiced," Sera said. "I was supposed to parry, retreat, let the duel look even." Her hand trembled. "Instead, I moved too fast. Too hard."
Her next words came out slowly. Measured. Each word like stepping on broken glass she knew was there.
"I shattered both her legs."
The table seemed to tilt beneath Reina's fingers.
Landon's eyes darkened.
Kel watched Sera's face, his expression unreadable.
"They cracked," Sera whispered. "I still remember the sound. Like green branches breaking. She screamed. She fell. The crowd went silent. Then— panic."
Her lips curled in bitter memory.
"Her father shouted. Guards rushed toward me. I tried to say something. To apologize. To explain. But my body…" She shook her head. "It moved on its own. Their arms. Their swords. Their faces. All felt like threats."
Her hand lifted, hovering mid-air, then slowly clenched.
"I broke their legs. Their arms. I don't even remember how many. I just remember the fear. Their fear. And mine."
Her gaze lowered.
"Then I ran."
The memory painted itself over her features—nine-year-old Sera, feet bare, hair loose, sprinting through corridors, down stone steps, past servants who flinched away from her.
"I ran out of the estate," she said. "Beyond the fields. Across the snow. I didn't know where I was going. Only that staying meant being caged. Or killed. Or used."
Her nostrils flared with a quiet, old anger.
"I crossed into barbarian lands by accident," she murmured. "They found me. At first, they thought I was a lost noble child. But when I showed them my… strength, they saw something else."
Reina looked at her more intently.
"They made me their chief at ten," Sera said flatly. "Because I was the strongest. That's all they needed."
She fell silent for a moment.
"The shaman of their tribe examined me," she continued. "He told me I carried a curse. A twisted enchantment—something that amplified my power but fed on my life force. Each time I pushed, it ate away years I hadn't lived yet."
Her hands tightened until her knuckles turned white.
"I realized then," she whispered, "my uncle did not give me 'recovery potions.' He fed me poison dressed as strength."
Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together for a breath.
"I have hated him ever since," she finished. "Quietly. Constantly."
She let out a breath.
"There is nothing much more," she added quietly. "That is all."
Silence.
For a few heartbeats, the inn's noise washed back in—laughter from another table, a mug slamming, a chair scraping across rough floorboards.
Kel studied her profile.
Her face was calm.
Too calm.
Eyes hollowed by old anger carefully caged.
Reina's brows drew together, a subtle crease forming.
Landon's fingers slowly uncurled.
Kel lifted his cup of tea.
He didn't drink.
He only used the motion to break the stillness.
"Nothing much, you say," he murmured, "for a girl turned into a weapon at nine and a chieftain at ten."
His voice was low, steady.
Sera said nothing.
Kel's gaze met hers.
"You ran," he said. "You survived. You became chief. You endured a curse. And you came to the lake not to beg for an ending, but to steal more life for yourself."
A faint glimmer of something almost like approval flickered in his eyes.
"You call that 'nothing much'?"
Sera's lips parted.
She looked away.
Snow scratched softly against the window pane.
Reina finally reached for her stew, hands steady.
Landon lifted his own cup, steam curling around his scarred knuckles.
Kel leaned back in his chair.
"Rest tonight," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, we walk into Vanhart territory."
His eyes lingered on Sera's for a moment longer.
"After that," he added, "you can decide what you want to do with the man who forged you wrong."
Sera's fingers tightened on the edge of the table.
The firelight caught in her eyes, reflecting something sharp.
Not just anger.
Resolve.
She nodded once.
The stew cooled between them.
Their breaths mingled with the faint haze of heat.
Outside, the world moved toward night.
Inside, beneath the dull glow of the inn's lamps, four people sat at a corner table—none eating yet, all aware that tomorrow, the past would stop being a story Sera told at someone else's table…
and become a battlefield she chose to walk into.