The night came down hard. A winter storm swallowed the horizon whole, the air thick with driving snow and shards of ice that stung the skin and blurred the world into a single pale void. The Blue Heart groaned against it, caught in a frozen slurry where sea and ice had begun to merge into something heavy and unyielding.
The hull no longer cut forward. It dragged. Each attempt to push through the thickened water sent a dull shudder through the ship, wood protesting, iron grinding beneath. The crew made the call before the sea could make it for them.
They stopped.
At first, it was meant to be a pause. A moment to wait out the dark storm. But the hours stretched, and the terrible storm did not break. It deepened, pressed in invasively, and refused to loosen its grip.
And Odessa did not wait well.
Below deck, West had carved out a place for himself among the cargo. Crates and boxes were dragged together into something resembling a bed, lifted just enough to keep him off the biting cold of the floor. It was crude, but it worked. Better than most places he had slept.
He and Mo had been taking advantage of the ship’s stores, prying open jars of preserved food with little care for the inventory count. Pickled vegetables, salted meats, things drowned in brine strong enough to sting the nose. The air below deck carried a constant sour rot that clung to the lungs, but the food was plentiful.
Strangely, it was the most comfortable captivity West had known. He moved freely. No chains or rope to tie him down. No watchful blade at his throat. The crew, rough and sharp-edged as they were, treated him less like a prisoner and more like an odd guest they had not decided to dislike.
Nearby, Smoli shoved Mo forward.
The old Kesh lord shuffled toward the cage without resistance, his bare feet dragging lightly across the wood. This had become routine. Each afternoon, Mo was brought up, fed just enough to keep him useful, and made to sit with Broc.
Lessons for basic letters and the occasional mathematics. But mostly lessons on old northern prayers spoken in a voice that wavered between clarity and madness.
“That idiot will never fully grasp the lessons I have taught him…! There is no brain in that hard head of his!” Mo stepped into the cage and turned slowly, lowering himself onto the floor with a tired exhale.
Smoli slammed the door shut and dropped the lock into place. “Yeah, well, you have time to make it work, don’t you?” His hand lingered on the iron a moment. “Unless you want to starve another few days.”
Mo gave a dry scoff and turned his back. “Very funny, you prick.”
Smoli let it sit there, then shifted his attention to West. “Put your coat on. Boss wants us all up top.”
West glanced up from where he lay stretched across his makeshift bed. “What for?”
Smoli didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, grabbed West by the ankle, and dragged him clean off the crates. Wood scraped, his back hit the floor, and the breath left him in a short burst.
Smoli dropped his leg and stood over him. “You’re a very annoying little man.”
West winced, rubbing at his back as he pushed himself up. “Yeah. Well, you’re a prick.”
From the darkness of the cage, Mo’s laughter broke out, dry and unsettling, echoing faintly through the cramped hold. Smoli didn’t bother responding this time. He turned and headed for the door, leaving it open behind him as the cold from above crept down into the stink and shadow below.
West pulled himself upright and began layering his clothes, one piece at a time, working warmth back into his limbs before stepping into the storm above. The cold had a way of slipping through seams if you rushed it.
He crossed to Jenny and rested his forehead gently against hers. “I’ll be right back, girl. You be good. Try not to get too close to Mo, and of course, I love you!” Jenny huffed softly, warm breath against his face.
Behind him, chains shifted. “I pity you,” Mo’s voice drifted out, dry with amusement. “Trying to find some kind of connection in something as foul as that ass.”
West turned, already smiling. “Save your envy.” He stepped closer to the cage, lowering his voice just enough to make it personal. “Don’t be jealous, I love you too.”
Mo let out a ruthless laugh, shaking his head as West backed away.
“I’ll be right back, old man.”
The door groaned open, and the cold hit him immediately. It cut deeper than before.
West climbed through the ship and emerged onto the deck, where the storm had settled into a relentless drift. Snow moved sideways in long sheets, hissing across wood and rope. Beyond the ship, figures were already stepping out onto the frozen expanse, boots crunching against the crusted surface.
