Dahrian

Dahrian remembered the rain. It was a sort of pour that seemed to seep into your bones and cut your skin with its cold fingers. No matter where you went, who you stood behind, you were still left shivering and wet on the cobblestone pavements.

She remembered how she had kept her head down to avoid the icy wind stinging her eyes.

She remembered peering out of the dark ringlets of her damp hair, only making out the base of the stand where a man stood. She knew that he was important somehow. High in rank. Much higher than her parents’.

She remembered her mother’s hand in her right hand and her father’s in her left as the man spoke words and phrases that Dahrian couldn’t exactly understand. She was only a young girl after all. But at the time, she did understand what it meant for her. She couldn’t live in Zephyrus anymore.

Bad omen, words would whisper in marble hallways, where they thought Dahrian could not hear.

A jinx.

A cursed child.

They called her many things in those hallways, and no matter how hard she tried to block them out or clamp her small wings to the side of her head, those cruel words crawled their way into her young mind. Scraping… Scratching… Clawing…

And here they were again, all spoken aloud right in front of Dahrian. She deservedthis. She deserved to be exiled.

She remembered her mother crying. She sounded more like a wounded bird than a person. A loud, sharp noise that skewered Dahrian in the heart.

She remembered her father pulling her close and telling her something important that she should never forget.

Except she did.

She remembered her mother cupping her face with her pale, milky hands and saying her name over and over again, tears flowing from her golden lashes.

But Dahrian couldn’t remember her face. Or her father’s face, for that matter. Or anything else from her childhood.

It was all just… gone.

Dahrian Brown opened her eyes, and the rain vanished. The wooden ceiling stared back at her, obscured in the shadows of early morning.

After her heart stopped thudding and she could breathe somewhat normally again, she sat up in her bed. She hadn’t had that dream in years. She figured she probably outgrew the nightmares but perhaps not.

Turning towards the window, she viewed a fresh blanket of snow upon the side yard of the Brown Manor. She figured she had about an hour to spare before the town of Warmhaven would officially start the day. The sky was dark, but hints of gray and blue floated over the pines. She rubbed her eyes, already dreading what the new day would bring.

Hopefully not laundry.

Her winged ears ached, and she touched one subconsciously. She probably slept on them funny. She combed her fingers through them, soothing any ruffled feathers. For probably the thousandth time in her life, she felt jealous of the town girls with their normal, fleshy ears. At least they could wear earrings. And after about five minutes of staring at the wall, she stood up and began to get ready for the day.

Her room was small, but it never bothered her—she was the adopted one after all. Her bed sat in the back corner, right next to the window. A small desk with an oil lamp perched adjacent to it, and a wardrobe stood opposite to it. On the far wall, near the door, she had a large mirror that nearly touched the ground. She pulled a few items of clothing from the wardrobe and began to change. She caught her reflection in the mirror. She crossed to it, feeling strangely drawn to the glass, her feet cold against the stone floor. She touched her visage, looking for her parents’ features. Her father’s nose, maybe? Perhaps her mother’s curls? She raked her fingers through her unruly hair and sighed. She turned away from her image, shame darkening her heart.

Cruel how grief stabbed the heart at fortuitous moments.

Perhaps it was just the dream that salted old wounds.

She read about her people often, combing through books and tomes for any signs of her or her parent’s existence. The pale faces etched into the manuscripts stared at her carpingly, almost as if they were accusing her of treason themselves. Beady yellow eyes glaring and sharp teeth snarling.

A small part of her was thankful that she didn’t fully resemble them.

Since the writings were often by the hands of humans, she found them quite disturbing or even laughable. It wasn’t often that one found themselves on the wrong side of a race war. Especially when that person resided with the losing team.

Though the Fallen War took place over four thousand years ago, the rest of the countries liked to pretend it happened yesterday. At this point in her life, Dahrian was already used to the dirty glances from her fellow neighbors in the hold. She knew what they thought—heard what they said. It was unfair that they faulted her existence rather than anything she did wrong. It’s not like she could change what she was.

