Dagavia had long since disappeared behind them. Jungle thinned into high grass plains. Winter arrived without ceremony. It did not storm. It did not rage. It simply claimed the land in a single white breath. Nearly three weeks passed beneath unbroken clouds.

  The wind moved through the morning like something unseen, but wilful. Snow clung to the mountains in the distance, smoothing their edges until they looked ancient and unreachable. The forests stood muted. Even the animals seemed to understand that the sound did not belong to this season.

  The earth hardened beneath a thin glaze of ice. It had come sooner than expected.

  West pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders.

  “AHH-CHOO!” He buried his face into the wool lining, shoulders trembling. “Damn winter snow. It got me sick!”

  The words came out thinner than he intended.

  Ahead, Tyrus rode at the front, scanning the terrain. They were nearing the port town of Azure. Signs of settlement began to appear as they pressed forward. Low farmhouses crouched against the frost. Chicken coops leaned into the wind. Smoke lifted from distant chimneys in pale threads.

  Civilization. Warmth. Shelter.

  West lifted the collar of his coat to cover his neck, but the cold had already found its way inside him.

  Hoofbeats approached, muffled by snow. Tyrus rode back, horse breathing steam into the air. “This is it, West. We should arrive at the port before nightfall.”

  West looked up, forcing brightness into his expression. “Great! That’s great…!”

  Tyrus studied him. “What’s wrong?”

  A grin, quick and tactical. “Nah. Just a cold. I’m alright.”

  He nudged the donkey forward before Tyrus could linger.

  They rode until the land opened and the vast bay appeared, stretching silver and endless against the horizon. West slowed. The sight of water always carried weight. Memory. Finality.

  Tyrus halted beside him.

  A sudden blur of white cut through the brush. A fox. Its coat almost indistinguishable from the snow, save for the sharp gleam of ruby eyes.

  Tyrus eased his reins, caught by the quiet beauty of it.

  Swoosh.

  A small stone flew clean and true.

  It struck the fox’s head with brutal precision. No cry followed. The body collapsed into the snow, red spilling out the mouth in a slow bloom against the white. The fox twitched for a moment before going stiff.

  Tyrus turned.

  West still held a second stone, gaze fixed on the fallen shape as if waiting for it to rise again.

  The wind moved between them.

  West sniffled, lowered his hand, and met Tyrus’s eyes. “Winter’s coming. It’ll make a fine scarf.”

  He dismounted, boots sinking into the powder, and crossed toward the body. His steps were steady, but his shoulders bore a stiffness that had nothing to do with the cold.

  Halfway there, he paused and glanced back.

  “Let’s take a break?” West asked

  “No. We’re not that far. We can rest in town.” Tyrus remained mounted, eyes drifting briefly to West’s coat pocket. The shape inside was familiar. The small weight that had not left him since Omni’s death.

  “If you’re feeling ill, we can make camp here.”

  The offer hung in the air, quiet and careful. Winter watched them both.

  West moved first.

  He guided the donkey closer and cleared a shallow circle in the frozen dirt with the heel of his boot. The ground resisted. The cold had hardened everything. He worked anyway.

  Tyrus dismounted and joined him without comment. Together they built a small fire, coaxing flame from brittle twigs and dry brush. The light flickered low, more suggestion than warmth.

  They sat across from one another, firelight moving across their faces.

  West’s hand disappeared into Nadrin’s oversized coat.

  “AH-CHOO!”

  He sniffed hard and dragged his sleeve across his nose, shoulders tightening against another chill.

  “Are you nervous?”

  West glanced up through the firelight as he fashioned the fox fur with a small blade. “About what?”

  “It’s never easy to bring home bad news.”

  For a moment, only the crackle of the fire answered. West’s gaze settled into the flames. “Quite a final task the old man saddled me with.” The corner of his mouth lifted, but the expression never reached his eyes.

  “It is an honorable task. One that can crush even the strongest warrior.”

  West let out a soft breath through his nose. “Even in death, my honor is tied to serving him.” His fingers slid into his coat pocket. When they emerged, they carried the silk cord and the blue orb bound to it.

  “It’s duty, not honor.” The orb caught the firelight and held it, deep and luminous. “Do you know what this is?” He dangled it slightly before tossing it across the space between them.

  Tyrus caught it carefully. The surface felt colder than the air.

  “This is the God’s Eye.” West rose slowly and circled the fire, boots grinding lightly in the frost. “The Kesh believe it holds the visions of the past, present, and future. The promise of an eternal kingdom. Violence and destruction, or peace and plenty. It all depends on who sees.”

  He stopped behind Tyrus.

  “They’re waiting for someone who can see the vision. Through prophecy. Or ascension.”

  A pause.

