It had been a month since Lucius’s death.

  Winter had come early that year. The snow lay thick across the roofs of Priscilla, smothering every sound. Even the river had frozen still — as if afraid to move.

  A silence like a nightmare wrapped the village.

  The kind of silence that settles before history breaks.

  Inside her small house, Melan?e sat by the window, watching Reid play with little Arttu beside the hearth. The children’s laughter should have warmed her, but even their joy felt distant — like echoes from a life that wasn’t hers anymore.

  She coughed into her sleeve, the sound muffled. Her sickness had worsened since Frigg’s funeral. The healers said it was grief that weakened her spirit, that even Shenrog’s light could not mend a broken flame.

  She didn’t argue. They were right.

  From outside, faintly at first, came the sound of boots crunching through snow.

  Rhythmic. Marching.

  Melan?e frowned and rose from her chair. She wrapped a coat over her shoulders and stepped to the window. The sound was coming from the forest-side road — distant, but growing louder.

  She opened the door just as three figures ran past her gate.

  Loid Damien, Morry Shamlock, and Flint Hammock — the guardians of Priscilla. Their faces were grim, weapons drawn.

  “Mr. Damien!” she called. “What’s happening?”

  Loid barely slowed. “Don’t worry, Ms. Corvane — we’ll look into it!”

  And they were gone.

  Something in her chest twisted. That tone — that rushed urgency — wasn’t the voice of men confident in what they faced.

  Still, she stepped back inside. She had learned long ago that faith and fear often walked hand in hand.

  The guardians reached the forest’s edge within minutes. Their breath misted in the freezing air.

  Flint’s eyes swept the trees. “I swear I heard something.”

  “The seal looks intact,” Loid muttered, approaching the stone boundary. The lattice of runes still glowed faint blue, untouched. “Maybe the sound came from farther north—”

  He didn’t finish.

  A sudden whistle cut the air.

  A black spear tore through the fog and struck Morry square in the chest.

  “MORRY!” Flint roared, catching her before she hit the ground.

  The forest answered with footsteps. Dozens of them. Crunching snow. Slow. Measured.

  Shapes emerged from the white haze — tall, robed figures, their garments soaked in shadow. No faces, only faint glints where eyes should be. Their presence seeped into the air like smoke — heavy, cold, inevitable.

  The villagers saw them too. From across the square, shutters flew open. People stepped out, confused, clutching torches and pitchforks.

  One of the robed figures raised its hand. The air shimmered. The seal — the same seal that had once taken four high mages to craft — cracked like glass. Blue light shattered into the sky and vanished.

  Then came a voice — not shouted, but deep enough to shake the snow from the roofs.

  “Where is the child?”

  The villagers froze. No one understood the language, but the word child was clear.

  There was no answer.

  The figure tilted its head. Then, slowly, almost lazily, it extended its arm.

  From its palm bloomed a black flame.

  It spread like a living thing. Crawling across the ground, licking at the houses, devouring wood and flesh alike. People screamed as the curse caught their skin — and did not burn them, but unmade them.

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  Flint drew his sword, light bursting along its edge. “Guardians! With me!”

  Loid’s daggers gleamed, white against the darkness. “Keep them away from the village!”

  The two men charged. Holy light clashed with shadow. For a moment, it looked as if they might hold the line — until a new figure stepped forward from the mist.

  He moved like water — fast, effortless. A single slash of his sword cut through the night.

  Loid barely saw him. One moment he was there; the next, his head struck the snow, rolling into the firelight.

  “Loid!” Flint shouted — and then the blade came again, cleaving him from shoulder to waist.

  The fight ended as quickly as it began.

  The robed figures walked through the burning streets, silent and slow, as if death itself were taking a stroll.

  By the time the fire reached the western quarter, Priscilla was already gone.

  Houses cracked and fell, the flames painting the snow orange. The smell of smoke and blood filled the air. The screams had started to fade, replaced by the low groan of collapsing beams.

  In a small house at the far edge of the village, Melan?e sat on the floor, her back against the cradle. Arttu slept in her arms, his tiny breaths calm against her chest.

  Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders. Her eyes — once so gentle — now burned with something else. Not fear. Not despair. Resolve.