Dahrian pulled the gown over her undershirt and looked outside again. After a moment, she aptly put on a coat. She didn’t want to catch her death out there. Oclen was nastily cold in the autumn. Just as she was putting on her stockings and lacing up her shoes, voices spoke outside her door.

She recognized them instantly. Her adoptive mother, Lady Betris, and the manor’s maid, Claire. They spoke in hushed tones as if they believed that Dahrian was still sound asleep and definitely not crouched with her ear to the door.

Whispers meant secrets, and in the Brown Manor, secrets typically meant something bad was about to happen.

“…nice family and a very wealthy one for that matter,” Claire whispered. “They have power. The people won’t talk as much.”

Dahrian froze. She had a few guesses as to what they were planning. None of them were pleasant or involved her opinion, for that matter.

“The family could use more money… And Dahrian could use a little real control over her life. She spends too much time with that damn sword or with Tessa. She’s eighteen—almost a spinster! We should’ve married her off when she was fifteen or sixteen. We should’ve never put it off for this long.”

She heard her mother pacing the floor. “I just hope Dahrian doesn’t object to this marriage…”

Cyrus

“Marriage?! Father, how could you agree to such a thing?” Cyrus Grenwood demanded, forcefully putting down the knife he was sharpening before he accidentally stabbed himself with it. It had become rather dull from his recent whittling hobby, and it had been in need of a proper blade for quite some time, but that wasn’t the point. He could not be getting married. Not again.

“What unheavenly powers have possessed you? Cyrus, you simply cannot flee your familial duties.” His father pinched the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh. “We have discussed this a myriad of times. Every young lad must take on a wife and grow the family name. And now it is your turn. You hath seen your cousin, yes? Markus? He got married last year, and he’s doing quite splendidly.”

“Markus has no ambition! I want to be an explorer, father, not a husband! I simply cannot traverse the Glaucous peaks with an ailing wife and a crying baby,” He reasoned. His father had tried to find him a wife ever since he was sixteen, and he did everything in his power to convince the bride’s parents that he would be a stain on their family name. From forging letters to releasing a honey badger into a courtroom, he’d done it all.

Though it now seems that all these efforts over the last five years have failed.

“You will be married to Lady Dahrian! And that is the last I will hear of it! I will not have you sabotaging this arrangement, young man.”

Cyrus felt the floor tilt beneath his boots.

“Lady Dahrian? Lady Dahrian Brown?”

“Yes, the Browns offered quite a large dowry for her, and I am friends with Lord Brown, so it works out for both of us.”

Cyrus stared at the wall in shock as if to say, “Are you hearing this madness?”

The wall didn’t respond. It was only a wall after all.

“I’m going to be wed with an aetherin? I could never marry one of those vile beasts!”

From what he heard of Dahrian, she was dreadful. She seldom went outside, and when she did, she was always either wielding a sword or in town with the blacksmith’s daughter. And Cyrus never noticed anything about her physical appearance or beauty because he was always distracted by those blasted wings on the side of her head. He shuddered. He would have to be seeing those ears for the rest of his life, apparently.

Bollocks. I should’ve used a skunk.

“Lord Brown said she was a bright young lady and was very charming. Now, I only met her as a young lass, but I’m sure she’s not completely unfortunate looking as of now.”

Cyrus didn’t respond. He was already plotting how he could get out of this. He could… run away! Alas. That didn’t work the last time he tried. Maybe he could beg? Plead? Never mind. He could fake his own death, mayhaps? Nay. Too risky.

He needed to think.

“I’m going into town to get some air,” Cyrus muttered, already rising and turning towards the back door. He needed a plan. A good plan. A plan that would work. He hastily donned his jacket and cloak.

“Alright. I have already alerted the guards to make sure you don’t run away,” his father called after him. The sound of a slamming door responded.

