The heavy snowfall acted like a white curtain, muffling the chaotic symphony of death playing out at the edge of the woods.
A few minutes had passed since the two groups violently clashed in the blizzard. The hired mercenaries Gared had brought from the port were completely outmatched. They were tavern brawlers and street thugs; the men sent by Officer Glendon from Eastwatch were hardened, professional killers who struck with synchronized, lethal efficiency.
Five more mercenaries lay dead in the snow, their blood melting the pristine white powder into a sickening crimson slush.
Only one of Gared's men remained. He was a young, terrified sellsword, stumbling backward through the knee-deep snow, frantically swinging his sword to keep his attackers at bay.
"Wait! Hold on!" the lone mercenary screamed, his breath pluming in panicked gasps. "Why are you doing this?! We don't even know you! Let me go, and I'll drop my coin purse!"
The two remaining Eastwatch assassins did not answer. They simply moved like hunting wolves. They were exhausted, battered, and bleeding from shallow cuts, but their eyes were coldly focused. Three of their own comrades had perished in the skirmish, but in the ruthless math of the underworld, that simply meant fewer men to split the heavy bounty.
Without a word, the assassins flanked the terrified boy. The first feinted high, forcing the mercenary to raise his guard, while the second slipped behind him.
A cruel, curved dagger slashed out from the dark, biting deeply into the back of the mercenary's shoulder.
"AGH!" the boy cried out, dropping his guard as his arm went limp.
It was the only opening they needed. The assassin in front stepped forward, driving a shortsword straight through the boy's stomach. He twisted the blade maliciously, ripped it out, and let the final mercenary collapse face-first into the snow. The boy twitched for a few seconds, his blood pouring out rapidly, before finally going still.
The immediate area descended into an eerie silence, broken only by the howling wind.
This section of Mole's Town was practically deserted. To the left and right lay the dense, terrifying tree line of the Wolfswood. Straight ahead, barely visible through the swirling snow, was Serena's secluded hut.
The few other crofters who lived scattered yards away had heard the screams, but they were true Northerners. They had barred their heavy doors, shuttered their windows, and cowered by their hearths. No one in their right mind investigated swords clashing in the dark.
The two surviving assassins leaned heavily against a snow-draped boulder, panting hard.
"Gods... those tavern rats put up more of a fight than I thought," one of them grunted, wiping a streak of freezing blood from his cheek.
The second assassin chuckled darkly, cleaning his blade on the cloak of a dead man. "Let them fight hard. It doesn't matter now. Hemlock, Pike, and the brute are dead. That means you and I split the gold straight down the middle. Two shares instead of five. It's the way of the profession, mate."
"Aye," the first agreed, a greedy smirk spreading across his scarred face. He looked around the blood-soaked clearing. "Now... where is that fat pig? He ran this way when the steel crossed."
He squinted through the blizzard, his eyes locking onto a thick, ancient pine tree a dozen yards away. A set of frantic, heavy footprints led directly behind the trunk. Slowly, they raised their swords and began to crunch through the snow toward their target.
A few yards behind them, completely hidden by the swirling whiteout and the darkness, Serena crouched low to the ground.
She had stealthily crossed the distance from her hut, using the loud clashes of steel to mask the sound of her footsteps. She watched the final mercenary die, a cold knot of fear tightening in her stomach. These men were not the drunken fools she dealt with at the shop. They were efficient, ruthless, and highly skilled.
Her hands trembled around the smooth ash-wood shaft of her spear. She was a mother, a shopkeeper, a survivor—but she had never killed a man in cold blood. The thought of plunging steel into a human heart made her nauseous.
But as she watched the two assassins walk toward the tree, her mind raced. They are professional killers. Once they find Gared, what will they do next? Will they search the area? Will they look toward the only hut with a warm light in the window?
She could not take that risk. If these men came near her door, Yoriichi would fight them. And despite his incredible skills, he was still a child facing fully grown, armored men in freezing weather.
I must finish them here, Serena decided, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I will brace to face whatever consequences come next. For Lyra. For Yoriichi.
Using the Total Concentration breathing technique, she forced her heart rate to slow. She pushed the terror down, converting it into a frigid, hyper-focused energy. Holding her spear close, she began to move silently through the deep snow, stalking the assassins from behind.
At the base of the pine tree, the assassins found their prize.
Gared was huddled in a pathetic ball, his arms wrapped around his head, whimpering into the snow.
One of the assassins grabbed the thick fur collar of Gared's cloak and hauled him up effortlessly, slamming his fat back against the rough bark of the tree. The assassin raised an armored hand and delivered a brutal, ringing slap across Gared's face.
Smack!
"Are you that fat idiot landlord?" the assassin demanded, his breath stinking of stale wine and sweat.
The other assassin laughed, keeping his sword pointed at Gared's belly. "Look at him. He's the only one fat enough to be the bounty. The Eastwatch Crows want you silenced, pig."
Gared's eyes bulged in pure terror. His lip was split and bleeding from the slap.
"Who hired you?!" Gared squealed desperately, snot freezing on his upper lip. "Please, please spare me! I have gold! I will give you double the amount they paid you! Triple!"
The assassins paused. In their line of work, loyalty was only as thick as a gold coin. They exchanged a slightly interested, hesitant glance.
"Double, you say?" the leader mused, tilting his head.
"Yes! Just... tell me who hired you!" Gared begged.
"An officer," the second assassin revealed with a cruel smirk. "A weasel named Glendon up at the coastal fort. Said you were a loose end that needed tying."
Gared felt a surge of venomous spite cut through his fear. Glendon! That treacherous, backstabbing snake!
"We can forget him!" Gared boasted, his voice rising in frantic desperation. "Forget the Watch! Cut me loose, and I will make you rich. And... and you are freezing, right? Look there!"
Gared frantically pointed a trembling, fat finger through the trees, directly toward the faint, glowing window of Serena's secluded hut.
"See that cabin?" Gared spat, willing to sell anyone out to save his own skin. "It's difficult to walk all the way back to the town center in this storm. Go to that hut! There is a fine woman inside. Red hair, southern curves. You can enjoy her, warm yourselves by the fire, sleep in a real bed tonight, and tomorrow I will bring you all the gold I promised!"
The assassins turned their heads, squinting through the falling snow. Their eyes perked up.
Gared's words were temptingly logical. They were freezing, exhausted, and the town center was a long, brutal trudge away. The hut was just a stone's throw from here. A roaring fire, a roof over their heads, and a beautiful woman to play with before counting their gold? It was like a cherry on top of a bloody cake.
"A warm bed and a willing bitch, eh?" the leader chuckled, a lecherous gleam in his eye. He lowered his sword slightly, turning his head back toward Gared to accept the deal. "Aye, I suppose we can—"
He never finished his sentence.
From the swirling darkness directly behind him, a shadow lunged.