The soldier—barely more than a heap of frozen blood and tattered cloth—lay slumped on his side, his armor dented and split. His lips were cracked, skin pale, a smear of blood lining one nostril. Yet his hand... it still gripped the satchel at his side with the rigidity of a dying oath.

  Kaavi shielded the weak flame with his cloak, feeding it small pieces of dry grass. Gavril stood a few paces away, watching the surroundings with alertness.

  Viktor could hardly tear his gaze away from the man.

  “Is he... alive?” he whispered.

  Kaavi reached out, pressed two fingers to the soldier’s neck. There was a long silence. Then a nod.

  “Barely.”

  He reached for his water pouch and knelt beside the soldier, carefully tilting it to the man’s lips. The cold had made the leather stiff and the water inside almost frozen. Still, a few drops trickled down. The soldier coughed weakly—barely audible—but swallowed. His breath hitched.

  Then... his eyes opened.

  Fever-clouded, distant.

  For a moment, he flinched, his hand twitching toward a knife at his belt—but Kaavi gently, firmly pressed him down.

  “You’re safe,” he said quietly. “Don’t move. You’re too far gone to fight.”

  The soldier blinked rapidly. Then his gaze darted past Kaavi, scanning the barren land. “Where... am I?”

  “A day from the northern pass,” Kaavi replied. “Your horse got you far. He died not long ago.”

  Pain flashed across the man’s face. His body trembled. “He... kept going even after they broke him…”

  Kaavi looked to the broken beast in the snow and nodded solemnly. “He knew it mattered.”

  The soldier coughed again, his breath rattling. His hand moved reflexively toward his side, but the injury there was deep—stitched by fire or blade, maybe both.

  Viktor crouched beside Kaavi. “We should help him,” he said quietly.

  Kaavi didn’t respond right away.

  He watched the man’s grip tighten around the satchel again.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

  The soldier’s eyes widened. “Don’t… touch it.”

  Kaavi didn’t back away. “You’re dying. If your message is so important, I need to know what it is.”

  “I have to deliver it—”

  “You won’t make it.”

  A long pause.

  The soldier’s breath came in ragged gasps now. He seemed to war with himself—between duty and the brutal clarity of his condition.

  Finally, he let go.

  “My name is Darian Vale. Commander of Whitehold’s northern outpost.”

  Kaavi’s eyes flickered. That name wasn’t unfamiliar.

  Whitehold.

  A fortress city built into the northern cliffs. It guarded key passes and stood as the last true bastion before the borderlands dissolved into the unclaimed wilds. It wasn’t just a military outpost—it was a symbol.

  Kaavi’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

  Darian’s jaw clenched. His teeth chattered. “We were attacked. At night. Dozens of them... maybe more. Not bandits. Something else. They knew our patrol routes, our watch shifts. It was like they’d lived inside our walls.”

  He shook with the memory, blood oozing anew from the wound beneath his arm. “I escaped... barely. My men gave everything to make sure this message got out.”

  Kaavi glanced at the satchel. “Why not chase you?”

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  Darian’s smile was bitter. “They didn’t need to. They left me... for fun.”

  Viktor looked up, eyes wide. “Fun?”

  “They tortured me... cut tendons in my thigh, stabbed shallow wounds to make sure I’d bleed out slowly. They figured I’d die crawling through the snow. They let me go, knowing I wouldn’t make it.”

  Kaavi’s face darkened.

  Viktor’s voice was small. “Why would they do that?”

  “To mock us,” Darian rasped. “To show that they’re not afraid of Whitehold. That they’re already inside.”

  Silence fell.

  Kaavi’s raven let out another cry from above, circling.

  Gavril stepped forward then, arms crossed, and spoke for the first time.

  “That crest...” he said, pointing to the silver wolf’s head on Darian’s armor. “That’s Whitehold’s elite guard. My father traded salt routes near there.”

  Kaavi looked back at him. “You know the city?”

  “I’ve been there once, years ago. But the soldiers… they’re no joke. If something took them down this fast... it’s serious.”

  Darian tried to rise again, failed, and collapsed back.

  “Please,” he rasped. “if you take this to Baron, he’ll listen. Reinforcements. Supplies. Anything. If they don’t come... Whitehold will fall.”

  Kaavi stared at the dying man. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the idea of getting entangled in a stranger’s war. He didn’t owe these people anything.

  And yet…

  Something in Darian’s voice—his pain, his stubbornness, his refusal to die quietly—made Kaavi hesitate.

  Kaavi crouched beside the dying soldier and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to steady the man’s trembling frame. Viktor remained silent, eyes wide, while Gavril stood behind them, still and watchful.