The Oclen countryside was quiet at this time in the morning, and the sun was just peeking over the mountains with a warm hello. It was still quite dark as Cyrus left his family’s property and took the main road to town, but the sky was slowly morphing into a distant orange. The pine trees along the path danced slowly in the slight breeze, bending and dipping subtly to the wind’s will, commanded by an unheard melody. The tangy scent was almost painfully strong, and it certainly didn’t help that the air around him was as cold as the ice beneath his boots. Snow flurries spun around him, playing with his dark blonde locks and stinging his cheeks and nose a brilliant pink. He pulled at the collar of his jacket, trying to gain a little warmth and protection from the frigid breeze. Every breath was a cloud of white in front of him.

To take his mind off the cruel weather, he pondered the news that brought him out here in the first place. His thoughts raced as he pictured the future. He didn’t know much about romance, just what he read in books. Chivalry. Holding hands. Occasionally rescuing a hapless damsel from the greedy clutches of a lesser dragon. And of course, true love.

Ew?

Hmm…

He wasn’t fully sure what he felt about love yet.

He wandered down the path with romance on his mind and was entirely lost in his thoughts, which was a mistake. He collided straight into a girl.

“Ah!” she yelped, stumbling back into the snow.

“My most humble apology! I didn’t see you,” Cyrus stammered, the words tripping and tumbling as he spoke. The sun carved its golden way through the pine needles, revealing the maiden. Her blue eyes met his from under the hood of a cloak. A small smile broke the awkwardness between them. There was also something oddly familiar about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe he had seen her around town?

“Here, let me help you up,” Cyrus said, holding out a hand to the lady. “I am incredibly sorry.”

She took his outstretched hand and he pulled her out of the snowbank.

“It’s fine. I wasn’t watching my step either,” she said, smoothing her dress.

Cyrus didn’t respond for a moment. He was too enamoured with how beautiful this girl was. Her skin, though very fair, flushed a rosy pink in the cold. Dark curls of hair framed her face and pooled from under her hood around her collarbone. And her face—it was the sort of face that would inspire a poet.

After a moment of ogling, he not only realized he had been staring, but he was also still holding her hand. He let go, clearing his throat.

“What is a fair maiden like thyself doing out here this early in the morn?” he asked, breaking the silence. Her smile wavered, and Cyrus frantically wondered if he had somehow offended her.

“I… I just needed some air.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Air. A noble pursuit indeed.”

Oh dear. Why did you say that? Cyrus demanded to himself. There is no possible response to that answer. She must think you’re a fool with no social skills.

Cyrus was, in fact, a fool with no social skills.

“And what are you doing out here? Mysteriously wandering the morning roads before dawn?”

“Mysterious? Me? Nay. I was merely… uh…” He scrambled for a quick reason. He landed on the word, ‘reflecting.’ It seemed casual enough. “Reflecting. A man needs time to think.”

“What about?” She asked.

“Well,” he began. He didn’t want to tell her about Dahrian Brown. “My family has decided to wed me against my will.”

For a moment, the maiden had a strange look in her eyes. He really wished he could figure out who this girl was. “Really?” she asked, the smile returning to her lips, which were either the color of carnelians or roses. Cyrus couldn’t decide, but he knew he should probably stop looking at her lips. “I thought young lads liked to be married off.”

“Well, I got promised to a horrid wretch. I would have preferred a pretty maiden, but alas, I did not get to choose,” he said with a small chuckle. “Anyway, I long for freedom more than anything else.”

“I see,” she said.

“And what about you, m’lady? Is air truly your pursuit, or are you also avoiding something?” He tried to give her a smile, or at least appear a little charming, but his face didn’t seem to be working right. It was probably the cold.

She pressed her lips together. Carnations, perhaps. “I’m also being married against my will. I didn’t get to choose him, so he’s some self-righteous prat that my parents picked.”

“Do you jest?”

She shook her head, and the slight grin returned once more. Cyrus assumed she was having some sort of heart issue because of the strange fluttering in his chest. He probably needed a good bleeding.

“That’s rather unfortunate,” he said.