  “So tell me. What do you see?”

  Tyrus turned the orb in his hand, studying its depths as if something might stir inside. “I see a nice jewel.” A small smile. He held it back out.

  West barked a short laugh and reclaimed it. “I knew you weren’t the guy!” He returned to his place and slipped the orb back into his pocket, fingers lingering there a second longer than necessary.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  West tilted his head slightly. “Have you already forgotten what the old man was always going on about?”

  The fire snapped between them.

  Tyrus let the question pass.

  “So what should we expect tomorrow?”

  “Nothing.” West lowered himself onto the ground, drawing the coat tighter. “We take the Eye back and leave. We don’t have time to linger.”

  His gaze drifted toward the dark horizon. “The Kesh are good people. The less time spent with them, the better.” The words carried a strange finality. “The old man taught me that.” He lay back, one arm over his eyes. “I’m going to try and rest before I sneeze my brains out.” Within moments, his breathing slowed, though it never quite settled.

  Tyrus remained seated.

  In the distance, beyond the dark stretch of land, the faint lights of Azure flickered against the night. Warm. Inviting. Alive.

  He lowered himself onto the frozen ground, the cold pressing through his clothes, and kept his eyes on the horizon long after the fire burned low.

  By morning, the snow had finished its quiet conquest. Every footprint from the night before had vanished. The world looked untouched, as if nothing had ever crossed it.

  Tyrus forced himself upright, brushing frost from his cloak. West was already crouched near a small fire, coaxing weak flame from damp kindling.

  “I figured we should eat something before we go.”

  Tyrus glanced around at the white expanse. “Eat what? There’s nothing out here but ice and snow.”

  West’s gaze drifted. It lingered briefly on Tyrus’s horse. A faint smile touched his mouth.

  “Come on, West. The sooner we do this, the better.” Tyrus nudged snow over the struggling flame, smothering it in a hiss of steam.

  West stared at the extinguished fire. His jaw tightened. He inhaled slowly, then sniffed hard against the cold biting at his sinuses.

  “You’re right.”

  They mounted and rode toward Azure.

  The port town stirred with morning life. Fishermen hauled nets heavy with silver bodies. Gulls wheeled overhead. The sharp scent of brine and fish oil hung thick in the air, clinging to clothes and skin alike.

  “So how are we going to find them? This place is busy.” Tyrus asked as he looked around the lively port area.

  “We look near a temple. Or an infirmary.” West dismounted before they reached the square. He walked ahead, shoulders squared, as if choosing a direction at random.

  A man was arranging small glass bottles across a wooden booth.

  “Excuse me, sir. Any idea where my friend and I can find the local temple?”

  The merchant looked up.

  “All my Gods!” He recoiled sharply, pressing a sleeve to his nose. “Stay right there! I’m sorry, but you absolutely stink!”

  West blinked. “What!? This whole town smells like damn fish!” He gestured broadly toward the harbor.

  “Sir, please don’t be offended. I only tell you this for your own good.” The man recovered quickly, placing a polished box atop his booth. “You’re fortunate it’s me, I sell fragrant oils. The finest in Azure at unbeatable prices!” He opened the lid, revealing neat rows of tiny bottles.

  West stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”

  “If you’re not buying, then keep walking. You’re stinking up my air!” The man’s hand curled into a fist on the edge of the table.

  Something in West shifted. He seized the edge of the booth and flipped it. Glass shattered across the packed snow. Oils spilled, sharp perfumes mixing violently with fish and salt.

  “You son of a—” The merchant’s anger faltered as he noticed Tyrus stepping closer.

  “CONSTABLE AUGIE!” The man staggered backward. “Someone fetch the constable! I’m being robbed!”

  “Let’s keep moving, West! This isn’t the time…” Tyrus caught West’s sleeve, but West did not step back.

  The crowd parted for a rotund man with a long white beard and a bronze badge pinned to his chest. “What’s all this, Sherm?”

  “These men are attempting to rob and intimidate me!” Sherm crouched, scrambling to salvage his scattered bottles.

  “This man is lying.” Tyrus’s voice carried steady restraint.

  “You’re the liars! And the foul thieves!” Sherm shoved the bottles upright again with shaking hands.

  The constable moved between them, palms raised. “Now, gentlemen. Let’s calm ourselves. Sherm, was anything damaged or stolen?”

  “My bottles! They were all ruined when this one dropped them!” Sherm jabbed a finger toward West. “They’re unsellable now!”

  West stepped forward without hesitation. He flipped the booth again. Wood slammed into the snow. Glass shattered anew.

  The crowd gasped.

  Tyrus muttered a curse under his breath and fixed his gaze on West, searching for sense in the madness.

  But West’s expression was almost serene. Almost relieved. As if this were easier.