  Darian lay on his back now, staring up at the pale morning sky. Thin, silvery clouds drifted overhead. His breath was shallow, misting the air in front of him. The pain was written across every inch of his body, but there was no panic anymore—only a distant weariness.

  “It’s so quiet,” Darian rasped.

  Kaavi didn’t speak, just watched him closely.

  The soldier’s gaze never left the sky. “I used to love mornings like this… back home. Before the war. My daughter would sit in my lap, tugging at my beard. Always asking why the clouds move faster in winter…”

  A broken smile crept onto his face. “I told her the wind was in a hurry to get to the mountains.”

  Kaavi allowed the silence to stretch a little before speaking.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lilia,” Darian said, voice trembling. “She turned five last month. She likes drawing birds… she thinks she’ll fly one day.”

  Viktor glanced at Kaavi, then down at the soldier. His own throat tightened.

  Darian closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, blinking against the snowlight. “And Elara—my wife—she used to make these little honey cakes when I came home from patrol. Said they were terrible, but god... I loved them.”

  Kaavi leaned in, voice low and steady. “She sounds like someone worth living for.”

  “She was.” Darian’s breath caught, and for a moment, his face twisted—not from pain, but from grief. “I left them behind. Thought I was doing the right thing. Defending Whitehold. Defending the people. But I don’t even know if I bought them a single day.”

  He coughed—wet and raw—but Kaavi kept a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

  “You did,” Kaavi said quietly. “You got far. You brought us the message. That means something.”

  Darian shook his head weakly. “You don’t understand… I was the last one. The others… they died so I could run. We’d fought side by side for years. Dren, Tevis, old Marek—they didn’t even scream when it happened. Just grit their teeth and held the line.”

  His eyes filled, but no tears came. The cold wouldn’t allow it.

  “I can still see them… standing in the firelight… backs to me, blades drawn. God, I left them.”

  “You carried their fight forward,” Kaavi said. “That’s all any soldier can hope for. You didn’t betray them—you honored them.”

  Darian exhaled slowly, eyes blinking up at the sky once more.

  The clouds shifted—like the gods were moving them aside, letting a sliver of blue peek through.

  “I thought I’d die in a bed,” Darian murmured. “With Lilia beside me. Elara reading… not like this.”

  Kaavi glanced at Viktor, then back down at the man.

  “You’re not alone,” he said.

  Darian turned his head slightly. “You’ll deliver the satchel?”

  Kaavi nodded. “Yes. And I’ll speak to your wife myself.”

  The soldier’s lips trembled. “She’s in the third district. Blue shutters on the windows. She always wanted something that looked like the sea.”

  Kaavi leaned in closer, his voice softer now. “I’ll tell her everything. That you fought until the end. That you didn’t break. That you remembered her. And Lilia.”

  Darian’s hand twitched, as if trying to reach something he couldn’t see.

  “She’ll be scared,” he whispered. “She’s strong, but… tell her she doesn’t have to be strong all the time. Just hold Lilia and cry if she needs to. Don’t pretend I’m coming back.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Kaavi said. “And your daughter?”

  Darian smiled faintly. “Tell her... I flew.”

  Viktor inhaled sharply.

  Kaavi placed his hand over Darian’s heart.

  “You did.”

  A strange stillness settled over them. The wind dipped for a moment, and the snow fell more gently.

  Darian’s eyes began to glaze, but there was no fear in them now—only a quiet release, as if some weight had finally lifted from his chest.

  His breathing slowed. Became shallow. Then, finally… stopped.

  Kaavi held his hand there for a moment longer, then gently reached up and closed the man’s eyes.

  Viktor wiped his cheek with the back of his sleeve, saying nothing.

  Kaavi rose, slowly, reverently. He removed the soldier’s blade and stabbed it into the ground beside him. The snow around Darian's body was already starting to gather, soft and white.

  Gavril stepped forward and bowed his head.

  “We bury him?” Viktor asked, voice almost inaudible.

  Kaavi shook his head. “The ground is frozen. It would take hours.”

  “But something,” Viktor whispered. “We have to leave something.”

  Kaavi looked to the boy, then back to Darian. He unfastened a strip of cloth from the soldier’s tattered cloak, folded it with care, and tied it around the hilt of the blade in a neat knot.

  A flag. A mark. A memory.

  “He won’t be forgotten,” Kaavi said.

  Viktor nodded.

  They stood there a moment longer as the wind swept across the ridge. And then, with a last glance back, they turned and continued east—toward a baron who had to listen, toward a city that might yet be saved, and away from the broken man who had bought them this chance with his last breath.

  Viktor’s Wrath will be released twice a week, every Monday and Friday. So mark your calendars—I’ll see you again this Friday for the next release!

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