The sea no longer moved. It groaned.
West spotted Smoli and Broc near the edge and made his way over, bracing himself against the wind. “Is this Minht?”
Smoli kept his eyes on the horizon. “No. There’s a village over that hill.” He nodded toward a low rise barely visible through the snow. “Odessa thinks your Tyrus stopped there to wait out the storm.”
“And she’s right.” Odessa’s voice cut in before West could answer. She approached through the snowfall, coat snapping behind her, eyes already set beyond them. “I know he stopped at that damn village. Either that or he’s already frozen dead somewhere.”
Her gaze flicked to Smoli. “Ready?”
Their hands met in a sharp slap. A shared rhythm.
Odessa turned immediately, sliding into Broc’s space as if it belonged to her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down just enough to press a kiss against his mouth. “What’s the matter, baby?”
Broc frowned slightly, eyes drifting past her toward the frozen horizon. “Nothing.” His hands settled at her waist, slow, possessive, but uncertain at the edges. “It’s just… all we talk about now is Tyrus…” His brow tightened. “And now we’re walking into the ice to find him.”
Odessa smiled faintly, brushing snow from his shoulder before leaning in again, softer this time. “Are you…jealous?” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering just long enough to feel his reaction.
“Yeah, im jealous.” His grip tightened, pulling her closer. “That Red Dragon should be strapped to me.” He kissed her harder this time, rough and claiming, like he needed to prove something more than say it.
Odessa let it happen, then eased back just enough to look at him, amused. “So we’re ready, then?”
“I’m always ready.” Broc grinned and grabbed at his groin, a low laugh breaking through the cold.
Odessa only nodded, already turning away, her attention snapping back to the hill ahead. She pointed.
They moved immediately. The climb wasn’t steep, but the ice beneath the snow made every step uncertain. Boots slipped, caught, pressed forward again. The wind pushed at their backs one moment and cut across their faces the next. At the top, the land opened. The village came into view. Larger than expected. Low buildings clustered together, roofs heavy with snow, thin trails of smoke struggling upward against the wind.
Smoli narrowed his eyes. “The guard is here.” He pointed.
Evokian flags hung stiff and frozen against a handful of structures, their colors dulled beneath frost. Odessa reached into her satchel and pulled out a spyglass, lifting it to her eye. She scanned slowly, methodically, taking in every movement below.
Beside her, Broc leaned back against a tree, unconcerned. “We can take them.”
Smoli glanced at him. “We don’t even know how many are down there.”
Broc didn’t move and didn’t think. “Doesn’t matter.” A small grin pulled at his mouth. “We can take them.”
Smoli didn’t bother responding. His attention stayed fixed on the village below.
Odessa lowered the spyglass and passed it to him without looking away. “Things look quiet.” Her tone carried no relief. “Broc… shall we?”
Broc pushed himself off the tree and stepped into her space without hesitation. She slipped her arm through his, the two of them locking together in an easy, practiced motion before starting down the slope. They did not bother looking back.
West moved to follow.
Smoli’s arm shot out, stopping him cold. “Give them space to work.”
West exhaled through his nose and stepped back.
Around them, the woods shifted. What had first looked like empty brush revealed itself in pieces. Men stood half-hidden beneath heavy cloaks, bodies tucked into the shape of the land, faces obscured by fur and frost. They waited without speaking, eyes fixed on the village.
West glanced back down the hill.
Odessa and Broc had already reached the outer edge, slipping between the narrow alleys as if they naturally belonged there.
“We’re next.” Smoli moved. West followed.
The descent was quieter this time. More careful. Boots pressed into the snow instead of crunching through it. The wind dulled as the buildings rose around them, cutting the worst of it away.
They entered the village. Small wooden cabins lined the paths, their doors shut tight, windows dark. Snow had gathered along the edges of each structure, softening their shapes, but something beneath it felt wrong.
Too still.
West leaned closer to Smoli as they walked. “Something’s…wrong…”
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Smoli gave a slight nod. He had already sensed it. He led them through the narrow paths without hesitation, turning corners with the confidence of someone who understood places like this. Hunting for signs. Reading what had been left behind.