  Reid stood before her, clutching his nunchaku. The candle beside him flickered wildly, its flame struggling against the draft of smoke sneaking in through the cracks.

  “Take your brother,” Melan?e whispered.

  Reid shook his head instantly. “No, Mother. I can’t—”

  She smiled, though her lips trembled. “Take your brother and run, Reid.”

  The sound of destruction outside was getting closer — the crack of wood, the crash of stone, the rising hiss of flame.

  “You’re a strong child,” she said softly. “Stronger than you think.”

  Tears welled in his eyes. “Please come with us—”

  Her fingers brushed his cheek, warm and tender. “Take care of Arttu. He doesn’t know anything yet.”

  A beam above them groaned. Firelight seeped through the roof.

  Fate was no longer waiting.

  Reid’s breath caught in his throat. He looked at her one last time — memorizing every detail, every line, every flicker of her smile — then turned and obeyed.

  He wore his coat, wrapped Arttu in a blanket, tucked him against his chest, and ran.

  The door burst open into a world of snow and fire. The sky itself was burning. Ash fell like black petals, landing on his shoulders as he ran down the narrow path between the trees.

  He didn’t know where he was going. Only that he had something in his arms worth dying for.

  Arttu didn’t cry. He only stared up at his brother, eyes wide and calm, smiling towards Reid with innocence.

  And in that frozen moment — as the world behind them burned — Reid made a promise.

  “No matter what happens… I will protect him.”

  But deep within the forest, where the light of the burning village couldn’t reach, someone else was watching.

  A boy stood alone among the snow-covered trees. His cloak of fur hung heavy with frost. His right hand glowed faintly with violet light, pulsing with a rhythm that wasn’t human.

  He watched the flames consume Priscilla — his home, his past — and didn’t move.

  His eyes reflected the fire, but held no warmth. Only emptiness.

  And as the first snowflakes fell again, soft and soundless, He lowered his hand.

  The light faded.

  He turned toward the mountains.

  And walked into the dark.

  Snow kept falling.

  The flames of Priscilla still licked the horizon, faint now — like dying stars scattered across a frozen sky.

  In the forest, Reid stumbled through deep drifts of snow, Arttu pressed tightly against his chest beneath the folds of his coat. His lungs burned with every breath. Each exhale came out in pale clouds that vanished as quickly as they formed.

  Behind him, the orange glow of the burning village dimmed into a gray haze — a ghost of light trembling at the edge of the world. He had been running for hours, and with every hour his steps grew heavier, his breath more ragged.

  “We’re almost there,” he whispered, though he didn’t know where there was. His voice cracked, breaking the silence like a child breaking glass.

  Somewhere far beyond the trees, a wolf howled — not hungry, but mournful, like the echo of a prayer that had come too late.

  The forest stretched endlessly ahead, the branches bowed low with frost, creaking under the weight of winter. The moonlight spilled across the snow in long, cold ribbons.

  Reid’s knees buckled once; he fell hard, catching himself before Arttu could hit the ground. His hands stung from the ice. For a moment, he stayed there — gasping, trembling, surrounded by the sound of his own heartbeat.

  Then a tiny sound pulled him back.

  Arttu stirred, blinking up at him through the folds of the blanket, his eyes wide and innocent. He wasn’t crying. He never cried.

  “It’s okay,” Reid breathed, forcing a smile. His voice was barely a whisper. “I promised, remember?”

  He pushed himself up again, his legs shaking, and kept moving. One step. Then another.

  Through the blur of snow and tears, he thought he saw it — a faint shimmer of smoke rising in the distance. A tavern, maybe. A miracle, maybe. Something alive.

  The forest was silent except for the crunch of his boots and the soft, steady breaths of the baby in his arms.

  And somewhere deeper within those endless woods, unseen by either of them, a flicker of violet light pulsed in the dark — once, twice, slow as a heartbeat.

  The snow around it hissed softly, melting where it touched.

  Then, just as suddenly, it vanished.

  Reid’s vision blurred. His body gave out before his will did. He fell forward into the snow, his arms tightening protectively around Arttu even as consciousness slipped away.

  The wind rose, carrying with it the faint scent of ash from the ruins behind them.

  Snow still kept falling.

  Soft. Relentless. Endless.

  And beneath that quiet storm, two brothers lay at the edge of a world that had already forgotten them.