The snow stabbed his face like needles.
Each flake, sharp as splinters of glass, tore at his skin—but it was the pain that kept him sane. The numbness crawling up his limbs whispered that he should stop, lie down, sleep. But he couldn't. Not yet.
Arya was still out there. And he was running out of time.
He pressed forward through the white abyss of Mayfrost's glades, his cloak clinging to his shoulders like a frozen shroud. Exhaustion wrapped around him—too many nights without sleep, too many roads behind him blurred into one—but he refused to fall.
He paused, knees trembling beneath the weight of soaked leather and snow-drenched gear. For a breath, he let his head sink. Then, with a sharp sigh and aching groan, he forced himself upright once more.
He had chased whispers across mountains and marshes. The Weavers' Guild had given him nothing. All he had left was a name:
Tiev.
And Arya's last message, scrawled in haste and fear—A forest where even moonlight cannot follow.
He hadn't known what it meant.
Now, he did.
Ralme Verdar, Captain of the Veil Rangers, knew what it meant to walk into death. And this place… this felt like it. The sun had vanished hours ago, devoured by a horizon lined with twisted trees and ashen skies. Snow whipped past him in sideways torrents, howling between pine trunks like ghosts.
At last, through the storm's curtain, he glimpsed salvation.
A cleft in the rock. A cave.
He didn't hesitate.
Inside, he built a meager fire. The flame flickered low and blue, casting long shadows on the damp stone. The warmth barely touched his bones, but it was enough to keep the night from swallowing him whole.
Sleep came reluctantly.
And with it—dreams.
Two figures stood before him, swathed in fog.
A man. A woman.
They did not blink. They did not breathe. Yet they spoke, their words echoing like ritual chants:
"I am her blooded blade. Her sanguine gaze. Her unwavering urge to protect. Her thirst," said the man, voice hollow and cold.
"I am his illuminated void. His caring touch. His unconditional trust to keep moving. His fire," said the woman, softer—almost kind.
Ralme tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. He reached out. The dream shattered.
He gasped awake.
Sweat mixed with frost on his brow. The fire had died. His breath came in shallow puffs, steam curling into the dark like smoke from a dying soul.
What was that? The dream had no meaning. No sense. Just riddles.
But it left something behind. A feeling. Dread. Urgency.
He sat in silence for a long moment, head in his hands. Then he rose.
He couldn't waste another day. If Tiev had told the truth, the forest lay to the southeast. And it was waiting.
By dusk, he had reached its edge.
The air was different here. Warmer. Steam rose from slick puddles of black water that sizzled when snowflakes touched them. The soil stank of rot and sulfur. A fetid breath seemed to rise from the ground itself.
No sane man would call this a forest. It was a fevered thing—swollen with heat and shadow, tangled with roots like veins beneath a festering wound.
The trees loomed close, their twisted limbs blotting out the sky. Even in what should have been daylight, the forest remained dim and colorless, choked in endless fog. The smell of wet mud grew stronger, filling Ralme's lungs with every breath. It made his eyes burn. His stomach churn.
But he pressed on.
Trained to survive. To track. To kill.
He crouched low, eyes sweeping the ground for any sign—a footprint, a torn cloth, a trail of broken twigs.
Nothing.
No birds. No insects. Not even the distant wail of wolves. This place was wrong.
Still, he walked.
His torch sputtered, the flame trembling like it feared the forest more than he did.
And then—movement.
Vines. Swaying from the limbs of a massive tree, though there was no wind.
Ralme froze.
His hand hovered near his bow but hesitated—too dark, too clumsy. He drew steel instead. Quiet. Ready. His eyes narrowed.
Not natural.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, voice low and clear.
"Is anyone there?"
The vines stilled.
He waited.
No response.
"If you are human," he called again, "know that I come from Mayfrost. My name is Ralme Verdar. I'm looking for my sister, Arya."
The silence deepened.
Then—muffled screams.
Ralme's grip tightened. Leaves rustled behind the curtain of vines. He pushed forward, blade raised, and parted the hanging growth.
Two bodies.
Two Mayfrost soldiers.
They lay slumped on the mud, their faces pale, armor rust-stained and torn. Hands bound tight. Mouths gagged.
Ralme dropped his sword into the sludge and rushed forward, tearing at the rope.
The first soldier's mouth came free—and he screamed:
"BEHIND YOU! HE'S BEHIND YOU! THE FUCKING BASTARD—"