They stopped at a larger structure near the center.
A hall.
An Evokian flag hung stiff across its front, frozen in place, its colors dulled beneath frost. At the door, a small blue dagger had been driven into the wood.
Smoli stepped forward and pulled it free. “Get that flag down.”
West gave a quick nod and moved. He climbed the side of the building, boots finding shallow holds in the wood, fingers numbing as he reached up and tore the frozen fabric loose. It came free with a stiff crack. He dropped back down and began rolling it.
Smoli stopped him with a glance. “Leave it.” He pointed to the ground in front of the door.
West hesitated a second, then let the flag fall into the snow.
Smoli seemed satisfied. He pushed the door open. “Go.”
The hall swallowed them.
Cold air lingered inside, stale and heavy. The space was wide, meant to hold bodies, voices, movement. Now it held none of it. Only what remained. Blood had dried dark against the walls, dragged into long streaks where hands had tried to hold something in or push something away. Tables lay overturned. Benches splintered. The floor told the rest of the story in broken trails and smeared footprints that had since hardened in the cold.
West slowed without meaning to.
Smoli didn’t. His pace quickened, eyes tracking the marks, following where the struggle had led. “Come on!” He pushed through a side door.
The courtyard opened before them. Snow covered most of it, but not enough to hide where it had been disturbed. Shapes pressed into the ground. Scattered marks. Signs of something that had not ended cleanly.
Odessa and Broc stood at the center. Very still. Simply waiting. At their feet, an older man knelt in the snow.
West stepped closer, eyes flicking once more to the hall behind them.
“Did you see all that in there?” Smoli’s voice stayed low. “Rough night with the guard?”
The wind shifted through the courtyard, carrying no answer. Odessa crossed the courtyard in quick strides, her energy barely contained. She reached Smoli and caught him by the arms, pulling him in close as if she could not hold it in any longer.
“There are no Evokians here!” Her eyes shone. “They’re ALL gone!” She turned sharply, already moving, and caught West by the hand. Her grip was warm despite the cold as she pulled him toward the kneeling man.
“Priest Miro,” she gestured down at him, “tell them! Tell them what you just told me!”
Miro lifted his head slowly. His eyes moved from West to Smoli, searching their faces as if weighing whether to speak again.
“There was a small group of Evokian guards stationed here,” he began, voice thin against the wind. “They were defeated three nights ago…” His hands trembled slightly in his lap. “It was not a battle. It was…” He swallowed. “A violent fury.”
“Who did this?” Odessa stepped closer, unable to hide the delight in her voice.
Miro’s eyes fluttered. He shook his head once, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “It was a man.” His voice dropped. “He carried a blade… no… it was more than that.” His gaze flicked toward West. “It looked like the Red Dragon.”
West felt it before he understood it. A drop in his chest. A heavyweight.
Miro saw it land as he continued, “I… I could not believe it either,” he pressed on, words beginning to stumble over themselves. “But I saw it! I saw what it did…” His breathing quickened.
“The way it moved… it did not swing like a sword…! It… passed through them…” His fingers curled into the snow. “Right through them! The steel did not stop… The men did not slow it down… It cut through them as if they were already dead…!” He shook his head again, harder this time.
“He moved too fast! Faster than a man should…! One moment he stood still… the next…” Miro’s voice faltered. “They were falling apart around him.” A long blink. “I heard them before I saw them. The awful screaming…” His lips trembled. “Then it stopped! All at once. Like the storm had swallowed the sound whole…” He lowered his gaze. “Then he was standing alone.”
Silence settled over the courtyard. Smoli’s eyes shifted to Odessa. She was smiling.
“How many?” Her voice came soft. Eager.
“Thirteen,” Miro answered. “Well… twelve.” He hesitated. “One still breathes. Barely.”
Broc stepped forward without warning and brought his hand down hard against the top of Miro’s head. The crack echoed.
