> They say the mountains around Valdrheim guard secrets older than the gods. In the hush of early dawn, those slopes seem alive with a presence that breathes in stone and exhales in wind. Arngrim had always sensed it—an unspoken hush beneath the clamor of mortal life. He just never realized how deeply that hush would change him.
---
Arngrim woke earlier than usual, the dream's echoes already fading. This time, there had been no monstrous roar, no golden eye glaring at him through endless darkness. Instead, he'd wandered through a vast corridor of stone, hearing a slow, steady pulse. It might have been his own heartbeat. Or something else's.
He sat up on his straw pallet, rubbing at his tired eyes. The storehouse was silent except for the distant coo of a morning dove perched somewhere on the rafters. Usually, he'd slip back into a fitful doze, but today rest felt impossible. Yesterday's events still churned in his mind—the child, the guard, the hidden meeting in the hills. He could still see the fear in that kid's eyes.
A dull ache tugged at his shoulders. He rolled them to loosen the tension, then decided there was no point in lying around. If Jorn was awake, there'd be chores. If Jorn was still asleep, well, Arngrim could at least gather some kindling for the forge's fires. Keeping busy might help quiet the chaos in his head.
He grabbed his worn boots, laced them quickly, and pulled on a heavier cloak. The predawn chill seeped through the gaps in the storehouse walls. Outside, a pale silver light crept across the sky, hinting that the sun was still tucked behind the mountain peaks. A ghostly mist clung to the ground, swirling around his ankles as he stepped out.
He made his way to the small woodpile behind the forge. His breath frosted in front of him, and he shivered, cursing the early spring that still felt like winter. As he bent to pick up a few logs, he paused. The air carried a faint tang—something metallic, almost like blood. He tensed, scanning the yard.
A stray cat darted past, spooking him enough to drop one of the logs. He exhaled a shaky laugh at his own nerves. *Get a grip,* he told himself. *You're jumping at shadows.* Yet, that lingering coppery scent didn't vanish. It might just be the forge or some leftover scraps from butchering day. Still, it made him uneasy.
He gathered an armful of wood and circled back to the forge. The door creaked when he pushed it open. Inside, the coals from yesterday's work lay dormant in the fire pit, faintly coated in white ash. He placed the logs near the hearth and checked for signs of Jorn. The blacksmith wasn't there. Probably still in bed or, more likely, off on some errand—Jorn had a habit of heading to the local tavern at odd hours.
Arngrim set to work cleaning the anvil and sweeping the floor. The routine grounded him, each mundane action a small reprieve from the swirling thoughts about serpents and heresy. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the task, he kept recalling the scene in the chapel square—the guard's sneer, the child's cries.
He was almost done sweeping when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Jorn, bleary-eyed and looking as if he'd slept in his clothes. The old blacksmith grunted a greeting and rubbed the stubble on his chin.
"Couldn't sleep?" Jorn asked, nodding at the broom in Arngrim's hand.
Arngrim shrugged. "Woke up early. Figured I'd get a head start."
Jorn eyed him for a moment, then jerked his chin toward the hearth. "All right. Throw some logs on and let's get the fire going. We've a cart of broken tools from the watchtower that needs repairing. And after that, some church errands. They placed an order for new spearheads."
Arngrim felt a twinge of distaste. The idea of making weapons for the same guards who terrorized that child yesterday made his stomach churn. But refusing would only draw suspicion—Jorn's forge had a contract with the church. They were Valdrheim's biggest client. With the gods' knights on edge, he couldn't afford to antagonize them further. Yet.
He nodded and fed the logs into the fire pit, using a tinderbox to coax sparks to life. Jorn pumped the bellows, and soon the forge crackled with warmth. As the temperature rose, Arngrim removed his cloak and rolled up his sleeves, letting the physical labor clear his head.
For the next hour, they worked in near silence. Jorn hammered out the rough shapes for the spearheads while Arngrim heated metal bars and shaped them on a smaller anvil. The clang of iron on iron, the hiss of steam, the swirl of sparks—it was a steady rhythm that left little room for conversation. Occasionally, Jorn grunted instructions, but otherwise they let the work speak.
Eventually, they took a brief pause. Jorn wiped sweat from his brow, though the morning chill still lingered in the corners of the forge. "You've been quiet," he remarked, glancing at Arngrim. "Not that you're ever chatty, but... more than usual."