“Indeed.”

The two exchanged shy smiles again. He suddenly realized that this was the girl he wanted to marry if he had the choice. Not Dahrian Brown with her creepy wings. Maybe he could change his father’s mind now that he was finally willing to give up his title of bachelor for this lady. At that moment, Cyrus took a quick, deep breath and decided to take a risk.

He held out his hand once more and put on a more sophisticated accent. “Well, while we are both still unmarried, shall I take thee to town, m’lady?”

She blinked, and the sunlight was caught in her lashes. Cyrus caught a brief emotion that crossed her face. Alarm. Then, it quickly vanished, and he wasn’t sure if he had actually seen it.

“Sure,” she gave him another lop-sided smile and took his arm.

As the sky turned into a peachy blue, they strolled into town, discussing silly pleasantries and other things. When the two finally made it to the Square, the maiden waved goodbye, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

That’s when Cyrus realized his terrible mistake.

He didn’t get her name.

“M’lady!” he called after her, desperately searching for a deep red cloak amongst the sea of commoners. “I didn’t get your name!”

But there was no response from his new acquaintance.

Tessa

Tessa Greymourne watched the sun peek over the mountains behind the aged wooden counter of the blacksmith as she laid her hammer on the sword she was forging. Sparks flew with every strike, small bursts of golden red light piercing the early morning darkness. The warmth of the fire flushed her face, which was a pleasant break from the stinging cold winds that whisked around outside.

She wrapped a damp cloth around her hand and grabbed the handle. The glow quickly vanished from the iron as Tessa dunked the sword into a basin of water. She wiped her brow and adjusted her leather apron. She was almost done with this quota for the Warmhaven guards.

She quite enjoyed her work as a blacksmith. This was her thing. Her craft. Her expertise. Not many could brag the sheer amount of items created just from hot coals and some scrap metal.

Candle holders? The hinges on windows? The nails in wooden floors? The door knob on the Earl’s damn fortress? That was Tessa. Well, most of it probably.

“Tess! Do we have any newcomers at the counter?” her father called from the back room of the smith. He was busy filling out the shipping forms for a different order, otherwise he would’ve been at the front greeting customers. Usually guard officers or nobles requested orders, but occasionally there was a commoner who needed a knife or perhaps an axe.

Tessa glanced up at the counter, only to find the last person she expected.

“Ah!” she yelped, nearly jumping out of her skin. “Dahrian?”

“Hi, Tess,” she said quietly with a small wave. She was covered in snow for some reason. Her cheeks were flushed from running and strands of her black hair were strewn across her face.

“What are you doing here so early?” she said, mildly alarmed. Tessa opened the gate and pulled her friend in by her cloak. “Come in! You’re going to catch your death out there.”

“Who’s there?” her father questioned from behind the closed door.

“It’s just Dahri, Dad,” Tessa responded, brushing the snow off the top of Dahrian’s hood.

“Good morning, Sir Greymourne,” Dahrian took off her cloak and set it on a nearby hanger. The inside of the smithy was quite warm, and winter wear wasn’t necessary.

“Bless you, child. No need for the flattery,” her father said with a deep chuckle, emerging from the back room. He was a tall man, easily towering over Dahrian and Tessa. His deep tan skin glowed in the light of the fire, contrasting with his black hair and beard. “How are you doing, lass?”

“All is well, just got back from a walk,” Dahrian said politely, raising her eyebrows at Tessa on the word “walk.” They did this sort of communication ever since they were children.

Tessa raised her eyebrows back as if to ask, “What happened?”

“Splendid, splendid,” her father said casually, rubbing his ink-stained hands together. “I need to go back to my work. Stay out of trouble girls.”

“Yes sir.”

There was a brief pause as Tess’s father went back into the office room.

“What happened?” Tessa finally asked, turning to face Dahrian. She stood motionless in the center of the room. The forge backlit her, giving her winged ears an almost golden halo.

“I’m getting married,” she said stiffly.

