The wind howled like a starving wolf as they climbed the slope, visibility choked to near nothing by the roiling snow. Branches cracked under ice; the ground turned treacherous beneath their boots. All around them, the Mourning Peaks loomed in half-seen shapes—ghostly spines of rock vanishing into the white abyss above.

“We should stop,” gasped Halven, his arm pressed tight against a hastily bound wound at his ribs. “We need rest. Fire.”

“No fire,” Telaryn hissed. “Smoke rises. We keep moving.”

The others didn’t argue. Cold made cowards of all but the dead.

They moved in near silence, the group now no more than six. The scribe had succumbed earlier that morning, breath turning shallow, then still. They had left him beneath a cairn of frost-hardened stones. None had spoken the old words over his body. Not with legion patrols somewhere behind them.

It was **Weylan**, the youngest of the remaining guards, who first raised his hand.

“Movement,” he breathed. “Downslope.”

They froze.

Through a gap in the snow-flecked brush, just beyond a frozen streambed, figures moved—armor gleaming faintly beneath cloaks of snowmoss. A squad of imperial scouts. Five soldiers, maybe six, moving in a loose crescent. Spears and shortblades. Eyes scanning the white like wolves tasting the wind.

**Marcas’s men.**

“Shit,” someone muttered.

Then the bark of a commander’s voice rang out—sharp, imperial.

“Hold!” Telaryn hissed, but it was too late.

Weylan’s hand slipped, bowstring snapping. The arrow missed.

The scouts turned as one.

“RUN!” someone shouted.

But Telaryn stood firm.

Steel hissed from her scabbard—not ceremonial this time. The weight bit her palm with forgotten familiarity. She’d been trained to fight, of course. Like all noble daughters of Talpis. But never for this. Never for blood.

The first scout reached her—young, maybe her age. His spear drove forward.

She parried awkwardly, blade sliding across the haft. He twisted. She ducked low, caught him in the thigh, drove her sword in deep as he cried out. Her heart hammered—not from fear, but from something stranger.

Behind her, shouts rang out. The others had formed a loose line. Halven fought like a dying bear—slow, powerful. Another legionary screamed as Alisha buried a dagger in his ribs, face white with terror.

Telaryn’s breath came in clouds. Another soldier charged.

She did not retreat.

This one she killed cleanly—blade slipping beneath the helmet, through the soft of the jaw. Blood painted the snow.

It was **Captain Enric**—the one who had stayed at her father’s side during the first retreat—who took the wound. A thrown pilum caught him in the back as he turned to shield Halven. He dropped with a grunt, blood already soaking through his cloak.

They drove the last of the scouts back. Two were dead, one fled screaming downslope. But it didn’t matter.

They were found.

Telaryn stood over the bodies, her sword trembling in her hand.

She stared at the blood-streaked snow. At Enric, struggling to breathe.

“I’ll be fine,” he lied.

She knelt beside him, wiped his brow. His eyes were full of pain. Of pride.

“You did well, my lady,” he whispered. “He’d have… been proud.”

She wanted to answer. But words caught in her throat.

From the ridge above, the sound of a horn echoed—distant, but near enough.

More were coming.

“Carry him,” she said.

Alisha moved beside her. “Ryn—”

“Help me. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”