Arngrim exhaled, leaning on the handle of his hammer. He debated how much to say. "I'm... still thinking about what happened with the child. I can't get it out of my mind."
Jorn's gaze flickered. "Aye, that was a sorry sight. But there's not much we can do. The church has its ways."
Arngrim set his jaw. "I hate it."
The blacksmith nodded, face grim. "You think I like forging weapons for them? But this is Valdrheim. The church is the law. If we cross them, we lose everything—maybe our lives."
Arngrim swallowed, a hot surge of frustration rising in his chest. "Still feels wrong. I saw them drag that kid away. And then—later—someone helped him escape. Did you hear about that?"
Jorn's eyebrows rose. "No. That's news to me."
Arngrim realized he might be saying too much. He quickly changed the subject. "Just rumors. People say the child vanished from the chapel."
Jorn shook his head, face a mixture of relief and apprehension. "Well, I hope it's true. The boy—girl—whoever—deserves a chance. But if the church finds out who helped them..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang.
Arngrim looked down at the anvil, remembering the clandestine meeting in the hills. The men and the woman who had taken the child east. The whispered mention of serpent markings. *Sign of the coiled fang,* they'd said. Could it really be that a secret group existed right under the church's nose?
He forced himself to focus on the next bar of iron, positioning it in the coals. He needed to keep his wits about him. Asking too many questions would draw dangerous attention.
---
As noon approached, they set aside the church's spearheads and turned to the watchtower's broken tools—shovels, pickaxes, hammers. Arngrim hammered out dents, replaced bent handles, and quenched the hot metal in a barrel of water. The repetitive tasks lulled him into a near-trance, and the hours slipped by.
When the forge finally quieted, Jorn stretched his back with a groan. "All right, let's take a break. I'll go grab us something to eat." He tossed Arngrim a small pouch of coins. "If you finish up that last pickaxe, meet me at the tavern."
Arngrim nodded, grateful for a chance to rest. Jorn left, and the forge fell silent except for the crackle of dying embers. Arngrim hammered a few more strokes on the pickaxe, then set it aside to cool. Wiping sweat from his brow, he stepped out into the crisp midday air.
Valdrheim's central square bustled more than usual—likely due to the incident yesterday. Church knights patrolled with stern faces, spears gleaming in the sun. Townsfolk moved quickly, avoiding eye contact with the guards. Tension hung over the settlement like a dark cloud.
Arngrim made his way toward the tavern, a modest building with a creaking sign that read *The Ram's Horn.* It stood on the far side of the square, adjacent to a small stable. As he walked, he couldn't help noticing the hush that fell whenever the knights passed. It was as though fear had become the town's second language.
He found Jorn inside, seated at a corner table nursing a mug of ale. The tavern was dimly lit by narrow windows, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and roasted onions. A few laborers sat at other tables, gulping down soup or cheap ale. Nobody seemed in a festive mood.
Arngrim took a seat across from Jorn. The blacksmith pushed a bowl of stew toward him, along with a chunk of bread. "Eat," he grunted.
Grateful, Arngrim dug in. The stew was warm but bland—mostly potatoes and a bit of salt pork. Still, it filled the void in his stomach. He chewed in silence, occasionally glancing around the tavern. Conversations were hushed, and many eyes flicked toward the windows, where a pair of church guards stood outside on patrol.
"So," Jorn said quietly, leaning forward. "The knights are out in force. You see them?"
Arngrim nodded. "Hard to miss."
"Rumor has it the High Priest is planning a purge of some kind. Says there might be more 'heretics' lurking around. Folks are scared."
Arngrim's grip on his spoon tightened. "More heretics? Or just more scapegoats?"
Jorn shrugged. "Hard to say. But keep your head low. I've seen how you look at them."
Arngrim didn't reply. He finished his stew in a few hurried bites, his appetite dulled by the conversation. He could feel the tension in the air, like a cord stretched too tight. Any spark could set it snapping.
When they left the tavern, Jorn returned to the forge to handle a customer who'd arrived. Arngrim, however, lingered in the square. Something drew him toward the chapel, even though every logical thought warned him away. He wanted to see if there was any sign of that child's fate, or at least glean some sense of what the church was planning.