Tessa froze. “But—” she started. She wasn’t known for being great with words. “I thought because—Dahri, I’m so sorry.”

Because you’re an aetherin, I thought you’d be safe.

Tessa looked away, holding a hand to her mouth, the news hitting her like smoke from a house fire. Marriage in Oclen typically meant disappearance, quickly followed by lots of bad news. Tessa was so, so, so glad she was a commoner. At her age, she should most certainly be married off, but thanks to her duties as the town’s blacksmith, she only had to reject a few offers over the years. Nobles didn’t have that privilege. Their futures were often put in the hands of their parents. She looked back at Dahrian. The young woman — her friend — was about to have her wings clipped like a show falcon.

“It’s the Earl’s son. The ceremony is in three weeks,” Dahrian said miserably, winged ears drooping around her face.

“Earl Grenwood?” Tessa questioned, genuinely confused. She pictured the earl’s children in her mind. There was the oldest—married with a child on the way. The second—town scoundrel. But a third?

“I didn’t know he fathered another son,” Tessa said. “He must’ve been a shut-in.”

“I actually just saw him on the road,” she giggled to herself. “He was pretty awkward. I don’t think he’s ever spoken to a girl.”

Tessa laughed. “At least you’ll live in a nice house now and won’t have to worry about anything.”

That part was mostly true. As long as the groom wasn’t a complete ass.

Dahrian’s smile dropped. “But I don’t want to do that. And I especially don’t want to mother his children.” The two girls exchanged glances of disgust.

“I understand your grievances, friend, but in the end, we all have to do things we don’t want to do,” Tessa said, stepping towards the hearth to stoke the fire. She didn’t want to coddle Dahrian or act like a sponge soaking up her emotions all day. She stabbed one of the dying logs with a poker. “You see, I have to make shovels all day to earn a day’s coin.”

“He called me a wretch!” She threw up her hands, wings twitching with frustration. She began to pace, but then stopped. “Well, he didn’t know it was me, but still, a man should never insult his betrothed.”

Dahrian pulled up two chairs from the side of the room. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the popping of the hearth and watching the flickers of the amber-colored light dancing on the stone walls.

“Tessa, have you ever thought of leaving this place?” Her voice was so low that it was almost a whisper. “Like going to another town and living there. Starting a new life.”

The question completely stumped her. She couldn’t just leave. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, willing herself not to remember. She was the only Greymourne child left in Warmhaven. And if her mother came back while she was gone…

Tessa didn’t want to think about that.

“Like Snowfort?” she suggested. It was the closest town to the hold—Would be easy to travel back and forth from.

“No. Further. Omil maybe.”

“The capital?” Tessa turned to face her. “That’s almost a week’s journey,” her fingers tapped against the side of her chair. You can’t just run away every time something bad happens. “Dahrian… I just — I don’t like where you are going with this.”

“Just think about it, Tess, you — We could start a new life!” Dahrian’s eyes lit up, meeting her friend’s blank face. “I could leave my marriage, you could become a real blacksmith, or something. It’s perfect.” Her winged ears perked up.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” she muttered; it was more of an attempt to soothe Dahrian than a real promise. This was bad. Really bad.

“Great!” Dahrian responded, not catching her friend’s placating response. She clasped her hands. “I need to head back before my parents find my bed empty.”

“Dahri, I’m really not sure about this,” Tessa attempted again, pulling her fingers through her cropped hair.

“Why? It’s a perfectly reasonable idea. People leave all the time! Why can’t we be next?”

“I just—” Tessa shook her head. “I can’t leave,” she said finally.

Her eyes dropped. “Um. Could you discuss this with your father?” Dahrian said, fidgeting. “I’m sure he’d appreciate the initiative.”

“Sure,” she agreed, head back on the chair and eyes closed. She knew she wasn’t going to ask her father. She stood up to face her friend.

“Just go home, Dahrian. I’ll see you later,” she plastered on a smile, and her friend relaxed.

