Pain came before thought.
It didn't strike—it settled. Heavy. Cold. Patient.
It sank into Veron's awareness and stayed, pressing deep into bone, as if it had been waiting for him to wake.
His eyes opened.
Dark wood above him. A ceiling too close.
A wagon.
His breath stuttered, shallow and uneven. Each inhale scraped, like air dragged through broken glass. He tried to shift—just a little—and his body answered with a surge of agony that locked his muscles in place.
So this is surviving.
The thought drifted through him, distant and dry.
Wind hissed through the wagon's cracks, thin and biting.
It carried frost and damp earth, settling deeper than skin—into marrow.
If danger found them now, he would be nothing.
He couldn't lift his arms. Couldn't clench his jaw. Pain anchored his mouth shut, his face swollen and distant—wrong.
His head rested on something warm.
A thigh.
Soft beneath him. Human. Alive.
Veron didn't move. Didn't dare. He stared at the ceiling and let memory return in fragments—impact, blood, Blevin's eyes, the sound of bone breaking.
Defeat.
For a while, that was all there was.
Then the warmth beneath him shifted.
Mira stirred.
She straightened slightly, breath catching when she saw his eyes open. "You're awake," she whispered, as if sound itself might hurt him. "I'm sorry—I must've fallen asleep."
She leaned closer, careful not to touch him yet, eyes scanning his face with practiced focus. "Your jaw was dislocated. I set it as best I could. Your ribs aren't broken, but they're badly bruised."
Veron tried to answer. Fire tore through his skull.
He stopped.
Instead, he nodded. Just barely.
His eyes closed again.
Mira exhaled slowly. She shifted closer, adjusting the bandages across his chest. As she did, a curtain of her hair slipped forward, brushing his forehead.
He remained still.
Her fingers were warm as she brushed the strands aside—careful, deliberate.
The touch lingered just long enough to matter.
Outside, the wind rose, rattling the wagon.
The world had not softened.
Veron opened his eyes once more.
He turned his head slightly toward the front window—rooftops passing in slow blur.
Questions surfaced. Where were the others? How far had they gone?
He let them pass.
Not because his jaw wouldn't allow speech.
But because movement—sound—felt like it might disturb something fragile.
Something that needed to remain still.
⸻
The village market was small and tight, pressed between low wooden buildings built to endure rather than welcome. Snow-ready cloaks hung heavy on shoulders. Thick boots crunched against cold dirt. The air smelled of smoke and old iron.
Dren hadn't slept.
It showed not in weakness, but in restraint. His movements were measured, his gaze sharp without restlessness. He walked beside Asha through the narrow rows of stalls, nodding politely when eyes lingered.
They lingered often.
A butcher stood behind a slab of dark meat and pale root vegetables. Dren stepped forward. "We'll take some of that."
The man looked up—and froze.
His eyes flicked to Dren's face, then to his mouth as he spoke again, catching the edge of his accent.
"You're not from here," the butcher said flatly.
"No," Dren replied. "A place far from here."
The butcher's expression closed. He shook his head once.
"Then I don't sell to your kind."
Dren didn't argue. He stepped back.
Around them, villagers watched with careful distance. A horse stamped nearby as its handler murmured soothing words—eyes never leaving Dren and Asha.
Dren exhaled through his nose.
This isn't a place to stay.
He noted their clothing—thick, layered, made for snow that hadn't yet arrived.
Winter was close.
⸻
When Dren and Asha returned to the wagon, the smell of wood greeted them.
Inside, Veron lay exactly as they had left him. His head still rested on Mira's thigh. One of her hands pressed lightly against his chest as she spoke to him softly—guiding his breathing, anchoring him to the present.
Asha laughed under her breath. "Looks like we interrupted something."
Mira shot her a look. Dren only smiled.
"We found a cabin," he said. "Rented it. Bought what we could—food, winter clothes. Most of them didn't want our money."
The wagon rolled again soon after, turning toward the village's edge.
⸻
Snow began to fall before they reached the cabin.
At first, hesitant—thin flakes drifting like ash. Then steadier, layering the ground in quiet white.
Dren halted the wagon near a small structure at the edge of the trees. He climbed down and came around for Veron.
The moment Veron's feet touched the ground, pain roared. His vision blurred. He bit down on nothing and let Dren take most of his weight.
They moved slowly.
Mira carried supplies inside. Asha led the horses away, tying them near a tree, murmuring softly.
The snow thickened.
By the time they were inside, Veron was shaking—not from cold, but from endurance.
⸻
Mira and Asha worked together at a rough wooden table, cutting meat and vegetables. Sleeves rolled. Breath warm in the cold air. For a moment, quiet laughter surfaced—brief, human.
Veron reclined nearby, eyes closed.
He was not sleeping.
He was meditating.
Outside, Dren sat wrapped in blankets, watching the last line of sunlight bleed from the sky.
In the far plains, dozens of riders moved through the dusk.
At their center rode Kyle.
A banner rose above them—the Skyrend's mark: a cracked triangle split by a sword, as if the blade itself had torn the sky open. It snapped hard in the growing wind.
They passed a broken wagon where two men stood stranded.
Kyle raised a hand. The riders halted.
"You need help?" he asked.
"Yes," one man said quickly. "Please."
"Where are you coming from?"
"Darinval," the other replied. "They killed one of the heads. So they started punishing everyone. Even the innocents."
Kyle laughed softly.
His eyes did not.
"Do you know who did it?"
"A hunter," the man said. "Named Veron. Him and his group disappeared. Probably fled the city."
Kyle's smile widened.
"Is that so?"
He turned his horse slightly, gaze drifting toward the dark tree line.
"Seems," he murmured, "I might keep that promise after all."
The riders moved on after helping the men fix their wagon.
They were not far from the village.
Close enough for the night to pass.
⸻
Snow quietly claimed the land.
The road into winter lay open—unyielding, inevitable, vast.
Within the cabin, Veron lay broken, silent.
Yet beneath that stillness, something endured.
Weakness had already taken its price.
He would not pay it twice.
The winter was here.
And so was the fight.