He approached the chapel steps cautiously. The massive wooden doors were shut, guarded by two knights in gleaming breastplates. The chapel's stone façade was etched with reliefs of Aurakiel—depicted as a stern figure holding a set of golden scales. Justice and law, they called it. But to Arngrim, it looked more like a threat: Obey, or else.
He hovered near a statue in the courtyard, feigning interest in its inscription. In truth, he was eavesdropping on the guards. Their conversation was hushed, but he caught fragments.
"...High Priest says the child must be found... no one just vanishes from the hold..."
"...heretics in the hills, maybe more in town. We're to question suspicious folks..."
Arngrim's pulse quickened. They were actively searching. If they catch wind that I saw anything...
Suddenly, one of the knights glanced his way. Arngrim pretended to read the inscription on the statue more closely, heart pounding. He could feel the guard's stare lingering on him. After a tense moment, the knight turned back to his companion. Arngrim let out a silent breath.
He backed away, circling around the chapel's side. He didn't want to press his luck. As he walked, he recalled the words of the woman from last night: *"If you value your life, forget this meeting."* He couldn't forget, but maybe he could hide his knowledge.
---
An hour later, Arngrim was crossing a narrow alley near the blacksmith shop when he heard a faint rustling from behind a stack of barrels. He paused, a tingle of unease running down his spine. Normally, he might assume it was a stray cat or a rat, but the memory of that coppery smell came back to him.
He took a slow step forward. "Hello?" he ventured softly.
No reply, just a shuffle and a muffled gasp. Carefully, he moved the top barrel aside, peering into the shadows. There, curled in a tight ball, was a small figure—a girl, maybe fifteen, with short-cropped brown hair and a tear-streaked face. She looked up at him with eyes wide as a cornered animal.
Arngrim raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "It's all right," he said, keeping his voice low. "I won't hurt you."
She pressed herself against the wall. "Stay back!"
He noticed dried blood on her sleeve. Her clothes were ragged, and her left forearm had a nasty gash, half-bandaged with a torn strip of cloth. She was shaking, whether from fear or cold, he couldn't tell.
"I'm not a guard," Arngrim said gently. "I work at the forge over there." He pointed, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "Are you hurt?"
The girl didn't respond, but he could see the pain in her eyes. He guessed she was running from something—or someone. Could she be another "heretic"? The thought made his stomach twist.
"Look," he continued, "I can get you bandages. Food, maybe. I just—" He hesitated, then decided honesty might help. "I hate seeing people hunted for no reason."
She stared at him, tears brimming. Slowly, she let her guard down a fraction. "Y-you're not with the knights?"
He shook his head. "No. They're the last people I want to help."
She swallowed hard, glancing around the alley as if expecting guards to leap out at any moment. "I... I was with my brother. We tried to leave town last night. The knights caught us. He told me to run. I don't know where he is now."
Arngrim's chest tightened. Another family torn apart. "What's your name?"
She blinked, as if the question surprised her. "Mari."
He offered a small nod. "I'm Arngrim." A pause, then he mustered a reassuring smile. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere safer. I know a place you can hide for a bit."
Mari flinched, eyeing him warily. "How do I know you won't turn me in?"
"You don't," Arngrim admitted. "But if I wanted to, I'd have done it already."
Her shoulders sagged, tears threatening to spill again. "All right," she whispered. "But hurry."
He helped her stand, careful not to touch her wound. She winced, and he saw fresh blood seep through the makeshift bandage. Without another word, he guided her out of the alley, keeping to the shadows, away from the main roads.
---
Ten minutes later, they slipped into the storehouse behind the forge—his makeshift home. The interior was dim and cluttered, but it offered more shelter than an alley. He closed the door quietly, heart pounding at the risk he was taking.
Mari sank onto an overturned crate, breathing heavily. Her face was pale, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Arngrim grabbed an old rag and a canteen of water, then knelt beside her. "Let me see your arm."
She hesitated, then extended it. The gash was deeper than he'd thought, and clearly not cleaned. Dried blood and dirt clung to the torn flesh. He grimaced. "This needs proper care. I can't do much, but I can at least clean it."
She bit her lip, nodding. He gently poured water over the wound, trying to wash out the dirt. She hissed in pain, tears welling up again. "Sorry," he murmured, "just a bit more."
