Chapter Four

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.”