The warehouse stood silent, half-swallowed by snow and soot. Its roof sagged slightly in the middle, and parts of the wooden siding had darkened with age. Still, it held…just enough to serve as shelter, and more importantly, secrecy.
Kaavi stepped in first, brushing a layer of frost from the inner stone wall. The others followed in a quiet line, the air inside marked by the distant creak of beams and the slow drip of melting ice.
Tannic checked the rear entrance, setting a small wedge beneath it. Liran stayed by the wide window, watching the faint trails of torchlight in the distance.
"Not ideal," Gavril muttered, "but better than open snow."
Kaavi didn't respond. His eyes were on the rafters, then on the shadowed corners. It wasn't just cover they needed. It was time.
"We have two days," he said at last. His voice didn't rise. "Baron's column will reach Whitehold by then. When they arrive, we must already be ghosts."
"Meaning?" Corren asked, arms folded.
Kaavi knelt and placed a hand against the frost-streaked floor.
"Meaning we need to know the shape of every alley, every gate, every patrol shift. We aren't here to start a war…we're here to loosen the bricks before the hammer falls."
He closed his eyes.
Outside, the wind shifted.
A faint rustle echoed across the rafters, and then…like breath gathering in the cold...there was a sudden flutter above the warehouse.
Viktor stepped toward the window. Dark shapes swirled briefly in the snowstorm. Not one raven. Not two. Six.
The birds gathered across the edge of the collapsed roof; their feathers dusted in frost. They didn't caw. They didn't shift restlessly like common birds. They simply waited.
Kaavi opened his eyes slowly. The air seemed thinner for a moment.
"They'll spread across the city," he said, quieter now. "Each one will watch from a different direction. We'll have eyes before we take a single step."
Gavril muttered something under his breath. "That's still bloody creepy, you know."
Kaavi almost smiled. "Would you rather walk blind into the Maw's den?"
Gavril didn't answer.
The ravens took off all at once, sweeping into the winter sky without a sound.
The others broke into their tasks…checking weapons, counting rations, unpacking what little supplies they had managed to carry this far north.
Joren rolled up the map and tucked it into his coat. Then turned to Gavril, who had just finished chewing on a dry strip of meat, already bored.
"You're with me," Joren said.
Gavril raised a brow. "For what?"
"Market visit," Joren replied simply.
Gavril let out a low groan. "Take someone else. I look like a highwayman lost in a snowstorm."
"Exactly," Joren said, already pulling on his gloves. "You look like a local. Or at least a local beggar. People don't stare too long at the unwashed."
Gavril stared at him, face blank. "Beggar?"
"You're dressed for the part."
"I bathed yesterday," Gavril snapped.
"In snow."
"A clean snow."
Kaavi, seated in the far corner with his eyes half-closed, didn't even open them. "He's not wrong, Gavril."
Gavril cursed under his breath, grumbling something in his native tongue. Then reluctantly got up, slinging on his coat.
As they neared the exit, Joren added, "Leave the axes."
"Now what?"
"They draw attention. We're gathering information, not declaring war."
Gavril hesitated. He looked down at the twin axes on his hips, hand resting over one instinctively. Then, with a breath through gritted teeth, he removed them and stepped toward Viktor.
"Watch these for me," he said gruffly. "Don't drop them. They're older than you."
Viktor accepted them without a word, holding the leather straps carefully.
"Don't swing them either," Gavril added as an afterthought. "You'll lose an arm."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
Joren was already stepping out the rear door. Gavril muttered one last curse and followed him.
They moved through the winding alleys of Whitehold, guided only by Joren's memory and the shifting patches of lamplight. The streets here were narrower than he remembered from the ridge. Buildings leaned into one another like they shared a secret.
Whitehold didn't feel like a city at war. It felt… calm. Quiet. Which, in a way, was more unsettling.
They passed a butcher sweeping ice from his steps, a few children chasing a rag-stuffed ball near a fountain. Every so often, a pair of guards walked past. Their steps too even. Their silence too sharp.