Tessa watched her friend dart to her cloak and don it. Dahrian’s excitement worried her. The more she was thrilled about a terrible idea, the more likely she was really going to act on it.

“Dahrian?” she called after her, observing her friend race across the icy courtyard and towards the direction of the Brown manor.

“She’s gone,” she muttered to herself. Tessa sighed, leaning on the counter with a small smile.

Omil, eh?

She walked into the washroom from the small corridor and stared into the glassy mirror. Could she really just leave? Her piercing gray eyes bore into her own soul, intense and smoldering. Her father always told her that her eyes were the color of freshly cooled iron. Fire on the inside and cold on the outside.

But her hair belonged to her mother. Dark and rich, like the bark of a pine tree. Cropped short by the work of her own knife.

“Glenveil hair,” her mother told her once, holding her shoulders while Tessa sat in front of a mirror. They caught each other’s eyes in the glass. Her mother’s eyes were golden, a common trait among her people in the forest nation. They crinkled when she smiled. It reminded Tessa of the bright embers in the forge. She smiled to herself, recalling the memory. She wondered how her mom was, back in her country, away from the grief that Tessa and her father now had to carry.

What would you do, Mother?

Alden

Alden Black believed that blood was useful when it stayed in his body. It did not drip out of him. The red droplets spattered against the snow-covered path as he walked. He turned around, checking to see if he was being followed. His vision blurred, and he stumbled forward, muttering a curse as his boot skidded across the icy ground. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing his eyes to focus. His shaky breath left a soft cloud in front of him.

He didn’t mean to get stabbed. Nobody plans on it, really, but today was his lucky day. One bad run-in with the Omil guards had him stumbling off a balcony, where he had sworn that the barrel he fell on did not have a fire poker next to it the last time he checked.

Alden tucked his hand into his shirt, holding his breath as his fingers pressed just below his ribs into the torn fabric and found the wound. It was warm and sticky. His undershirt was soaked with blood around the area, the stain spreading further with every step. His fingertips came away red. Still bleeding. Fantastic. He clenched his jaw and kept walking. He just needed to make it into the next town.

This was all Perrin’s fault. She left him when he needed her.

If only she could see him now.

Her amber eyes would’ve widened in shock at the state of him. She would’ve helped him. Cleaned his wounds even.

Then she would’ve betrayed him again.

And again.

Like she always did.

Well, Perrin, he thought. This is the last time I’m leaving you. We’re done.

He pulled the hood of his cloak up as a cold breeze bit at his nose and cheeks. He squinted up through the trees. The sun was sinking fast, dipping behind the snow-tipped pines. He didn’t have long. If he died out here… so close to town—

He didn’t need to think about that.

He forced his mind to concentrate on where he was going.

Warmhaven.

He had been there once as a little chap, long ago, before the world had hardened around him. Before his father died. The memory came uninvited.

They were passing through the reaches of Oclen to Snowfort when his father suddenly guided the reindeer to turn off the main path.

“Dad, where are we going?” he had asked, holding onto the wooden sides of the wagon as it jostled along the uneven path.

“Warmhaven,” his father replied, a smirk peeking beneath his rust-colored beard. “The northern hold of Oclen.”

They rode on through the snow, where trees towered on either side of the road. When a small gate attended by a few guards appeared ahead, they knew they found the town entrance.

Looking past the gate, it was clear the town wasn’t large. The walls were only two or three men tall. Just a ring of stone with scarce watchtowers protecting the cluster of buildings tucked within. Alden counted maybe twenty rooftops and he could see a few larger manors behind the farther reaches of the city.

The smell of bread wafted from a bakery, making Alden’s mouth water. He watched a woman carrying a young child on her hip order from the counter. Sparks roared from a nearby blacksmith where a sturdy man seemed to be working. A young girl clung onto the man’s apron as he worked. Alden waved to her, but she didn’t wave back.

They tied up their deer and wagon and continued on foot through Warmhaven.

