Morning came in thin light that struggled to push through the frost-coated windows of the Norveil barracks. The smell of oil, steel, and cold bread clung to the air. Kairo sat on the edge of his bunk, tightening the straps on his boots, counting the sounds around him: blades being drawn, armor buckles clinking, the breath of men who no longer slept easily.
Since the Blood Oath, nobody spoke to him first. They glanced at him, the ghost who had killed one of their own, and looked away. When they trained, they left a space in the line where he used to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. Now that the gap followed him everywhere.
He didn't blame them. He didn't blame anyone anymore.
Outside, snow drifted in slow spirals, the world muffled by it. Kairo moved through the yard and began the drills that had become habit: draw, strike, pivot, breathe. His sword cut the air with mechanical precision. But when he paused, he noticed something new, thin frost tracing the metal even though the forge fires nearby burned hot. He touched the hilt; the chill sank through the glove, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.
The Specter Heart again. Each pulse is a whisper under his ribs, soft, patient. Sometimes he thought he could hear words in it. Sometimes he wondered if he was only losing his mind.
The bell tower rang once, calling the morning roll. He cased the sword and joined the line. Sergeant Garron's eyes slid over him without a word. The general wasn't there; missions were being planned behind closed doors. Only rumors drifted out, about uprisings in the south, miners refusing tribute, and another winter ration cut. The kingdom was cracking, but Norveil stood as if it would never fall.
After inspection, Kairo lingered by the wall that overlooked the lower town. Below him, the narrow streets were still asleep, smoke rising from the blacksmiths' chimneys. Children in rags chased each other through snow that reached their knees. He remembered being one of them once, before the uniform, before Varin, before the ghosts.
He flexed his hands; the leather creaked. The skin along his fingers was pale, almost translucent. When he pressed his thumb to his palm, tiny crystals formed and melted again. He blew on them, watching them vanish. The heart inside him was doing this, reminding him he wasn't like the others anymore.
A soft voice pulled him back."You train too early."
Garron. The older soldier had appeared beside him, holding two tin cups of steaming broth. He handed one over. "You'll wear yourself out before the next campaign."
Kairo took the cup. "If I stop moving, I start thinking."
"About him?" Garron's tone was careful.
Kairo didn't answer. The steam from the cup blurred his face.
Garron sighed. "You did what the General ordered. That's all that matters."
"Maybe." Kairo looked out over the city again. "But the snow remembers everything we bury in it."
The sergeant frowned, unsure how to reply. "Drink before it freezes," he muttered, and left.
Kairo stayed. The broth went cold in his hands.
From the parapet, he could see the far wall of Norveil, the white line that separated the kingdom from the endless wilderness. Beyond that, rumor said, lay the lands where the gods had once walked, now buried under ice. He wondered if they still listened from beneath it. Suppose they remembered names like Varin's. Like his.
A wind rose, carrying the low groan of the frozen forests. For a heartbeat, he thought it sounded like a voice calling his own.
He turned away, the taste of metal on his tongue, and walked back toward the barracks where the next order waited to be written.
Suddenly, the orders came.A rider brought them through the gates, parchment stiff with cold. Garron read aloud to the assembled company, his breath smoking in the air.
"Squad Seven will proceed to Duskfall Village to investigate reports of rebellion and contraband. Secure the area. Maintain order."
"Maintain order." In Norveil, that meant to do whatever is necessary.
Kairo adjusted the strap across his shoulder and fell into line with six others. Boots crunched on frost; armor groaned. No one spoke. The snow had a way of swallowing voices.
They rode for hours across open plains where the wind scraped the earth bare. The sun was a pale coin behind thin clouds. Every so often, Garron barked a command, and the line shifted like clockwork. The rhythm was almost comforting: march, breathe, step. But the Specter Heart under Kairo's ribs kept breaking the rhythm, beating faster whenever his thoughts drifted back to Varin's face.
At dusk, they made camp in a hollow near a frozen stream. Firelight flickered against the ice, throwing orange and blue across the helmets piled beside them. One of the younger soldiers, Rhett, barely sixteen, passed a flask around. "To the Wolves," he said with a shaky grin. No one answered, but everyone drank. When it reached Kairo, he tipped it slightly and let the liquor burn his throat. The warmth didn't stay long.
