I let him talk.

  “Hold, stranger.” His tone was steady, practiced.

  I said nothing. Just stared.

  “You shouldn’t walk these lands alone. Are you lost?” He spoke common, rough and unpolished.

  “No.”

  “Then where are you going?” He was nervous now, the edges of his voice fraying.

  I tilted my head. “Who are you?”

  “Hey, hey—I do the questions here.” He forced a smirk. But his body betrayed him. He was young, maybe twenty, and he knew this wasn’t going his way.

  I stepped forward, slow. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” he said, then flicked a glance left—signaling his men. Nothing happened.

  Because they were already dead.

  By the time he turned back, I was on him. Fast. Too fast. His blades never rose, his stance never shifted—his heart already had my sword through it. I wrenched the blade free and let him crumple.

  Somewhere in the dark, I heard the thick gurgle of blood. Manach at work.

  I walked on.

  The forest broke ahead. I heard water. A river. Coldstone Delta.

  Two more bodies in my path. Women. Their throats neatly cut. Manach again. They never even knew he was there.

  The clearing itself was tight. Good. Thick brush to the right—dense, barely visible through. That’s where they had their lookouts. Ahead, a sheer cliffside with a cave mouth cut into the stone. And to the left, running past the cave entrance, the river curved like a natural moat.

  Two guards stood by the entrance.

  They weren’t slouches.

  Armor—not rags, but proper gear. Iron pauldrons, chainmail, hauberk. Well-kept swords, polished shields. Either they had coin, or they had stolen from someone who did.

  I didn’t slow.

  The first guard spotted me immediately, stepping forward with a shout.

  “You there! Stop right there!”

  No fear in his voice. Even after clocking what I was. Coldians had a reputation. He wasn’t impressed.

  I stopped. Stared.

  “How did you get here? Where are Marcus and the others?” His voice hardened.

  “Dead.”

  A beat of silence.

  “What?” The second one, his anger coming up fast. “You killed them?”

  I smiled. “No. I left them choking on their own blood.”

  That did it.

  The first man roared, rage overriding training. He didn’t even reach for his shield—just wrenched his sword free and charged. The second started to ready his own shield—too late. An arrow punched through his throat, bursting from the other side.

  Manach.

  The charger kept coming. Good footwork, good form—too high. He was aiming for a full, overhead power strike. The kind that kills in one clean hit. The kind that leaves you wide open.

  I waited. Let him close the distance.

  The moment he swung, I stepped in—smooth, practiced. Shield up. Left foot forward. Sword turning. His strike hit my shield with a sharp, useless clang, and I shoved him off balance. He stumbled. That was all I needed.

  My sword lashed across his abdomen, deep and clean. His legs gave first, then his body followed, his insides spilling as he hit the dirt.

  Dead.

  Manach emerged from the treeline, bow on his back, daggers drawn.

  I pointed to the cave.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  We took our sides, peering in. The entrance was narrow, curling left into a blind turn. Nothing visible. Nothing to mark what waited inside.

  No choice now.

  We stepped in.

  We moved slow, steady. The blind turn opened into a cavern. Wide, wet, silent.

  A black pool sprawled across the rock floor, still as glass, its surface coated in patches of moss. The air was thick with damp, clinging to my skin, making every breath heavy. Stalactites jutted from above, their shapes twisted like frozen roots. The walls were uneven, natural formations carved over centuries. The space could hold ten men at best. But it was empty.

  Ahead, the cave continued deeper.

  Manach glanced at me. He was thinking the same thing.

  “The water’s trapped,” he whispered.

  I nodded. Of course, it was.

  A path wound around the pool, barely a ledge. Narrow, just enough for one at a time. I pointed. Manach didn’t hesitate—he moved first, light on his feet, making no more sound than the shifting air. If something triggered, he’d have the best chance of slipping away.

  Nothing.

  I followed, careful, slow. The trap—whatever it was—never sprung.

  The path narrowed into a tunnel, snaking deeper. No turns. No choices. The walls pressed in, and soon, we heard them.

  Voices.

  Close.

  We slid into a shallow alcove, barely enough to hide us. The stone dug into my armor, but comfort wasn’t a concern.

  “They should have been back by now,” a voice muttered. Deep. Rough. A dwarf.

  “Maybe they ran into some kind of animal. Oh god, I hope they’re okay.” A woman this time, human, young, worry thick in her voice.

  “These are the Hinterlands, Nelle,” the dwarf rumbled. “A million things could’ve happened. Don’t get your hopes up. But whatever happened, we’ll find your sisters.”

  Manach and I shared a glance. Sisters. The ones he’d killed outside.

  Nelle hesitated. “Yeah, but Mister Garbosh, what if—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Garbosh said. “They’re fine.” His tone softened. A pat on the back? A hug? Maybe.