Miro pitched forward, catching himself just before his face struck the snow.
“You rotten liar.” Broc loomed over him. “You said they were all dead.”
Miro clutched his head, wincing as a thin line of blood began to slip down his scalp and into his brow. He scooped up snow with shaking hands and pressed it against the cut.
“That man is as good as dead,” he muttered. “He has not woken since… Not once!”
West stepped forward. “Take me to him.” His voice carried more urgency than before. “The injured Evokian. Please… Take me to him.”
Odessa watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod. She turned sharply back to Miro. “You heard him, you dirty pervert.” Her tone snapped. “Take us. Now.” Her eyes flicked to Broc.
He grabbed Miro by the arm and hauled him upright with little care. They began moving. As they pushed back through the hall, four more of Odessa’s men fell in behind them, silent and ready.
Odessa drifted back toward West as they walked. She reached into her shirt and pulled free a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid, pressing it into his hand. “Here.” Her fingers lingered just a moment longer than needed. “You deserve it. I just knew you were special, kid.” She ruffled his hair lightly, almost playful, before slipping away again toward Smoli, her voice already lowering into something more strategic.
West looked down at the bottle in his hand. It caught the faint light. Clear. Clean. A reward. But the feeling never came. His mind stayed behind in the hall: on the blood dried into the wood, on the silence that followed the screaming, on the blade, and the man who carried it.
Miro led them through the village without looking back. His steps were uneven, hurried, as if the path itself resisted him with every step he took. Broc stayed close behind, looming over him, one hand resting lazily near the hilt at his side. Not tense or even alert, just present enough to remind the priest he was not free.
They moved through narrow streets lined with shuttered homes. Doors remained closed. Windows dark. The few villagers who lingered outside turned away the moment Odessa’s group came into view, heads lowered, bodies folding inward as if they could disappear into themselves. Fear had already made its home here.
They did not need to announce themselves. The bodies came into view all at once. Twelve of them. Scattered across the snow in broken positions. Frost had begun to claim them, a thin white layer settling into wounds, into open mouths, along the edges of torn armor.
Odessa slowed. Then stopped. Her gaze moved across the scene with quiet intensity, taking it in piece by piece. Admiring it.
“He’s a butcher,” Broc muttered, stepping closer to one of the corpses. He nudged it lightly with his boot, rolling the body just enough to expose the damage. “No grace.” He pointed lazily. “Look at the strikes and at the force.”
Odessa’s eyes followed. “What do we think, Smoli?”
Smoli crouched low, brushing snow aside with the back of his hand. He studied the angles. The spacing. The pattern left behind by their killer. “Five of these men never saw it coming.” He gestured without looking up. “Struck from behind. Clean. Fast.”
“So he’s a coward,” Broc remarked.
Smoli shifted slightly, moving to the next cluster. “Four here… same sequence.” His finger traced the path in the air. “Knees first. Dropped them. Then the chest.”
A pause.
“These three…” His hand hovered over what remained. “No pattern. Just force. Top down. Repeated.” He stood. “It’s brutal. Vicious even.” A small breath left him. “But…efficient, The blade ripped right through the armor.”
Odessa turned. “West.”
He pulled his eyes away from the bodies.
“Your thoughts?”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gave a small nod.
Odessa smiled. “Take us to the wounded man.” She shoved Miro forward.
He stumbled, then caught himself and continued, leading them deeper into the village.
The further they went, the quieter it became. Even the wind seemed to thin. They passed more villagers along the way. Faces pale. Eyes hollow. No one spoke. No one tried to stop them. They had already learned what resistance cost.
The infirmary sat at the far edge of the settlement. Low. Worn out. Barely holding against the rigid cold.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of iron and damp cloth. An old woman hovered over a table, her hands moving with slow, practiced care. She did not look up when they entered.
The man on the table barely looked human.
His left arm ended at the shoulder, wrapped tightly in layers of cloth already soaked through, dark with blood that had dried and bled again in uneven cycles. Both knees were bound the same way, thick with crude bandaging that had been pulled too tight in some places and not tight enough in others.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pulls. A wound sat there, just below the collarbone. It was small and precise; deadlier than it looked. His body was covered in lesser cuts. Slices. Scars fresh enough to still be angry against the skin.
