Six moons had passed since Turin joined the Honeytree survivors.
The boy he had been, lost and alone under a tree, had withered away. What remained was harder, leaner, and more dangerous — though he still carried Elle wherever he went, her tiny hand always reaching for him like a tether to something better.
Elle was seven moons old now. Last moon she had begun crawling, and now she was unstoppable, dragging herself across the ground with wild glee, giggling in her small, broken way. Sometimes Turin wondered how something so pure could survive in such a blackened world.
The morning air was sharp as knives. Turin stood in the clearing beside the lake, bow in hand, breath misting before him. He had set up five straw targets. One after another, he loosed his arrows.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Five perfect hits.
Clapping broke the silence.
Turin turned. Lord Harwyn, only fifteen name-days old — a boy himself — stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed and smiling.
"Well struck!" Harwyn said, stepping forward. "You shame my men, Turin."
Turin flushed, unused to praise.
"Come with me."
Turin slung the bow over his shoulder and followed Harwyn toward the biggest tent in the camp — Harwyn's own. Inside, the few warriors of Honeytree had gathered. Only ten of them remained — the last scraps of a once-proud house. Among them were Ser Roderick, Ser Liam, and the only highborn knight left, Ser William Honeywood, Harwyn's uncle.
As Turin entered, they all looked at him in surprise.
"What's this, Harwyn?" Ser Roderick asked sharply.
"I want Turin with us in the ambush," Harwyn said. "He can shoot better than most of you."
A silence fell.
Ser Roderick's face darkened. "He's a child. He'll get himself killed — or worse, get one of us killed."
Harwyn stood firm. "We need every blade, every bow. The Ironborn grow fat on our food. If we fail today, we'll all starve come winter." He turned to Turin. "Will you fight with us?"
Turin hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. He thought of Honeytree burning. He thought of the Ironborn laughing as they slaughtered the innocent. He thought of Elle, sleeping peacefully for now, but growing up in a world where monsters ruled.
"I'll fight," Turin said. His voice did not waver.
Ser Roderick shook his head, cursing under his breath. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out five black-headed arrows.
"Bodkin tips," he said, thrusting them into Turin's hands. "Good against armor. If you see one of those pigs in plate, aim for the gaps — the neck, the armpits. You get one shot. Make it count."
Turin nodded, heart hammering.
The camp buzzed with grim energy as they readied for the ambush. Horses were saddled, swords were sharpened. Turin mounted behind Ser Roderick for the ride, clutching tight as they galloped through the forest paths.
Twenty-seven minutes later, they reached the clearing — a wide meadow ringed by dense forest. Lord Harwyn split the company — five men to each side of the clearing. Turin went with Harwyn, Roderick, and the two other knights. They scrambled up a low ridge, hidden among the trees, and Turin found the highest spot to perch.
He nocked a bodkin arrow and waited.
The minutes dragged. His arms ached. His heart beat against his ribs like a war drum.
Then — movement.
The Ironborn came swaggering into the clearing, driving three carts loaded heavy with supplies. They laughed, boasting loud enough for Turin to hear even from his perch.
At their head rode a brute of a man draped in plate armor, iron as black as sin. His throat, though — chainmail only. A weak spot.
"Wait until they're in the center," Lord Harwyn whispered from below.
Turin counted his breaths. One. Two. Three.
He loosed the arrow.
THWACK.
It tore through the chainmail and ripped clean through the Ironborn leader's neck. Blood sprayed in a wide arc. The man fell from his horse, gargling, hands clutching uselessly at the ruin of his throat.
"CHARGE!"
Lord Harwyn roared the order, and the Honeytree survivors erupted from the woods like wolves among sheep.
Turin barely had time to watch — he was already reaching for another arrow. He drew, aimed, and fired — another Ironborn collapsed, an arrow buried deep in his eye.
The sounds of battle filled the clearing — steel against steel, screams, the wet crunch of flesh torn apart.
Turin fumbled for another arrow — but a sudden weight smashed into him from behind.
He was slammed onto the ground, a heavy hand crushing his throat. His bow skittered away. He gasped for breath, clawing at the Ironborn who pinned him down.
The man was massive — muscles knotted like ropes, stinking of sweat and blood. Turin thrashed, kicked, but it was like fighting a mountain. His vision darkened at the edges.
No. No. I can't die. Elle needs me.
His hand found something — one of the fallen arrows. Without thinking, he stabbed it upward. The sharp tip punched into the Ironborn's eye with a sickening POP.
The man shrieked and rolled off him, hands scrabbling at the arrow jutting from his ruined eye.
Turin staggered up, found his bow, nocked an arrow with trembling hands, and put it straight through the Ironborn's skull.
The body twitched once, then went still.
Turin fell to his knees and vomited, retching up bile and fear and adrenaline. The stench of blood filled his nostrils.
The battle was over.
The Ironborn were dead, their bodies strewn like broken dolls across the blood-soaked grass.
Ser Roderick found Turin and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"You did well, boy," he said, his voice rough with pride. He saw the marks on Turin's throat, the haunted look in his eyes. "You survived. You killed three Ironborn. At ten name-days, that's more than many men do in a lifetime."
They ransacked the carts — two filled with food: bread, dried meats, sacks of oats. The third was sloshing with barrels of ale and rum, which sent a cheer up among the men.
It took them far longer to drag the spoils back to camp — the horses burdened with the heavy carts, the men singing ragged victory songs. What had taken twenty-seven minutes to ride out took over an hour to return.
When they arrived, Turin was gifted a portion of the spoils — fine meat, rich cheese. More than he had eaten in moons.
He returned to his tent, exhaustion dragging at his bones. Elle was sleeping, tiny and perfect.
He sat beside her, just staring. Her skin was so pale it almost glowed in the dim light. Her hair had grown longer, shining gold like sunlight spun into silk. When he shifted, she stirred, then giggled and crawled toward him, arms outstretched.
Turin gathered her into his arms, pressing his forehead against hers. She giggled again, and he fed her a sliver of cheese, which she gnawed at happily.
Betty stirred but only smiled and drifted back to sleep.
Turin smelled himself — sweat, blood, vomit. He needed a bath badly.
He tried to leave Elle, but she followed him on wobbly hands and knees, refusing to be left behind.
Turin sighed, then smiled. "Come on then, little lady."
He stripped at the lakeside, washing himself clean of blood and dirt. Elle sat on a patch of moss, watching with wide, curious eyes. He washed his only spare clothes as well, laying them out to dry, and pulled on his second, rougher pair.
When they returned to the tent, Elle was already nodding off. He laid back on the bedroll, and she crawled onto his chest, curling up like a kitten.
Turin stared up at the tent ceiling.
His first battle. His first kills. Blood on his hands.
And Elle — light in the darkness, breathing softly against him.
He tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes, vowing that no matter how bloody the path became, he would walk it — for her.