  Unfortunate, I thought. They weren’t warriors. Just people caught in something bigger.

  They kept walking.

  Manach moved first, silent as death. He slipped from cover, dagger in hand, and ghosted up behind the girl. His left arm coiled around her like a snake, his right hand drew a single, clean line across her throat. She barely made a sound. A breath. A whisper. A wet rasp as her body went limp.

  Garbosh didn’t notice.

  He kept walking.

  I stepped out behind him, my boots crunching softly against the stone. Not loud. Just enough.

  He turned. “Wha—?”

  Too late.

  My blade punched through his throat, the steel biting deep, cutting the words before they could form. His body convulsed, fingers twitching toward his weapon. He never reached it. He sagged, gurgled, and crumpled at my feet.

  Manach’s eyes gleamed. He wanted more.

  I understood.

  We moved on.

  The tunnel stretched deeper, the walls closing in. Crates lay scattered along the path, some cracked open, empty. Others still sealed, battered and worn. Leftovers. Spoils.

  Then, the air changed.

  The damp stink of the cave gave way to something else—warmth. The smell of burning wood, of cooked meat.

  There was a fire ahead.

  And where there was fire, there were people.

  We were getting close.

  The cavern opened ahead, a natural ledge giving us the high ground. I pressed my back against the rock, Manach beside me, his breath steady. Below, the camp sprawled across two sections, firelight flickering against damp stone.

  Nine tents. Twenty sleeping bags.

  In the center, a fire crackled, sending ribbons of smoke up into the cavern’s ceiling. A woman tended the pot, alone. Four men sat nearby, swords belted but armor stowed—too comfortable. Just beneath our ledge, a couple sat close, whispering about marriage. Hopeful.

  Beyond the fire, the cavern split with a shallow pool. On the far side, a lone warrior leaned against the rock, a greatsword at the ready. He wasn’t relaxed. He was waiting. A sentry.

  And past him, the real prize.

  Crates, stacked high—wine, sugar, fruit. A rack of weapons, all in good shape. And at the farthest point, a cluster of soldiers sat in tight formation, listening to a man twice their size. Behind him, fresh kills hung from hooks, two women working the meat.

  At the heart of it, the table.

  A man draped in royal finery lounged in his seat, heavy with rings and wealth. Across from him, slumped and weary, red-haired, red-bearded—Jorguh.

  Manach nudged me, holding up a small vial, swirling with dark blue mist. I knew what it was.

  Sheer Cold.

  Uncorrupted.

  Once opened, it would turn the air to ice. In a cave like this, it would do more than bite—it would cripple.

  We had a tactic for these moments.

  The Unknown Cold.

  I nodded, secured my gear, and stepped out.

  Made just enough noise.

  The moment I emerged, the camp erupted.

  "Who the fuck are you?" a man barked.

  "A goddamn Coldian!" another spat.

  The couple below me jolted apart. The girl shrieked. The man scrambled backward, wide-eyed.

  “Get away from here, monster!”

  I walked slow. Deliberate. Hands resting on my belt.

  “I just want the dwarf.”

  A ripple moved through the camp. Soldiers shifted, fingers curling toward weapons. Across the cavern, the armored greatsword guard straightened, glaring down.

  "You can get him after I tear your limbs apart!" he roared.

  That was Manach’s cue.

  The vial opened with a soft pop.

  The cold hit like a hammer.

  Warm, flickering fire turned to brittle frost in an instant. The cave air snapped from tolerable to lethal. Breath misted, limbs locked. Shouts turned to gasps.

  And then, the arrows flew.

  The greatsword guard staggered, his body convulsing from the shock of cold. He tried to move—tried—but the shiver caught him first. His last. The arrow took him dead center, sinking between his eyes. He fell without a sound.

  The second arrow was meant for another. It caught the cooking woman instead—panicked, frozen in place, clutching herself for warmth. The shaft buried itself deep in her side. She collapsed.

  I moved.

  The couple clung to each other, desperate for warmth. My blade moved faster. One clean stroke. Two heads hit the ground.

  The lightly armored men reacted in panic. Two rushed me, shivering, desperate to end me before the cold ended them. The first never got the chance—he met the edge of my shield, his jaw shattering as he hit the ground, writhing in agony. The second fell to my sword, a clean diagonal cut that spilled him open from groin to chest. He died instantly.

  The last two fumbled for their weapons. Useless. The cold had already won. They hugged their bodies, too frozen to fight.

  Beyond them, the soldiers still sat. Frozen in place. The dwarf, too.

  But not the big man.

  He stood, smirking, his breath fogging in the frozen air.

  And the royal?

  He simply sat.

  Watching.

  Unmoved.