And his eyes…
West stepped closer.
They had been slashed. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to take them. The man’s face was young. Too young. Close enough to Tyrus that the comparison came uninvited. Even unconscious, his expression held onto something strained. Pain had settled into him so deeply that it no longer needed waking to exist.
West reached toward the bandages, careful, with purpose. Then he began to assess.
Smoli moved in beside him, crouching low. “He’s lost a lot of blood.” West pressed lightly against the wrappings. They gave too easily. “These are soaked through. It’s not holding.”
Smoli leaned closer, peeling back a small section near the shoulder. A sour smell slipped free. Rot. “They should have seared it yesterday.” His lip curled slightly. “I’d wager it’s already turned infectious.” He let the fabric fall back into place.
West’s jaw tightened. “It might still be early enough.” His eyes moved quickly across the wounds, measuring, calculating. “Ladybird oil for the infection. Midnight garlic paste to slow it down.” He glanced toward the old woman, then back to the man. “But…he’s lost too much blood.” A quiet exhale. “It might already be too late…”
Smoli looked at him, one brow lifting. “Midnight garlic?”
West gave a small nod. “It grows through the frost. You’ll find it near the tree lines. Thick clusters.” A pause. “It’ll be easy to get.”
Smoli studied him a moment longer, something new settling into his expression. “How do you know all this?”
A sharp whistle cut through the room. Odessa drew every eye without raising her voice.
“What are we doing?” Her gaze moved across them, impatient. “We should be moving.”
Smoli straightened at once. “Right.”
West stepped forward, urgency pushing him past hesitation. “He doesn’t have to die! I think I can—”
Odessa’s hand came up, stopping him mid-step. Not forceful. “We are not doing that.”
“But…he saw Tyrus!” West leaned in, voice tightening. “If he wakes up, he can give us more—”
“The priest already told us what we need.” Odessa didn’t look at the man at the table. “The Dragon went north.” Her eyes flicked back to West. “What more is this corpse going to give us?” She turned slightly, already moving on, already done with it.
“Odessa please…” He didn’t get further.
She closed the distance in a single step. “Oh baby,.” Her fingers brushed across his face, almost lovingly. “Don’t be such a fucking idiot.”
Her grip snapped in the next instant, twisting his ear hard enough to force him forward. Pain shot through his jaw. He let out a low groan, grabbing at the side of his head as she released him.
Odessa moved past, her shoulder knocking into him without pause. “We’re intercepting him at Minht!” She didn’t look back.
Smoli stepped in behind West, a steady hand pressing between his shoulders, guiding him forward. “Come on.” His voice was quieter. “She has a point. The march is already hard enough. Bringing him…” A small shake of the head. “Wouldn’t be good for any of us.”
A brief pause.
“Including him.”
West didn’t answer. Instead, he simply followed in silence.
They filed out of the infirmary and back into the cold. The courtyard opened again, then the hall, then the streets. The same path in reverse. The same silence waiting for them. They passed the bodies once more.
West’s eyes lingered this time. Not on the wounds. On their faces. What was left of them. The group pushed on. Out of the hall. Through the alleys. Back toward the open slope beyond the village.
Odessa drew her sword in one smooth motion and lifted it high into the air. “Back to the ship, gentlemen!” The steel caught the pale light, a dull gleam against the storm.
Smoli leaned in as they walked. “See that?” His voice stayed low. “Left hand means we’re leaving. Right hand means call them in.” He nodded toward the treeline. “Signals. Keep your eyes open.”
West followed his gaze.
Shapes moved where there had been none before. Men peeling themselves from the brush, falling into step without a word, as if they had always been there. Watching. Waiting. The march back began.
Behind them, the village sank once more into silence. Ahead, the frozen sea groaned beneath the weight of the storm, and the wind carried the faint, distant scream of iron cutting through ice.