After cleaning it as best he could, he wrapped it with a strip of relatively clean cloth from his meager supply. He wished he had herbs or salve, but he was no healer. "We'll need to find a real medic eventually," he said, "but this will do for now."
Mari exhaled shakily. "Thank you."
He offered a tight smile. "You can rest here for a while. I doubt anyone will come snooping around. Just... be quiet if you hear voices. If Jorn finds you, he might be mad, but he won't turn you in."
"Jorn?" she echoed.
"The blacksmith," Arngrim explained. "He's tough, but he's not heartless."
She nodded, still trembling. "My brother... he said we had to get out of Valdrheim. The knights are cracking down on anything they consider 'unholy.' But we didn't make it past the eastern pass. They were waiting." Her voice broke. "He told me to run... but I heard him scream."
Arngrim's hands curled into fists. This was exactly the cruelty he despised. The church's zeal seemed to grow more vicious by the day. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "If... if there's a way to find him, I'll help."
She sniffled. "Why? You don't even know us."
He hesitated. *Why indeed?* Because he couldn't bear to see more people suffer at the hands of blind zealotry. Because part of him felt connected to these so-called heretics through his own mysterious eyes. Because standing by and doing nothing felt like slowly choking on guilt.
He shrugged, forcing a small, sad smile. "I've been alone before. It's not something I'd wish on anyone."
Mari studied him for a moment, then nodded, tears trailing down her cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered again.
Arngrim helped her lie down on his straw pallet, offering a threadbare blanket. "Rest," he urged. "I'll bring you something to eat."
She settled in with a pained sigh, and within moments, exhaustion seemed to take her. He watched her eyelids flutter shut, the tension in her body easing slightly. She looked so vulnerable, bruised by a world that offered no mercy.
---
Outside, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the peaks, casting long shadows across Valdrheim. Arngrim locked the storehouse door from the outside to keep others from wandering in, then hurried to the forge. He found Jorn finishing up a set of horseshoes for a farmer.
"You took your time," Jorn said, glancing up. "Everything all right?"
Arngrim forced a casual tone. "I—uh—went to grab some scraps from the butcher. Figured we could use them for the hounds."
Jorn raised an eyebrow. "We don't have hounds."
Arngrim cleared his throat. "Right. I mean... I thought maybe I'd feed the strays. They keep rats away from the forge." He was a terrible liar, and Jorn's suspicious stare confirmed it.
But the blacksmith just sighed. "Boy, you've got too soft a heart for your own good. If you're done feeding strays, help me put these tools away."
Grateful for the change of subject, Arngrim moved to assist. Together, they stacked the finished horseshoes, spears, and pickaxes in their respective crates. Dusk settled in, and the forge's glow bathed them in flickering orange light.
When they were done, Jorn rubbed the back of his neck. "Long day. I'll head to the tavern. Need a stiff drink before I face another round of the church's nonsense tomorrow."
Arngrim nodded, wiping his brow. "I'll tidy up here."
Jorn gave him a parting nod and left, the forge door creaking shut behind him. Arngrim waited until he heard Jorn's footsteps fade down the road. Then, heart thumping, he grabbed some leftover bread, a bit of salted pork, and a small flask of water.
He returned to the storehouse. Unlocking it quietly, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. Mari was awake, sitting upright with a pained expression. She looked up, eyes filled with relief and apprehension.
"I—I wasn't sure if you'd come back," she admitted, voice trembling.
Arngrim knelt beside her. "I promised I'd help, didn't I?" He offered the bread and pork. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."
She nodded gratefully, tearing into the food with trembling hands. She ate as if she hadn't had a meal in days. "Thank you," she murmured between bites, tears glistening in her eyes again. "I can't repay you."
He shook his head. "Don't worry about that. Just focus on healing. And... if you can, tell me more about why you were leaving town. Maybe I can help."
She paused, swallowing a mouthful of bread. "My brother and I—our parents died last winter. We overheard rumors that the High Priest wanted to purge anyone associated with old legends. Something about a serpent cult. We... we were just travelers who listened to the wrong stories. But the knights started questioning us. My brother said we should leave before they found a reason to lock us up."
Arngrim's stomach twisted. "Old legends about the serpent?"