  Sherm lunged first. His fingers latched onto West’s coat, clutching wool and jerking him forward. The two stumbled into each other, boots grinding against packed snow. Augie wedged himself between them, arms straining to pry them apart.

  Tyrus moved next. He seized the back of West’s coat and wrenched him free, sending him hard, ass-first onto the ground. In the same motion, he shoved Sherm away. The merchant staggered backward and crashed into a clay pot of lavender oil. The vessel toppled, spilling pale liquid into the snow. The scent rose thick and cloying.

  Tyrus turned and loomed over West. “Will you please show a little more self-control?” His voice cut low and sharp.

  West pushed himself upright, brushing snow from his coat. His gaze drifted over the growing crowd. Faces eager. Curious. Waiting. He dusted off his sleeves as if this were a minor inconvenience.

  Augie drew his blade with a metallic whisper. “We tried this the easy way.” He stepped toward West, measured and deliberate. “I’m going to ask for your weapon, son.”

  “What are you doing!? Arrest him, you useless hog!” Sherm’s voice cracked over the noise.

  Augie did not look back. “Quiet down, Sherm. Or I’m taking you in as well.”

  West hesitated. He retreated a single step until his back met Tyrus’s chest. His fingers hovered near the hilt at his hip. “What do we do, Tyrus?”

  Augie continued forward, blade angled but not yet raised. “Don’t let the size of that sword give you a false sense of superiority. No real damage done yet. This can still be settled with a fine and paperwork.”

  Tyrus scanned the edges of the crowd, searching for space to break through. There was none. Bodies pressed tight. The circle had closed. Groaning, Tyrus barely managed to respond, “Hand him the weapon.” The words left him heavy.

  “Surrender!? Now? Here!” West’s eyes moved across the faces surrounding them. Strangers. Fishermen. Vendors. Children standing on crates to see better.

  “No.” The answer was quiet.

  “Enough of the tough act. We’re outnumbered.” Tyrus’s jaw tightened.

  “Listen to your friend, son.” Augie’s tone remained steady. “You can collect your blade from my office tomorrow morning. After you’ve cooled off.”

  The morning air felt thinner. West’s hand settled fully on the hilt. Not because he intended to draw. West grunted and unholstered the blade. For a moment, he held it longer than necessary. Then he extended it hilt-first.

  Augie accepted it and tucked it beneath his arm. “Good.” He gestured, and several deputies pushed through the crowd, steel glinting in their hands. “My men are going to search you for any other weapons. We’ll confiscate them for the day. You may retrieve them tomorrow morning.”

  They approached carefully.

  “Get your hands off me!” West shoved the nearest deputy. The man staggered, and the others reacted instantly, spreading in a half-circle. Another guard lunged. West was driven to the ground, snow and dirt filling his mouth as weight bore down across his shoulders. He twisted violently beneath them.

  Tyrus flinched forward, only to find daggers hovering inches from his throat and ribs.

  “Quite the temper on your friend.” Augie watched with mild curiosity as Tyrus was searched.

  On the ground, West bucked and snarled, elbows and knees striking blindly. The deputies tried to pin his arms, but he fought with reckless fury, refusing to let their hands near his coat.

  “He’s hiding something!” Sherm’s voice carried over the struggle.

  A deputy forced his hand into West’s pocket. Fingers closed around silk. “Augie… Take a look at this!”

  The God’s Eye rose above the crowd, catching the pale winter light. Blue and terrible.

  West lifted his head from the snow. “GIVE IT BACK!” The words came out raw.

  A boot pressed his face down again, grinding frost against his cheek.

  Augie stepped closer, studying the orb with narrowed eyes. “Well. That’s unfortunate.” He looked from the Eye to West. “Chain them. Both of them.”

  Tyrus moved first. He drove a heel into the knee of the man beside him and swung hard at another. For a heartbeat, the circle broke. Then it closed. Two men crashed into him from behind. The ground struck fast and unforgiving. His arms were wrenched back, metal biting into his wrists. Cold iron locked tight.

  Across the snow, West had sunk his teeth into a guard’s ankle. The man howled. A kick snapped West’s head sideways. Blood spilled bright against the white. Still, he fought. Chains wrapped around his wrists. Around his ankles. They dragged him upright, and he twisted against them, shoulders straining, breath ragged, eyes feral.

  He did not look like a man being detained. He looked like something captured.

  Tyrus knelt in the snow, hands bound behind him. He forced himself still, breathing through the cold burn in his lungs. Strength would be needed later. West continued to struggle, blood trailing from his nose, chains rattling with each violent jerk.

  Omnis crown rested in Augie’s palm. The crowd watched. And the temple bells of Azure began to ring in the distance.