The wind was sharp with frost as dawn approached, slipping through the cracks in the shuttered barracks and curling cold fingers over the wooden floor. Viktor stirred beneath his thick woollen blanket, the muffled scrape of metal dragging him into wakefulness. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the pale light.

  Kaavi sat hunched by the door, methodically running a whetstone across his sword. The sound was steady. Intentional. Not just maintenance—but ritual. A quiet warning of what the day might bring.

  “Where is Gavril?” Viktor asked, still shaking the sleep from his limbs.

  Kaavi didn’t pause in his work. “He’s out scouting. The guards are on edge. Something’s brewing.”

  Viktor nodded, standing. His back ached slightly from the hard cot. The warmth of the holdfast had settled too deeply in his muscles. Comfort, he knew from Kaavi, could be a kind of rot.

  “When do you think the enemy will strike?” Viktor asked.

  Kaavi checked the sword’s edge with his thumb and grunted as a bead of blood welled up. “I think Edric expects them to strike soon.”

  Before Viktor could respond, a knock came at the door. A young scout stood outside; her cheeks flushed from the cold.

  “The Baron requests you,” she said. “Bring your weapons.”

  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  They crossed the courtyard in silence, boots crunching frost. Smoke lingered in the air, n from the kitchens and the forges—signs of a place preparing for siege. Men moved with purpose, checking mounts and fitting arrowheads.

  The building loomed ahead like a waiting beast—silent, cold-blooded, and still. Inside thick wooden beams ribbed the ceiling, darkened by age and smoke. Maps and charred banners hung across the stone walls, lit dimly by a series of wall-mounted lanterns. Their orange glow stretched long shadows across the granite floor. The air smelled faintly of ash and iron—a scent Viktor would come to remember.

  Viktor stepped in behind Kaavi, his boots brushing against a worn rug that muffled his steps. The silence inside felt sacred, like the breath before a storm. He glanced up, taking in the vastness of the room from his smaller frame. A circular table dominated the space, its edges scarred with knife cuts, candle wax, and years of desperate planning. Brass tokens and carved markers stood like silent sentries across a detailed map of Whitehold’s surrounding provinces.

  Guards flanked the door, but the eyes of everyone inside the room turned toward them. At the head of the table stood Baron Edric Valhan, tall and wiry, with a face cut sharp by years of politics and war. His pale eyes flicked up as they entered.

  “Kaavi” he said, stepping forward. “I never got to greet you properly yesterday. Allow me to properly introduce myself.”

  Kaavi gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable.

  “I am Edric Valhan, son of Alaric, Baron of Branwyke, once commander of the Riverborn Vanguard. Before I was ever handed a keep or title, I lived and bled by the sword.” Edric placed a hand on his chest in a warrior’s greeting. “And I know a seasoned fighter when I see one.”

  Kaavi returned the gesture. “I’m only here because your man died to deliver his message.”

  “Darian Vale,” Edric nodded, gaze darkening. “He was one of my best. You have my thanks for bringing the message.”

  He looked past Kaavi, eyes narrowing slightly as they fell on Viktor. “And this boy?”

  “My grandson,” Kaavi said simply.

  Viktor stood a little straighter.

  Edric turned toward the others at the table. “Then let me introduce my team.”

  A tall, brown-haired man with a rough beard stepped forward and gave a nod. “Commander Dave Morren. I run the garrison.”

  a thick-necked man with a missing ear—Commander Dave, his reputation as brutal as it was effective. He held a cavalry sabre casually, but Viktor noticed the way his thumb never stopped tracing its pommel. Restless. Ready.

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  “He’s family,” Edric said. “We bled together in the western campaigns. He speaks blunt, but you won’t find a more loyal soul.”

  “Still standing thanks to his poor taste in wine,” Dave grunted.

  A few chuckles followed. Then came a lean woman in her early forties, dark-skinned with sharp eyes and hair tied back. She gave a curt nod.

  “Captain Serah Baines,” Edric introduced. “She handles our scouts and the supplies.”

  Kaavi returned the nod.

  Serah raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “This is Calder,” Edric said. “My intelligence officer.”

  a scholar with a worn leather satchel. His robe was stained with ink and dried blood.

  Edric motioned toward the map. “Please, sit.”

  Kaavi took places across from Dave and Serah. Viktor remained standing behind Kaavi, too alert to relax.

  “We’ve had six coordinated strikes in the last three months,” Edric began, voice growing cold. “Farms burned. Messengers intercepted. A few of my people vanished entirely. All north of the Branwyke line.”

  “And now this mansion,” Kaavi said.

  Edric nodded. “Two days ago. They knew the guard routines, tunnel access, weak points. It wasn’t just sabotage—it was a message. But from who, I couldn’t say. Until recently.”