Mari nodded. "Yes. In other towns, people still whisper about a world-coiling serpent. Some say it was a god older than the pantheon. Others say it's a demon. The church forbids it all the same." She lowered her voice. "We didn't even believe it, not really. But someone must have reported us for talking about it. Next thing we knew, knights were watching us."
Arngrim remembered how the child from yesterday had carved serpent symbols. And the hidden group in the hills who spoke of the coiled fang. Clearly, there were pockets of people who still clung to these forbidden myths. "And you think your brother was taken?"
She nodded, eyes welling up. "I heard him shout. He told me to run. There were three knights—maybe more. If they took him to the chapel, he might still be alive. Or..." She choked on the words.
Arngrim placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't assume the worst. Sometimes the knights hold prisoners for days before—" He didn't finish the sentence. The church's idea of purification was well known, but he didn't want to scare her further.
She stared at the ground. "If I could just find him..."
Arngrim's mind raced. If her brother was indeed in the chapel dungeons, that was a fortress. Rescuing him would be suicide. And yet, he couldn't simply leave them to this fate. He recalled the group in the hills, the ones who had helped the child. They might know how to slip in or out of the chapel unseen.
"I might know someone who can help," he said slowly. "But it's risky. If the church catches us—"
Mari clutched his arm, desperation flaring in her eyes. "I'll do anything. Please."
He nodded, heart hammering. "First, you need rest. Then we'll figure out a plan."
She nodded, tears brimming again. "All right."
---
That night, Arngrim found himself unable to sleep. He sat near the storehouse's small window, gazing at the moonlit peaks. Mari dozed fitfully on his pallet, occasionally whimpering in her sleep. Every so often, he got up to check on her, making sure her bandage hadn't bled through.
As the hours crept toward midnight, he debated venturing into the hills. The group he'd encountered before might still be out there. But stumbling around in the dark with no clue where to go seemed foolish. He decided to wait for dawn.
Eventually, he dozed off, head leaning against the wall. His dreams were fractured: a swirl of black scales, a faceless knight brandishing a flaming spear, and a voice whispering "Find the fang..."* He startled awake at some unknown hour, heart pounding. Mari was still asleep, her breathing shallow but steady.
---
When morning finally came, Arngrim slipped out quietly. He left a bit more bread for Mari and made sure she had water. "I'll be back," he whispered, though she was too deeply asleep to hear.
He hurried to the forge, hoping to catch Jorn before the day's work began. But the blacksmith was already at the anvil, hammering a chunk of metal into shape. Arngrim braced himself. He needed an excuse to leave town for a bit.
"Morning," Jorn grunted, not pausing his work. "Fetch the bellows."
Arngrim stepped to the bellows and began pumping. "I—I was thinking," he said carefully, "about heading into the hills to gather some ore samples. We're running low on raw materials, right?"
Jorn paused, eyeing him. "We've still got a fair stock."
Arngrim forced a shrug. "Sure, but it won't last forever. If I find a good vein, we can cut costs by mining ourselves."
Jorn studied him for a long moment. Arngrim felt his pulse quicken. He wasn't a good liar, and Jorn could probably sense his nervousness. But finally, the blacksmith let out a gruff sigh.
"You're not one to go gallivanting off without reason," he said. "But... fine. Go if you must. Just don't do anything stupid. And don't get yourself killed by bandits or wolves."
Relief washed over Arngrim. "I'll be careful."
Jorn turned back to his work. "Aye, you do that. And be back by sundown. I won't have you vanishing and leaving me to fill orders alone."
Arngrim nodded, grateful. "Thank you." He grabbed a small pack, threw in a waterskin, some dried meat, and a basic pickaxe for show. Then he slipped out of the forge, determined to head for the same area where he'd spotted that clandestine group two nights before.
---
The morning sun was still low when he reached the outskirts of Valdrheim. He took a winding path that led past the farmland and up into the rocky slopes. The air was cool, and thin clouds drifted across a pale blue sky. Each step carried him away from the suffocating atmosphere of the town, but closer to unknown dangers.
After about an hour of steady climbing, he reached the plateau where he'd first seen the lantern light. He scanned the area. The ground was disturbed—footprints, scuff marks, as if several people had passed here recently. A faint sense of anticipation fluttered in his chest. They must still be around.