They walked to a warm tavern where a small cup of apple cider was bought for him while his father ordered some sort of alcoholic drink. Alden couldn’t remember if it was mead or ale, but his father let him have a sip.

“My boy,” his father had said after a long swig from his wooden cup. “Always remember, money isn’t worth your time. It sure as hell does rule the world, but in the end…” His voice dropped to a murmur, as if he were lost in reverie. “Gold won’t feed a king.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden shapes along the tavern walls. For the first time in his life, Alden had felt safe, tucked beside his father on the bench, his fingers sticky with cider.

They stayed in Warmhaven for three days, sleeping soundly in the inns and taverns alike, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. Alden quickly learned his father’s words were hollow when Caelic Black was slaughtered in front of him. Though he was young, the years of thievery had already marked him as a scoundrel, preventing him from getting a day’s coin.

Well, thief might be a strong word to describe Alden’s career. He was more of a smuggler, in fact, but he preferred the term vagabond, or perhaps a wayfarer, but nevertheless it was all the same. He was just a lad down on his luck, except when it comes to getting poked in the gut with a fire stick.

He took a pause for a moment, leaning against a tree. Every breath was agonizing in this cold weather. His vision swam. Each step dragged him deeper into the snow, like the earth itself was trying to bury him. He pressed his hand tighter to his side.

“Just a scratch,” he winced, at this point just trying to convince himself. It was definitely not just a scratch.

He tried to picture the Warmhaven tavern again. Maybe the roof was green? The image from his youth was fuzzy in his mind. There was an old barmaid. He remembered that. She had called him “Honey,” with a whimsical wink and smile. Maybe she was still alive? Bring him stew and a drink? Perhaps give him a wink and smile once more? Perhaps not scream in horror at the scarlet stain on his coat?

But he knew better. No one smiled at a man who crawled into a town half-dead. They closed their doors. The children cried.

And the guards came. Just like they always did.

Guards. Guards. Guards.

Why did every town even need guards?

“Load of oafs…” he slurred, not even processing that he was saying his thoughts out loud at this point.

He felt his blood start to spill through the gaps in his fingers. He pressed harder against the wound, and he immediately felt nauseous. The shallow noise that left his mouth didn’t even sound like him. He rested once more against another tree. Black dots danced in his vision and his legs finally gave out. He sank against the pine, the snow crunching around his knees, then his back, then snow filled his ears.

Alden Black was going to die never knowing how old he was. How many birthdays had he missed? How many had he even counted? Fifteen? Eighteen? Twenty? He had been lying for so long, he never thought to pay attention to the truths that belonged to him. His blurry eyes took in the last remaining vestiges of the dying light carving through the pines.

Well, it’s been a good run, Alden thought.

He closed his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of sleep press against them. He could feel the small snowdrifts brush his eyelashes and coat his face. It was almost peaceful, how cold he was. No pain, no feeling. Just him and the cold. He could feel his consciousness start to slip into the freezing abyss. This isn’t so bad, he thought. Alden couldn’t even feel the pulsing wound in his side. Then for a moment, he dozed off. I’m sorry father.

Within the depths of the snow, Alden felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

“Alden Black, you are under arrest for the crimes you have committed against Oclen and her people. What say you?”

The fallen man blinked his eyes open. How long had it been since he fell asleep in the snow? Minutes? Hours? A day? It felt like years.

At least someone found him before he bled out.

“Oh, great. Guards. I was just talking about you guys,” Alden tried to mumble but it sounded more like a gurgle as fresh blood escaped his lips.

Actually, maybe bleeding out might be a better alternative to getting arrested.

“He’s barely alive, captain, what should we do?”

Another voice answered gruffly. “Throw him in the cell. That ’oughta warm the bastard up.”

Prison? Just let me die, you load of scum.

One of the guards stepped forward, his face stern under his helmet and roughly took his shoulder, lifting him off the ground in one motion. The Warmhaven crest stared at him from the guard’s shoulder plate. The painted twin flames gleaming in the dying light. At least I made it.

“Bollocks.”