He had never trusted the silence of the woods—especially not when even the birds refused to sing. That kind of quiet was never natural. It was a warning. And today, it screamed.
The scent of smoke drifted through the thick canopy above, curling between the branches like fingers reaching down to pull the world into a nightmare. The sun, partially smothered by a patch of dull gray clouds, seemed reluctant to bear witness to what lay ahead. Far up the mountain, through the trees and over the frozen ridges, a cabin stood engulfed in flame. The fire gnawed at it hungrily, its orange tongues licking the walls, devouring the timber with crackling delight.
The structure had once been sizable, well-kept. Kennels dotted the perimeter, though most had already collapsed into smoldering heaps. Lying across a slab of blackened stone in front of the building was a horse—its coat once a deep, proud black, now scorched. Streaks of red and pink, once part of its braided mane, fluttered and vanished in the fire’s breath. The saddle clung desperately to the creature’s body, twisted and half-slid around its midsection—a final, silent testament to a desperate attempt to mount and flee.
“Such a pity,” came a voice—soft, almost amused—rising above the murmuring of the gathered men.
The speaker stood among them, a man of modest height but striking presence. His garments were tailored finely, dark hunting boots laced tightly beneath trousers cut for movement and warmth. A mantle of fresh furs hung from his shoulders, thick and regal, their warmth meant not just for utility but for status. Around his neck, the furs were cinched in a fashion both practical and elegant.
In his right hand, he held a silver sword—its polished surface catching the flicker of flame—and etched into the metal was the sigil of House Veynor: a snarling ice-wolf crowned in iron thorns. That symbol, known throughout the frozen valleys and harsh mountains, stood for merciless rule and unshakable will. The man’s pale eyes gleamed as he scanned the burning wreckage, smiling with a satisfaction too cold to be called joy.
Among the men, two figures stood apart—outsiders, clearly.
One was a woman, collapsed to her knees in the snow, her face twisted in anguish. She screamed and wailed until her voice cracked, fighting against the two men holding her back. Her fingers raked furiously at their chests, nails drawing thin red lines in their armor as she struggled with the strength of something feral. Her cries were not those of a noblewoman—they were primal, raw, the sound a bear would make if someone crushed its only cub.
The other was a boy—barely a teenager—crouched low beside the fallen horse. His strawberry blond hair glowed like dulled copper under the glow of the fire, strands catching the light whenever the flames moved near. His brown cotton shirt clung to his thin frame, darkened in patches by red stains—whether blood, mud, or something else, it wasn’t clear. His black pants were similarly marked, stiffened in places by dried wetness. He sat unnervingly close to the corpse, yet made no move to step back. The other men shifted uncomfortably at the sight, casting sideways glances at the boy. But the leader, the man with the House Veynor sword, only looked at him with narrowed eyes and a smile that never reached his lips.
“Alric,” the man called out, voice calm but laced with warning. “Get away from the horse. Wouldn’t want you getting attached to another dying thing.”
The mockery in his tone cut sharp, but the authority beneath it left no room for defiance.
“You’re no fun, Master…” Alric murmured softly, his voice high and unbroken by age. A sigh escaped him as he stood, his limbs reluctant. The horse’s lifeless eyes reflected the fire one final time before the last glimmer vanished. Alric didn’t lift his head. He knew better than to meet his master’s gaze. It would be testing fate—something he’d learned not to do. Though the man was only seven years older, he carried himself like someone far more ancient, far more dangerous.
From behind them, a heavy thud hit the snow. One of the knights—an enormous, bloated man with greasy black hair and a face that resembled mashed bread—shoved the woman to the ground. He sneered, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth, uneven and yellow like a horse with twisted gums. His meaty hands reached down, tugging at the woman’s robes.
Alric's eyes sharpened, darkening with a quiet rage. His fists clenched at his sides, and he shot the knight a glare so intense it cut through the firelight.
“Now, now, Alric,” the leader crooned, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Ser Halvar is just getting acquainted with Lady Eren.”
He turned his attention to the woman, sword lazily raising to point at her. His eyes dragged across her body in a slow, deliberate manner—not merely undressing her with his gaze, but peeling her open layer by layer, searching for something beneath the skin. Not flesh, but fear. Emotion. Suffering. That was what he craved.
After a long, unbearable moment, he flicked his wrist.
A single gesture.
Kill her.
The order fell into the cold air like a curse. Snow crunched under booted feet as the knights moved, and the roaring of the fire blended with the thudding steps. It created a symphony of destruction—the flames crackling hungrily as they tore through wood, the snow melting in steaming patches beneath them.
Alric didn’t watch.
He could have. He had seen worse. But he chose not to. He didn’t need to see her death—not for what her husband had done, not for any reason. Instead, he turned toward the flames. There was something about fire that captivated him. It danced like a mad god, wild and beautiful. Its heat melted the snowflakes that had settled over the earth like a funeral shroud.
Then came the scream.
It pierced the air with a sound like drowning—a painful gasp, the kind that came when lungs filled with smoke but couldn’t expel it fast enough.
The knights laughed behind him, their chuckles ugly and harsh. But Alric didn’t hear them.
What he heard—faint, but clear—was another cry. A different one. Higher pitched. Not a scream of pain, but of need. A call for help. A child? A creature?
He didn’t wait to find out.
Before anyone could stop him, Alric dashed toward the inferno. His body twisted to dodge the hungry flames licking at the doorway, but he felt it anyway—the heat seared through his clothing. He hoped it was only the wool catching, not his skin. The fire was hotter than anything he’d ever known, hotter even than the iron brand that had marked him when he was younger. This heat was alive. It pressed in on him like the walls of an oven, and the smoke clawed at his lungs, stealing breath.
He pushed on.
The stairs were open, but his instincts said the sound hadn’t come from above. Furniture lay scattered across the floor, overturned chairs and broken tables burning like funeral pyres. He passed a body—a man, unrecognizable in the heat and smoke. He didn’t stop to look. It could have been the cabin’s owner. A son. A servant. It didn’t matter.
The sound came from the right.
He turned sharply—and just as he did, a beam gave out overhead, crashing to the floor with a splintering shriek. It barely missed him, spraying embers like snow inside the cabin. Alric shielded his face with his sleeve, coughing violently. The air burned his throat, raw and heavy. Covering his mouth helped, but only a little. It felt like breathing fire itself.
And then—he saw it.
Nestled on the floor, barely protected by a pile of singed furs, was a baby. Tiny. Barely old enough to cry, yet somehow, miraculously, still alive.
Alric didn't hesitate.
He dropped to his knees, scooped the child into his arms, and rose. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. He didn’t know how he would get out, but he knew one thing with absolute clarity: this child would not die here.
Not if he had anything to say about it
