The sun was just cresting the ridge.

  Kaavi walked at the front; cloak drawn tight against the wind. Viktor trailed a few steps behind him. He kept his eyes on the horizon but every so often, he glanced back.

  Gavril brought up the rear, quiet and watchful as always, his hand near his axe. He hadn’t spoken much since they’d resumed the journey. None of them had. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It felt right, as if words would somehow cheapen what they’d witnessed.

  They followed the ridge line for another hour before descending into a pine-choked valley, where the snow grew thinner under the cover of trees. Here, the cold was less biting, the wind muffled by branches that creaked like old bones. Kaavi slowed his pace and finally broke the silence.

  “We’ll stop here for a moment. Eat something.”

  Viktor didn’t argue. His legs ached and the inside of his boots were damp from melted snow. He sat on a fallen log, shaking out his cloak and biting into a piece of hard bread from his pack. It tasted like sawdust, but he chewed it anyway.

  Gavril crouched beside a tree, sharpening a short blade with calm, practiced strokes. “Think the Baron will believe us?” he asked.

  Kaavi looked up from where he was feeding a few pine needles into a small fire. “He’ll have to. The seal on that satchel is real. Darian was no liar.”

  Gavril nodded slowly. “Still. I’ve seen nobles turn away truth if it doesn’t fit their version of the world.”

  Kaavi didn’t respond to that. He simply poked at the fire, watching the sparks leap like fleeting thoughts.

  Viktor glanced up. “What if we’re too late?”

  It was barely a whisper, but both men heard it.

  Kaavi looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Then we make sure someone knows what happened. That’s all we can do.”

  Viktor didn’t like that answer. It felt too thin. Too much like letting go. He wanted something firmer. A promise. But Kaavi didn’t give those lightly—and never if he didn’t mean them.

  After a while, they moved on.

  The forest eventually gave way to a long slope of frost-slick stone. In the far distance, they could just barely make out the white walls of a settlement—barely more than a blur against the horizon.

  Gavril pointed. “That’s Whistler’s Rise, a small village between Whitehold and the Baron’s mansion. Half-day’s walk if the weather holds.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Do we stop there?” Kaavi asked.

  Gavril shook his head. “No. The Baron’s manor is another day beyond. But maybe we might find word—maybe even a faster way to reach him.”

  Viktor squinted. “You think someone in the village knows about the attack?”

  “Not sure but possibly. If Darian escaped, maybe someone else did too. Or maybe the enemy moved south after Whitehold fell.” He paused. “Either way, it’s worth listening before charging forward.”

  As the sky grew darker with the promise of another snowstorm, they picked up the pace.

  Hours passed.

  The road narrowed, twisting between crags and half-frozen streams. Once, they heard distant howls—too deep for wolves, too steady to be wind. Gavril’s hand went to his axe again, but the sound faded after a time. Nothing came.

  It was just before dusk when they crested a final slope and came upon the village.

  Whistler’s Rise was a poor place—more stone than wood, with chimneys leaning like old men and roofs sagging under the weight of ice. But it was alive. Smoke curled from a dozen chimneys, and lights burned behind shuttered windows. A pair of children ran down a narrow path, chasing each other with sticks. A man loaded firewood onto a sled.

  Normal life.

  It felt strange.

  Viktor found himself standing still for a moment, staring. After everything—the fight with the bandits, the bloodshed, Darian’s death—it felt unreal to see children laughing. Like he’d stumbled into a world that hadn’t heard the news yet.

  Kaavi placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come.”

  They entered the village slowly, cloaks drawn, weapons hidden beneath layers. No one paid them much attention—travellers weren’t rare this time of year, not with the winter roads clearing up.

  They found the tavern near the centre of the village. It was squat and square, with a crooked sign hanging above the door: The Crooked Birch.

  Inside, the air was thick with smoke and stew and the low hum of tired voices. A few heads turned as they entered, but no one challenged them.

  Kaavi moved toward the bar. “Ale. And whoever’s in charge.”

  The barkeep—a thin woman with half her teeth and a glare sharp enough to cut leather—nodded once. “Ale’s warm. Mayors asleep. You’ll have to wait.”

  Kaavi didn’t press. He took the mugs she offered and passed one to Gavril, then another to Viktor.

  The boy took a tentative sip. It was bitter, but it burned the cold out of his chest.

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the clatter of bowls, the mutter of dice, the creak of old wood. Then, quietly, a voice at the next table spoke.

  “You’re not from here.”

  Kaavi turned.

  The speaker was an older man, thick beard, heavy coat patched with fur. His eyes were sharp.

  “You passed the ridge?” the man asked.

  Kaavi nodded. “Yesterday.”

  “Then you may have seen the smoke?”

  “What smoke?”

  The man leaned in. “North. Over the pass. Saw it yesterday afternoon. Thought it was firewood at first, but… it didn’t stop. Hours, it burned. Like a village caught flame.”

  Kaavi’s grip tightened on the mug.

  Gavril leaned forward. “Could’ve been Whitehold.”

  The old man nodded slowly. “Aye, I’m not sure. I heard rumours. Travelers coming from that direction, bleeding, broken. Haven’t seen many. But something’s wrong out there.”

  Kaavi met his gaze. “How far to the Baron’s estate from here?”

  “One day of travel, two if the roads ice again.”

  “Anyone headed that way?”

  The man paused, then shook his head. “Not right now, after the news of the attack spread traders and travellers are avoiding this pathway”

  Kaavi stood slowly, pulling his cloak tighter. “Then we leave at first light.”

  Viktor looked up. “We’re not resting?”

  “We rest tonight. But we move before the storm catches up.”

  The boy nodded, though a flicker of dread stirred in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was the storm Kaavi meant—or something worse.