The heavy doors of the Baron's Keep groaned shut behind them, cutting off the warmth of the stone halls and the memory of blood on polished floors.
Krashina and the others stood at the top of the Keep's wide stone steps, immediately battered by a strong freezing wind. Many uneven stairs lay below them, caked in a sheen of ice and fresh snow, their edges slushy and half-shoveled. Below, the city of Ereny waited beneath a pale winter sky.
The snowfall had ended sometime in the early morning, leaving a brittle, sharp light to glint off frost-laced rooftops and Ereny's muddied market square below, where wagons creaked and voices muttered in the early morning light.
The wind bit hard, swirling up through the square and stealing breath from their lungs.
Krashina barely felt it.
She stared down the steps, her mind elsewhere, her limbs numb from the shock of the last few minutes. The world blurred at the edges as if some prismatic tunnel had drawn between her and everything else. Tambor's laugh, his stupid grin, the way his fingers danced along the neck of a lute; those flashes of him moved like ghosts behind her eyes.
Gone. Just like that.
She stared ahead, down the steps, and over the rooftops, not truly seeing any of it. Her eyes were dry but raw, as if they'd wept in a dream. The chill hadn't reached her, not yet.
Tambor.
The fool. The songbird. Her friend since they were children, when her father still welcomed merchant families to their manor with open doors and louder laughter. Tambor had made her laugh through years of pageantry, awkward training drills, and the stifling expectations of knighthood. Even after he had traveled north for family business, they'd written to each other. Yet, she never said the things she wanted to. Not really.
She remembered his smile, crooked and effortless. The way he'd teased her about her sword stances. and the way he'd looked at her the night they walked Runa to the tavern.
She'd loved him. But she never said so.
Now he was gone. A flash of steel and red on polished floors. She hadn't even screamed until after.
Gone. Just like that.
The wind struck the others hard, needling through their tunics and travel-worn coats.
Grey trembled violently, his blue coat flapping with each gust. "Gods above," he muttered through blue lips, "this cold is..."
The rest was lost to a shiver.
Cairvish was flushed from wind and the still simmering fury of his defiance.
"We can't stay out here," he said, clenching his teeth to avoid the inevitable chattering. "My house isn't far. It has supplies. Cloaks. Coin."
He glanced toward the distant tower of the Keep, unable to stop himself. "And I need to write to Osarina."
Nixor shivered beside them, wrapping his arms around herself, stepping lightly on the snow packed stone as though it might collapse beneath him. His eyes flicked to the edges of the square, searching shadows, darting at raised voices.
He was already scanning the market with a different focus. Opportunity was always there, if you looked.
The wind carried the smell of dung, smoke, and meat fat from street vendors. The last caravan south, a dozen wagons strong, was being loaded slowly under the grumbling orders of bundled drivers. The oxen stamped and snorted, impatient in their harnesses. Half-frozen merchants moved among crates, bartering low in the gray dawn.
Nixor's fingers twitched with restless thought. He didn't see any guards at the wagon hitches, and the cargo holds were partially open. There was just enough bustle for a quiet crawl into one of them... if he had warmer gear, and if he could wait until dark.
First things first, though: clothes, coin, and food.
He glanced to the east, passed the crooked line of shops where warm candlelight flickered behind glazed glass. Several smaller buildings lofted signs denoting a cobbler, an apothecary, and a candle-maker. Farther on, he saw the newer buildings, and leaning in their shadows lurked a grimy tavern called Two Pence Richer, its wooden sign dangling in the wind like a warning. Nixor's jaw clenched. He recognized the place. Word had spread even to the southern cities. Guild-connected, he thought grimly. Too risky for a man on the run from the guild.
"Let's go," Grey said through chattering teeth. "Please."
They had barely stepped into the square when four men crossed their path from the west, heavy boots crunching across the ice-packed stones.
Northern knights, by the cut of their pale cloaks and the symbols worked into their purple trimmed white surcoats: a mountain cleaved in two, with a star rising above. Mail clinked beneath thick wool, and longswords hung at their sides. Beneath light steel nasal helms their visible faces were grim, weathered, and red from wind.
The leader raised a hand, halting them.
"You there!" the lead knight barked. His crisp northern accent sharply halted the Baron's nephew, who braced himself for what he expected to be a confrontation.
Cairvish squared his shoulders. "We were just released from the Baron's custody. You've no right—"
"We know exactly where you came from," the knight interrupted, stepping closer. His gloved hand rested on his sword's pommel. "And we know what people are saying about you." He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. "Word is, an envoy was murdered. Burned alive in a tavern. That it was you who did it."
Grey stiffened. Krashina's hand twitched toward her sword-hilt out of habit, although it wasn't there.
"But we know better," the knight continued, though there was little warmth in his voice.
"We've been watching the Keep all morning. Our charge, you must understand, survived this attempted assassination, and is keeping out of sight for now. However, your presence is required inside Two Pence Richer. Our Lord isn't one for taking chances."
Nixor felt his stomach twist. He'd hoped that tavern wouldn't matter. Suddenly, he blinked. The envoy's alive? The thought tangled in his mind. If that were true, then maybe...
Still, something in the knight's tone was off. Not friendly but measured. They weren't here to help. They were here to manage a problem.
"Why?" Krashina's voice cut through the wind, rough and low. People she cared about had just been murdered in front of her, and now these Northern knights wanted to drag them into some political dispute? Her father was the current head of the capitol's Circle of Knights. She had just received her first orders: to escort a wealthy merchant's son back to the southern capital. A mission that had ended here, less than an hour ago, in failure.
"She wants to know why you were set free," the knight said. "She wants to look you in the eye before anyone else makes a decision."
The knight gestured towards the tavern. "Cooperate and you will be granted your chance to speak."
Cairvish looked to the others, uncertain. They would likely be forced into this regardless, but were they willing to obey this summons? The smart move would be to comply, but he could definitely understand the misgivings. Compounding their mistrust of the local authorities with a meeting at a tavern that even he avoided in his own hometown? This could get bloody, and fast.
Grey nodded slowly, receiving a sigh of relief from Cairvish. "If she's truly alive," he said clenching his hands in the sleeves of his blue coat, "I think that we need her."
Krashina took a deep breath and followed, the wind suddenly colder on her skin.
In the silence between steps, she could still hear Tambor's laughter, distant and fading, like music played down a long, empty hall.