He followed the tracks, careful not to make too much noise on the loose stones. Eventually, he noticed a faint trail leading further east, one that branched away from the main path. He took it, winding around a craggy outcrop that overlooked a steep ravine.
As he rounded a bend, he froze. Two figures stood ahead, cloaked and armed with short bows. They spotted him immediately, raising their weapons.
"Halt!" one shouted. "Who goes there?"
Arngrim held up his hands, heart thumping. "I'm unarmed!" He set the pickaxe on the ground to show he wasn't a threat. "I'm just looking for—" He hesitated. How to phrase this without sounding insane?
The second figure, a woman with a scar across her cheek, narrowed her eyes. "Speak quickly."
He took a steadying breath. "I'm looking for the people who helped the child escape the chapel guards. The ones who know about... the serpent." He winced at how direct he sounded, but there was no turning back now.
They exchanged glances. The first figure, a man with a dark hood, stepped forward, bow still drawn. "Why would you seek them?"
Arngrim exhaled slowly. "Because I want to help someone else who's in trouble—a girl named Mari. Her brother's been taken by the knights. She's wounded, hiding in Valdrheim. I... I was told you might be able to help."
The man's gaze flicked over Arngrim's features, lingering on his eyes. "Your eyes..." he murmured, lowering the bow a fraction. "They said something about a young man with serpent-like eyes."
Arngrim's pulse quickened. "Yes, well... that might be me. Look, I'm not here to betray you. I just—people are suffering. I can't stand by."
The woman with the scar studied him intently, as if gauging the truth in his words. Finally, she lowered her bow. "You risk a lot coming here. The church would brand you a heretic on sight."
Arngrim let out a shaky breath. "I'm aware. But if you know a way to get into the chapel dungeons or—at least—where the prisoners might be held, we can try to save Mari's brother."
The man sighed. "It's not that simple. The chapel is heavily guarded, and the dungeons are warded by the High Priest's magic. But... we might have someone who can help." He jerked his head toward a narrow path. "Come with us. But if you try anything, we won't hesitate to put an arrow in your back."
Arngrim nodded, relief mingling with nerves. He picked up his pickaxe and followed them deeper into the hills. After several minutes of winding through rocky passages, they arrived at a secluded clearing shielded by tall boulders. A handful of tents were pitched around a low-burning campfire. He spotted familiar faces from that night: the tall woman and the scarred man who had rescued the child. They tensed upon seeing him, but the hooded man quickly explained Arngrim's purpose.
The tall woman—her name was Evara—studied Arngrim with a cool gaze. "You again. I warned you to forget about us."
"I couldn't," Arngrim replied, trying not to sound defensive. "A girl is hiding in my storehouse. Her brother's in the chapel, possibly awaiting torture or worse. If there's any chance to save him, I have to try."
Evara exchanged a look with the scarred man, whose name Arngrim learned was Varren. Finally, she nodded. "We do have a contact inside the chapel. But it's dangerous. If the High Priest catches them aiding prisoners, the punishment is death—or worse."
Arngrim's heart soared with cautious hope. "If they're willing, I'll do whatever it takes."
One of the other group members, a young woman named Kiera, stepped forward. "Wait, Evara. Are we really going to trust him so quickly? We don't even know if he's not some church spy."
Evara raised a hand. "I saw him defend that child two nights ago, remember? He risked his own safety. And his eyes..." She trailed off, glancing at Arngrim's golden irises. "They speak of a lineage the church fears. If we can't trust him, who can we trust?"
Arngrim shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. "I don't know about any lineage. I just know I won't stand by while innocent people are hunted."
Varren let out a weary sigh. "Then we'll see what can be done. The contact is a chapel servant—someone who cleans the antechambers and occasionally the dungeons. They've smuggled messages for us before. If the brother is indeed imprisoned, we can try to arrange an escape."
Relief flooded Arngrim. "Thank you."
Evara eyed him. "But understand this: If we do this, we might have to relocate our entire camp. The knights are already sniffing around. We won't risk everyone's lives for a single rescue unless you're certain."
Arngrim nodded earnestly. "I understand. Mari's brother is all she has left. If there's any chance—"
He was cut off by a sudden shout from one of the lookouts. "Riders approaching!"
Instantly, the camp sprang into motion. People grabbed bows, swords, and quivers, darting to take defensive positions. Arngrim's heart lurched—if it was the knights, a bloodbath could ensue.