  He reached below the table and placed a scorched pouch on the wood. From it, he pulled a thin piece of scorched leather, etched with a faint black sigil: a serpent devouring its own tail.

  Kaavi’s breath caught.

  Viktor noticed the way his grandfather’s hand froze, just slightly. The old man’s voice remained quiet, but deeper. “I’ve seen this before.”

  Edric’s eyes sharpened. “Where?”

  Gavril entered quietly, joining them with snow still clinging to his boots. “They’re getting bold,” he said. “They’re not hiding anymore.”

  Kaavi leaned forward, brows furrowing. “On the bodies of those who killed my daughter and her husband. And… later. On the man named Oleg.”

  Edric crossed his arms. “Then you’ve already been touched by them.”

  “The Maw,” Gavril said slowly.

  Serah raised her eyes. “You know the name?”

  Gavril nodded faintly, more to himself than to them. “I didn’t, not until now.”

  Serah eyed the newcomer but said nothing.

  Gavril turned to the table. “An hours ago, a rider came from Harken’s Hollow. Their granary was burned to the ground.”

  Gavril stepped forward, holding out a scorched scrap of parchment. “This was nailed to the chapel door. The same sigil was on the paper.”

  The soot-streaked message was simple. Crude, almost.

  “The Maw is open.”

  “Have you read the reports, I sent you?” said Calder, pointing towards the report papers.

  “Yes, I’ve read your reports,” Edric said.

  Edric leaned on the table. “They weren’t always like this. Five, maybe six years ago, the Maw was nothing more than an information network. Smugglers, spies. They sold secrets to nobles in the western regions—playing both sides, but nothing violent.”

  Viktor listened closely. This wasn’t just politics. This was the shadow that had loomed over their lives.

  “Then, two years ago,” Edric continued, “their operations shifted. Targeted assassinations. Extortion. Then infiltration. Towns went silent. Lords began to die. They started replacing people—quietly. Discrediting them. Taking control without open war.”

  “Now they’ve set their sights on the North,” Edric said. “Whitehold. Brawnhawke. If both fall, the rest of the northern frontier will crumble. And there’s no buffer left between them and the heartlands.”

  “And now the Maw burned my manor and rifled the ruins—because they were looking for something.”

  Kaavi glanced at him. “You’re sure?”

  “They pulled up the foundations. Went through every cellar and hidden vault. That wasn’t vengeance. They were trying to find something.”

  “And what are they looking for?” Kaavi asked.

  Edric reached into his tunic and dropped a small iron key onto the table. It landed with a sharp clink.

  “That unlocks a Vault beneath my manor. Inside, is a ledger—proof that certain nobles funded the Maw before they turned on their own.”

  Kaavi frowned. “Why do You keep this ledger?”

  “Leverage, or insurance. I wanted to gather all the northern kingdoms together to form an alliance and retaliate any threat from them in future” Edric said. “But they found out I had it.”

  “How?”

  “I hope you could help me find the traitor. This isn’t a normal siege. There’s planning behind it. Purpose. I want your help. As an outsider you won’t be suspected as much.”

  Kaavi folded his arms. “From what I have heard from you they don’t fight like regular bandits or soldiers. They’re precise. Their ambushes push people—not trap them. They herd. Scatter villages, and isolate strongholds. It’s a campaign of positioning, not destruction.”

  “And what about the manor attack?”

  “They knew what they were looking for. You said it yourself—they burned it down after they searched. That tells me it was a message and a cleanup in one.”

  Kaavi stabbed a dagger into the map, pinning a small village west of Branwyke.

  “They’re not raiding at random,” he said. “They’re moving in a crescent. Cutting off supply lines. Herding survivors.”

  Kaavi leaned forward. “They don’t want to win through battle. They want us isolated, starved, and scared. Force us to choose between surrender and slaughter.”

  Edric nodded grimly. “Which is why I’ll ask you straight—what would you do, Kaavi, if you were in my place?”

  Kaavi considered a moment, then said, “Evacuate the civilians. Burn anything you can’t defend. Leave only stone and steel behind. Then hit their supply trails. Cut their herding line and reverse the pressure.”

  Edric exhaled. “I still don’t know what their endgame is. Why the north? Why now? What do they want?”

  Kaavi’s eyes remained fixed on the map, but Viktor saw something stirring behind them—fury, or perhaps memory. He could almost see Kaavi putting the pieces together.

  Kaavi’s hand balled into a fist.

  Viktor knew what his grandfather had realized— he knew the weight of it was growing.

  He knew something the rest didn’t.

  And whatever it was, it had followed them for months...