Chapter Three

  The cold bit sharper that morning, as if the wind itself wanted to test Ryder’s resolve.

  He stood near the stables, wrapped in a thick wool cloak Gorm had lent him. Around him, Islehaim’s hunters readied their gear—quiet men and women with fur-lined leathers, braided hair, and weathered eyes. They spoke little, but watched him closely, weighing the outsider in their own way.

  A broad-shouldered man stepped forward and handed him a simple bow and a quiver of arrows. The man grunted, “Not the finest make, but it’ll send a shaft through a deer's neck if you’ve got the hand for it.”

  Ryder took the weapon, testing its weight. The draw was stiff, the grip worn smooth from years of use. “It’ll do,” he said.

  Truth was, he’d never been fond of bows. Not because he lacked the strength or focus—but because it demanded a different kind of patience. The Black Crows trained him for close combat, silent blades and quick finishes. A bow? That required breath, stillness, waiting. He wasn’t good at waiting.

  Still, he knew enough.

  They mounted up, Ryder sharing a horse with a young hunter named Einar, and rode out from Grimhold into the frostbitten woods. Snow clung to the branches like brittle lace, and every sound—the crunch of hooves, the snap of twigs—felt amplified beneath the still sky.

  They tracked fresh prints—hoofed, fast-moving, probably elk. The hunters split into pairs. Ryder followed Einar, who moved like he belonged to the forest. Every step, every glance had purpose.

  After an hour, Einar pointed to a rise just ahead. “There. We wait.”

  They crouched low, the cold seeping through their boots. Ryder pulled an arrow, nocked it with steady fingers, and waited. Minutes passed. Then movement—just beyond the brush. Antlers.

  Einar gave a low signal, and Ryder rose halfway from his crouch.

  He exhaled.

  Drew.

  Loosed.

  The arrow flew true—struck the beast’s shoulder just shy of the heart. It jolted, stumbled, and bolted into the thicket.

  “Good enough,” Einar muttered, already running.

  They tracked the blood trail through tangled roots and icy streams, finally finding the elk collapsed beside a frozen ravine. It was still breathing, weakly.

  Ryder approached, drew his hunting knife, and with a swift, practiced movement, ended its pain.

  He stood there a moment, watching the last mist of breath fade from its nostrils. Not out of guilt—but of respect. He hadn’t lost that.

  When they returned to Grimhold with the others, carrying their kills across their shoulders, the sun was already low.

  And the first of many eyes in the village began to shift.

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  The outsider could hunt.

  As they crossed the village gates, a gust of snow-laced wind welcomed them home. The hunters dismounted one by one, unloading elk, deer, and boars from their sleds and mounts. The air filled with the heavy scent of blood and pine.

  Ryder walked alongside Einar, dragging the elk he’d brought down. The beast's body was bound in rope, half-covered with a hunting cloak. Around the central square, villagers had already begun gathering, offering passing nods or curious glances. Some had started recognizing him. Not by name—yet—but by presence.

  Near the butchering shed stood a stocky man with a long gray beard tucked into his belt. His apron was stained dark and stiff with dried blood. A massive cleaver hung from his hip like a war axe. He was speaking sharply with two boys trying to lift a wild boar onto a cutting table.

  “Hrolf,” Einar called out, waving Ryder over. “We’re back.”

  Hrolf turned, narrowing his eyes. He took quick stock of the animals being hauled in, then strode toward Ryder with the swagger of a man who’d spent half his life elbow-deep in carcasses and never lost a fight to one.

  “This the outsider?” he asked, voice like crushed gravel.

  “He got his own kill,” Einar said simply, nodding toward the elk.

  Hrolf gave a grunt and stepped around Ryder, examining the wound. He traced a calloused hand over the entry point, then gave a short nod. “Not clean, but not bad. You didn’t waste the meat.” He glanced up, appraising Ryder more closely now. “You ever dress a kill?”

  “More than once,” Ryder said.

  “Good. You’ll help. Bring that to the leather racks.”

  As if on command, two other hunters grabbed the elk’s legs and hoisted it onto a nearby table. Hrolf pointed toward a freshly slain deer behind him. “That one goes to the butcher’s, along with the boar. Rest—leather.”

  Without further ceremony, he plunged his cleaver into the spine of the deer with brutal efficiency. “No standing around. You kill it, you clean it.”

  Ryder rolled up his sleeves and stepped in.