Evara and Varren exchanged alarmed looks. "Quick," Evara hissed, pointing to a narrow crevice between two boulders. "Hide there. If it's the church, we'll try to lead them away."
Arngrim obeyed, pressing himself into the crevice. The rough stone scraped his arms. From his vantage, he could see the clearing. His pulse thundered in his ears as hooves thundered nearby. Two figures on horseback emerged around the bend—a man and a woman clad in dark cloaks, not the gleaming armor of the church.
A tense silence followed. Evara stepped forward, bow half-drawn. "Who are you?"
The riders slowed, and the woman pulled back her hood, revealing cropped blonde hair and sharp features. "We mean no harm," she said. "We seek the ones who guard the serpent's truth."
Evara's eyes narrowed. "You speak too freely."
The man dismounted, raising his hands. "We heard rumors that a group here helps those fleeing the church. We have information about the High Priest's next move."
Varren and Kiera exchanged wary glances. Slowly, they lowered their weapons. "Speak," Varren said.
The man cleared his throat. "We have a friend within the chapel—someone close to High Priest Maelrik. He sent word that the knights are planning a mass arrest in Valdrheim tonight, targeting anyone suspected of heresy. They'll block all roads, search every home."
A ripple of alarm spread through the camp. Evara cursed under her breath. "That means we have less than a day to clear out."
Arngrim's stomach clenched. If the knights were searching every home, they'd find Mari in his storehouse. Fear spiked through him. We have to move fast. He emerged from his hiding spot, ignoring the startled looks from the newcomers.
"That's it, then," he said, voice trembling with urgency. "We have to get Mari and her brother out of Valdrheim now. We don't have time for careful plans."
Evara's eyes flitted to him. "If the knights are sealing off the town, it's going to be nearly impossible to get inside, find the brother, and then escape again."
Arngrim's mind raced. "There has to be a way. You said you have a contact in the chapel, right? If we coordinate with them—"
One of the cloaked riders interrupted, "The contact can open a side passage to the dungeons for a short window, but only once. And we'd still need a distraction to keep the knights busy."
Evara bit her lip. "A distraction... We could stage a ruse at the eastern pass. Make them think we're all trying to escape that way. Meanwhile, a small team slips into town."
Varren nodded. "But that's high risk. The church knights are numerous, and we'd be splitting our forces."
Arngrim clenched his fists. "I'll do it alone if I have to."
Silence fell. Then Evara's expression softened. "You're brave, boy, but you won't last five minutes against a squad of knights by yourself."
Varren exhaled. "I'll go with him. Kiera, you help Evara lead the rest to a safer location. We'll handle the rescue attempt, then follow. With luck, the knights won't expect a small team sneaking back in."
Arngrim felt a rush of gratitude. "Thank you," he said, voice tight with emotion.
Evara set her jaw. "Fine. But be quick about it. Once you're done, meet us at the hidden pass by nightfall. If you're not there, we move on without you."
He nodded, determination surging through him. Mari's brother might have only hours before the purge began. This was their one chance. He prayed to any force—serpent or otherwise—that they'd succeed.
---
Within the hour, Arngrim and Varren were on their way back down the slopes, heading for Valdrheim. The plan was simple but dangerous: Evara and the others would create chaos near the eastern pass, drawing as many knights as possible out of the town. Meanwhile, Arngrim and Varren would slip in, link up with the chapel contact, and free Mari's brother.
The wind whipped across Arngrim's face as they descended a narrow path. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and resolve. He thought of Mari, alone in his storehouse, and of her brother, likely caged in a dungeon cell. He refused to let them be victims of the church's blind zeal.
Varren led the way, bow slung across his back. He spared Arngrim a glance. "We'll have to be quick. If the knights catch wind of us, we're done."
Arngrim nodded. "I know."
They reached the base of the hills by late afternoon, the sun already sinking behind the towering peaks. From a distance, Valdrheim looked almost peaceful—smoke curling from chimneys, the chapel spire rising against the darkening sky. But Arngrim knew what lurked beneath that façade: fear, oppression, and soon, a purge.
He steeled himself. No matter what happens, I won't run. With Varren at his side, he pressed on, determined to challenge the looming night—and the cruelty it carried.