"Stop whining, you southern mutt," another mercenary, a burly man with a scarred cheek, grunted. "Just a few more minutes. We burn the hut, kill the woman, and all will be good. We'll be drinking hot wine by the fire in an hour."
"Aye," a third chimed in, rubbing his freezing hands together. "Have some patience, mate. Our Lord has been very generous to us tonight, right?"
Gared, panting heavily and sweating despite the freezing cold, waddled in the center of the formation. He felt a surge of arrogant pride.
"Yes, yes I am," Gared said smugly, his chins wobbling. "I am a very generous lord to those who serve me well. Just do this job fast, burn the evidence to ash, and we can talk about even more rewards later."
The confirmation of more gold sent a ripple of excitement through the freezing group of mercenaries. They gripped their weapons tighter, their greed momentarily overriding the bitter cold.
The mercenary who had complained about the cold opened his mouth, wanting to praise Gared further. "Lord Gared, you truly are—"
Thwump.
The mercenary groaned heavily. A sudden, wet gurgle escaped his lips. He stopped walking, his eyes rolling back into his head, and collapsed face-first into the deep snow. Protruding from the base of his neck was a black-feathered throwing knife.
The group froze.
"Unknown party!" the leader of the mercenaries roared, drawing his broadsword instantly. "Form up! Attack!"
From the swirling whiteout of the blizzard, five shadows descended upon them. Glendon's professional assassins clashed violently with Gared's hired mercenaries. Steel rang out against steel, a harsh, metallic screech that echoed through the silent woods. Blood sprayed hot and red across the pristine white snow.
Gared was thrown into a state of absolute, paralyzing confusion and terror.
He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, scrambling like a terrified crab until he found a thick pine tree to hide behind. He pressed his face against the rough bark, covering his ears as men screamed and died just feet away from him.
What is happening?! Gared thought, hyperventilating. Who in the Seven Hells are these men?! My luck was going so good today! I had the perfect plan! What Gods did I anger to bring this madness down on me?!
He didn't realize that his own greedy patron had decided he was a loose end that needed to be tied up.
A short distance away, the heavy wooden door of the secluded hut slammed shut.
Serena quickly dropped the heavy iron bar into place, locking it securely. They had made it. The hearth inside was still glowing with embers, providing a faint, welcoming warmth.
But there was no time to relax.
Even through the thick wooden walls, the sounds of the skirmish outside were clear. The clash of blades, the grunts of exertion, and the agonizing screams of dying men carried through the freezing night air.
Lyra stood perfectly still in the center of the room, her head tilted, analyzing the chaotic symphony of violence.
"This..." Lyra muttered, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. "There are two unknown parties out there. They aren't looking for us right now. They are attacking each other. How is that possible?"
Serena unclasped her heavy cloak, letting it drop to the floor. Her mind raced, struggling to piece the chaotic puzzle together. She was deeply confused. Who else is out there? she thought frantically. To her knowledge, the only man in the North who actively wanted them dead was the Lord Gared.
It made sense that the group belonged to the fat landlord. But what about another group? Why would they start fighting each other suddenly instead of kicking down her door?
"It's serious," Serena muttered, her green eyes hardening with resolve. "We are in grave danger, and we don't even know who all of our enemies are. If any group wins that fight, they will come for this hut next."
She walked over to the corner of the room, opening a heavy wooden trunk.
"I am going out there," Serena decided firmly. "I need to see who survives, and I need to make sure they do not come near this door. You both stay hidden. Do not make a sound."
Yoriichi stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the wooden practice sword resting by his pallet.
"Mother, I am going with you," Yoriichi stated, his crimson eyes serious. "There could be more of them. You cannot fight multiple armed men alone."
As he tried to step past her, Serena turned and grabbed him by the shoulders. She looked down at him, her expression shifting from a warrior's resolve to a mother's fierce, protective sternness.
"No," Serena commanded sharply. "You will stay here, and you will protect your sister."
"But Mother, my skills—"
"I know your skills," Serena interrupted, her voice softening just a fraction, but losing none of its authority. She reached down and gently grabbed his small right hand. "Do you think I didn't notice?"
Yoriichi paused. He tried to pull his hand away, a rare look of awkwardness and mild embarrassment crossing his usually stoic face.
Serena held his hand up. His small fingers were trembling violently, the skin a pale, sickly shade of blue. Despite his incredible breathing techniques, he could not change the fundamental laws of biology.
He was a nine-year-old child. His body lacked the mass, the blood volume, and the fat reserves to endure the extreme, sub-zero temperatures of a Northern blizzard for long periods of time. His extremities were already dangerously close to frostbite just from the walk home.
"You are a child, Yoriichi," Serena continued harshly, though her eyes were filled with love. "Your mind is a master's, but your body cannot endure this coldness for long. If you try to fight outside in this storm, your fingers will freeze to the hilt of your knife. You will lose your toes. I will not allow you to cripple yourself."
Yoriichi looked down at his trembling blue hands. He knew she was right. The logic was undeniable. The cold was an enemy his sword could not cut. He nodded slowly, stepping back to stand beside Lyra.
"But Mother, what about you?" Lyra asked, her voice trembling with fear. "It's dangerous!"
"I am good, sweet wolf," Serena reassured her, offering a brief, confident smile. Because she was an adult, her body retained heat far better, and her recent physical conditioning had toughened her immensely.
Serena didn't want to waste any more time talking. The screams outside were growing fewer, which meant a victor was emerging.
She quickly pulled off her damp, snow-soaked gloves, replacing them with a fresh, dry pair of thick boiled leather gauntlets. She bypassed the small skinning knife on the table. For an open fight in the snow against armored men, a dagger was useless.
Instead, she reached into the rafters of the hut and pulled down a weapon she had bartered from a passing sellsword months ago—a sleek, ash-wood spear tipped with a foot of castle-forged steel. It was lightweight, deadly, and kept her enemies at a distance where her lack of brute strength wouldn't matter.
Serena gripped the spear tightly, her knuckles turning white. She took a deep, localized breath, feeling the oxygen ignite her muscles and chase away the remaining chill.
Without another word, she lifted the iron bar, opened the heavy door, and stepped out into the bloody blizzard.