Kael grabbed Tom's collar, hauling him off the path and shoving him toward the base of a massive, ancient pine.
"The dogs..." Tom's teeth chattered. "They're coming."
Kael drew his dagger and slashed at the bark, exposing the sticky, amber resin beneath. Scraping a handful of sap and crushed needles, he turned on Tom.
"Rub it on," Kael ordered. He smeared the paste over his own neck, armpits, and the crusted layer of the Knight's blood on his chest. The sharp, stinging smell of raw sap filled the air. "Cover the scent. Now!"
Tom obeyed, hands shaking as he clawed at the resin.
"Down."
Kael shoved Tom blind toward the dark gap where the lowest branches swept the snow. They scrambled underneath. The boughs weighed heavy, creating a tight, suffocating hollow against the trunk. Kael dragged the branches down behind them, sealing the gap.
Light exploded in the clearing. Boots crunched on hardpack. Torches flared. The Patrol Leader strode in. Beside him, two mastiffs surged forward, dragging their handlers across the ice. They left the tree line for later, stopping instead at the red stain in the snow.
The dogs snarled. Handlers pulled them back.
The officer walked to the center and lowered his torch. The flame washed over the corpse. "Gods..." a guard whispered. He gagged, turning away.
Janson lay twisted in the slush. Armor held him together, limbs still attached, but the snow around his shoulders was dark, churned, and soaked through. The Leader stepped closer. The light caught the neck.
The gorget was split open and bent inward. The plate had been driven into the flesh beneath, tearing deep.
He crouched, pressing two fingers against the helmet. It shifted.
The head rolled slightly to the side. Loose. Hanging. It was holding only by shreds of skin.
"Not a clean kill, A ruin."
He reached down to check the belt. The leather was slashed, the coin purse gone. He checked the right hip; the loop hung loose. "Empty. Dagger's gone."
Grabbing the corpse's right hand, he lifted it into the torchlight. Bare, pale against the red slush. The ring finger was missing—sawed off. A crude, jagged stump where the bone had been hacked through to get the gold.
"Thieves?" the young guard asked. "Bandits?"
The Leader dropped the hand. It hit the snow with a wet slap. "Bandits take money," he said, looking at the shredded neck and the ruined face. "They don't carve a man into dog meat."
He wiped his gloves on his cloak.
"Check the perimeter."
He pointed his torch at the snow. The clearing was a mess of tracks.
"Three people," the Leader murmured, studying the tracks. His gaze lingered on one uneven trail. "Hop… hop… swing."
"Who moves like that in a fight?"
He looked at the deep axe gouge in the tree, then back at the mutilated corpse.
"A maniac. "
The dogs erupted, barking and straining at their leads.
They lunged, chains snapping taut, humming with the force of their bodies thrown forward. Their barking turned jagged and high.
The scent shifted.
Blood lay thick in the air, heavy and metallic, drifting straight to them. The dogs locked onto it at once, noses lifting, bodies pulling hard toward the pine. They dragged their handlers forward, eyes fixed on the dark tangle of branches where Kael and Tom lay hidden.
"Sir! They've got the scent!" The handler dug in, boots sliding. "Target's close. Very close."
Kael pressed his face into the dirt, watching through the slit in the branches. Thirty paces away. The torches flared, casting long, dancing shadows. The dogs were pointing right at him. Saliva dripped from their jaws.
The Leader stood over the corpse. He looked at the frantic dogs. He made the calculation.
There were at least three of them. One was a maniac, waiting in the dark. He looked at his squad.
The handler? A peasant wrestling a dog. Useless. The young guard? Knees shaking. They would be a drag in a fight.
One man against three? In the dark?
"Pull back!" he roared.
"Sir? The trail is fresh! The dogs are ready!"
He waved the question away. He shoved his torch toward the handler's face. "Secure the body!" the officer barked, backing away, sword raised toward the trees. "We don't leave a Captain. Bag him. Now!"
Two guards rushed forward, unrolling a heavy canvas sheet. They grabbed Janson's arms and legs and lifted. The head rolled loosely, threatening to tear free completely.
"Watch the head!" he snapped. "Keep it attached, you idiots!"
They shoved the mangled corpse into the canvas, bundling it tight to hide the ruin.
"Sir?" The young guard lingered, glancing one last time at the empty clearing. "The servants. Kael and Tom. We came for them."
The commander kept his eyes on the dark woods where the monster waited. "Not important," he spat.
"But the Steward—"
"Shut up." The commander turned on him, eyes hard, pinning him in place.
The guard froze.
"Who's in command here?"
He turned his back on the forest. "Mission complete. Move out! Double time!"
The patrol retreated. They carried their dead weight, running from the shadow of the woods. Torches bobbed and vanished. The ridge went silent.
Kael lay still. He listened until the crunch of boots faded to nothing. Then he pushed the snow off his back and sat up, gasping, the smell of raw sap and fear thick in his throat.
Tom crawled out beside him. "They took him," he wheezed. "They took the body."
Kael stood up, brushing the ice from his knees. He gave no response, simply touching his pocket. The dagger, coin purse. Cold. Real.
"I saved you." The voice came from behind him. Louder now. Testing the lie. "I brought them. If I hadn't gone for help..."
Kael walked toward him.
Tom flinched, stepping back, his hand going to his belt. The skinning knife—the one he had used to saw off the finger—was still clutched in his grip. He held it out between them, a crude barrier.
Kael closed the distance, stepping into Tom's space, looming over the shivering boy.
He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the blade of the skinning knife.
Tom froze. He looked at Kael's eyes—dead, calm, and utterly terrifying—and his nerve broke. He released the hilt instantly, as if the iron burned him.
Kael took the knife. He didn't wipe it. He just shoved the bloody, rusted tool back into his own belt.
"It was tactics!" Tom's voice rose, desperate to fill the silence. "I knew we couldn't win! I went for the guards! You'd be dead if I hadn't—"
"We have a quota."
Tom stopped. The word died in his throat. "What?"
"The Steward." Kael started walking toward the path. A limp in his step. "He checks skins at sundown. We're late."
"Go back?" Tom stared at Kael's back. "After this?"
Kael limped into the dark, leaving Tom to choose.
Tom stood alone in the clearing. He looked at the bloody snow one last time and shuddered. Then, head low, he ran to catch up.