  Hours passed in rhythmic labor—cutting, skinning, separating meat from sinew. The work was rough and cold and oddly grounding. Hrolf said little, only giving curt nods when a cut was clean or a hide was peeled just right.

  By the time dusk fell, the work tables were bare, and the stone troughs were full. The air stank of iron and salt.

  Talcroft Kingdom

  Beneath the towering stones of Emberhol, hidden far below the heart of Talcroft’s capital, magic stirred in silence. The secret sanctum—an arcane chamber forbidden to all but the highest in the Black Crows—glowed dimly with violet light. Sigils pulsed faintly along the floor, their magic ancient, humming with restless energy.

  At the heart of the chamber floated Valdis—her robes dark as night, etched with violet threads that shimmered like lightning in stormclouds. Her bare feet hung inches above the cold obsidian floor. Its blade shimmered with a deep purple hue, resonating with residual magic that had once been bound to its master.

  Eyes closed, Valdis whispered in the tongue of Aria—ancient and sharp. The spell laced itself around the blade, reaching outward across the world like invisible strands. She followed it through the storm, over the sea, past the wreck... and then—

  The connection snapped.

  Her eyes flared open. The dagger dropped, clattering to the stone floor like any mundane weapon.

  “The trail…” she whispered, breath catching. “It ends. Right in the middle of the sea.”

  Hayes, who had been leaning over the map table nearby, straightened up, his brow furrowed. “So he’s dead, then. Drowned like a fool.”

  Argus stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the rough ink markings that mapped the northern ocean. The Bay of Spears. His jaw tightened.

  “No,” he said. “If he drowned, there’d be nothing. Not even a flicker. But the magic stopped—cut off. That means something interfered.”

  “Or he cut himself off,” Valdis said, lifting the dagger from the floor with a flick of her fingers. “He’s always been good at hiding. Too good.”

  Hayes moved his hand across the map, tapping two locations. “If he’s alive, he’d go to ground somewhere far. Only two places with the right kind of silence. Aria... or Islehaim.”

  Valdis’s gaze narrowed. “He wouldn’t return to Aria. Not after what happened to his mother.”

  “He might,” Argus said, though the doubt in his voice betrayed him. “But Islehaim is... remote. Isolated. Full of monsters and old magic. A good place to disappear.”

  They stood in silence a moment.

  Hayes broke it. “Then we split.”

  Argus nodded. “You take Aria. Quiet. Careful. Ask questions. Don’t draw attention.”

  Hayes gave him a crooked grin. “When have I ever drawn attention?”

  Valdis turned away, already gathering her satchel. “Argus and I will head north. If he’s in Islehaim, we’ll find him. One way or another.”

  As the three operatives of the Black Crows parted ways in the underground silence, none of them realized—they were already far too late.

  Islehaim - Grimhold

  The wind howled low through the eaves of the village as Ryder pushed open the wooden door of the hut. Snow clung to his shoulders and the heavy furs he wore, and in his hands, he carried a fresh haul—two rabbits and a plump, wild pheasant, tied together by a leather cord.

  Inside, the warmth of the hearth greeted him. The fire cracked and popped, casting flickering shadows on the timbered walls. Gorm sat in his usual spot, hunched forward with his thick hands wrapped around a steaming horn of mead. Elva was beside him, mending a fur cloak, her needle dancing in rhythm with the firelight.

  Both looked up as the door creaked shut behind Ryder.

  “You’re late,” Gorm grumbled without looking directly at him, though the note of approval in his voice was unmistakable.

  Ryder dropped the game beside the fire. “Snow slowed us. Tracks were harder to follow.”

  Elva’s eyes softened as she set her stitching aside and rose. “You brought back more than the others. Hrolf will be pleased.”

  “I only did my part,” Ryder said simply, brushing the snow from his cloak and stepping closer to the hearth. The scent of pine and smoked wood curled around him.

  Gorm stood and reached for the pheasant. “We’ll smoke this one. The rest goes in the stew.”

  As Gorm moved to the preparation bench, Elva glanced at Ryder and smiled. “Sit. Warm yourself.”

  He did. And for a moment, the three of them existed in the quiet rhythm of shared survival. There was no talk of past lives, no weight of shadows from foreign lands—just the soft sound of fire, the clatter of a pot, and the gentle hum of comfort. For the first time in days, the hut felt like more than shelter. It felt like the beginning of something steadier.