Rhett leaned toward him. "Is it true?" he whispered. "That you killed a man with one stroke?"
Kairo looked at the boy. "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answered."
Rhett swallowed and turned away. The fire crackled, eating through the silence.
Later, when the others slept, Kairo stood watch. The night was so clear that he could see the line of mountains far to the east, white teeth under a black sky. He thought about Duskfall, about what they would find there. Every mission since the Blood Oath had been called reconnaissance; every one had ended in ashes.
He touched his chest. The heart beat slow, steady, colder than the air. When he exhaled, the frost that left his lips glowed faintly blue before vanishing. He clenched his fist and whispered to the darkness,"Stay quiet. Just stay quiet."
The wind did not answer.
Duskfall appeared on the third day, a cluster of wooden houses pressed against a slope, smoke rising thinly from a few remaining chimneys. The snow on the roofs was undisturbed; no footprints marked the main road. Even the birds were gone.
Garron raised a fist. "Weapons ready. Keep formation."
They entered slowly. Doors creaked open a crack as they passed. Faces peeked out—thin, pale, afraid. Kairo's gaze caught on a child clutching a carved wooden wolf. The boy's eyes were the same color as the frost on Kairo's sword.
"Commander," a soldier muttered, "no banners, no guards. The place looks dead."
"Then we'll wake it," Garron said.
They reached the square where a stone well stood half-buried in snow. Beside it hung the torn remains of Norveil's banner. Garron cursed under his breath. "Rebellion confirmed."
He signaled to the men. "Search every house."
Kairo hesitated. "Sir, there are civilians."
Garron cut him off. "And if they shelter rebels, they're enemies. Move."
The squad split up. Doors crashed open. Shouts rose. Somewhere, a woman screamed. Kairo forced himself forward, checking each building, eyes scanning for armed men, but finding only fear. In one house, an old man knelt beside a broken table, hands raised. "We gave them food," he said. "That's all. Please."
Kairo lowered his blade. "Stay inside."
He stepped out again and saw smoke curling from the far end of the village. A house burned. The wind carried the smell of pitch and something worse.
He ran.
Two soldiers were dragging a man through the snow, the body limp between them. Garron stood over them, sword drawn. "He resisted," one soldier said.
Garron looked at Kairo. "End it."
Kairo's throat tightened. "He's unarmed."
"Orders."
The world narrowed to Garron's hand pointing at the prisoner, to the rasp of steel, to the thud of the Specter Heart against his ribs. He wanted to obey. He wanted to stop. The two impulses collided, and the cold inside him surged.
A wave of frost burst from his feet, freezing the ground in a spreading circle. Everyone stumbled back. Kairo's breath came out as mist so thick it glittered.
"Stand down!" Garron shouted.
Kairo's sword hung motionless. The prisoner looked up, eyes wide, lips blue. Behind him, the burning house groaned and collapsed.
Something inside Kairo snapped. He swung the blade, not at the prisoner, but at the chains around his wrists. Metal shattered. The man fell free, scrambling toward the trees.
Garron shouted. The soldiers raised their bows.
Kairo turned on them, voice low but sharp. "Let him run."
No one moved. Frost crept up the arrow shafts, crackling. The soldiers lowered their weapons, faces pale.
The moment stretched. Then Garron stepped close, fury under his control. "You just disobeyed a direct order."
Kairo sheathed his sword. "Then write it down."
They stared at each other until Garron finally said, "We're done here. Move out."
They left Duskfall before nightfall. Behind them, the snow covered everything: the blood, the fire, the footprints. Only the frost remained, spreading over the empty village like a ghost's hand.
Kairo didn't look back.
When they reached the main road, the younger soldier, Rhett, whispered, "You saved him."
Kairo said, "No. I just stopped"
The boy frowned, not understanding.
Kairo kept walking. His shadow stretched long across the snow, and with every step the pulse under his ribs grew louder, as if something in him was waking that he couldn't put back to sleep.