"They really don't talk," Gavril whispered.
"No," Joren replied. "That's the point."
They arrived at the market before sunrise. Most of the stalls were only half-awake…canvas flaps tied up, fires lit under copper kettles, merchants beginning their long, cold rituals.
Joren motioned toward a small equipment shop wedged between a lamp vendor and a baker's cart.
Gavril squinted. "Why are we here?"
"Your boots."
"What about them?"
"They look like they were stolen from a beggar."
"Can we stop with the beggar jokes?"
Joren walked ahead. "When you stop dressing like one."
Inside, the warmth hit them first. A tiny brazier glowed behind the counter, steam curling from a cracked kettle. Rows of shoes lined the shelves…leather, cloth, hide, some stitched with faded markings.
Gavril scanned the shelves, clearly unimpressed.
The shopkeeper, a wiry man with greying stubble and a wool cap, looked up from stitching a sandal.
"You again?" he muttered, eyeing Gavril. "I told you last week, I don't buy fake meat or pickled rats."
Gavril opened his mouth in outrage, but Joren held up a hand with a small grin.
"He's new. Just arrived yesterday."
The shopkeeper frowned. "He looks familiar."
"I know. Looks like a scamming beggar, but I swear he's not," Joren said smoothly. "This is his first time in Whitehold."
The old man squinted. "You vouch for him?"
"Unfortunately."
The shopkeeper grunted. "Fine. Don't touch anything with dirt on your fingers."
Gavril muttered something about "goddamn respect" and wandered toward the racks. Eventually, he held up a pair…sturdy, fur-lined boots with reinforced soles.
"These."
"Good choice," Joren said. "Now pay for them."
Gavril blinked. "Wait. I pay?"
"You chose them."
"You dragged me here. This was your idea."
"Still your feet."
Gavril looked at the boots, then at Joren. Then at the shopkeeper, who was already reaching for his ledger.
"I'm a beggar, remember? Beggars don't carry coin."
Joren leaned forward slightly, smirking. "You have two silver from that dead puppet. Pay."
Gavril froze. "How did you..."
Gavril hissed under his breath.
Tannic. That rat-faced bastard. I knew he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Still, he reached into his coat and slowly…very slowly…took out a coin. As if it burned to let go.
He handed it over with the expression of a man surrendering a limb.
"Enjoy the boots," the shopkeeper said with a crooked smile. "You've bought yourself one less blister."
The boots fit better than expected. Gavril muttered about the silver the whole walk out of the shop.
That's dinner for three nights, gone. Damn boots better be worth it.
But he wasn't limping anymore.
They turned through the alleys again…Joren taking paths that curved under arches and ducked beneath sagging beams. The city's heart pulsed softly in the background…shopkeepers setting up, merchants shouting for coin, a boy playing a reed pipe from a rooftop.
They turned onto a wider street clogged with carts…the first real crowd they'd seen in a while.
Then a noise broke through it all.
Shouting.
Rough. Desperate.
"Let go of me...!"
It came from a wider street where a pair of guards were dragging a hunched figure between them. The man flailed, one leg twisted as if broken, hair knotted, robes soaked from sleeping in snow. He was old…older than Gavril expected, maybe even older than Kaavi. His beard was wild. His eyes, wide and panicked.
"Please...someone help me! These bastards…these things…they'll take my soul and bury it!"
People stepped aside. No one reacted.
Some glanced. Most kept walking.
One woman pulled her child close and crossed to the far side of the road.
"Listen to me!" the old man shouted, voice cracking. "They're not men! They're not men! They'll pull out your mind and make you walk...walk and smile like nothing happened!!"
A vendor rolled down the flap of his cart.
Someone nearby muttered, "Drunk again."
One of the guards clubbed the man in the stomach. He wheezed and dropped to his knees, still shouting.
"They did it to my son! Took him when he went to the barracks!! He came back and...and he didn't even look at me. He won't even say my name anymore… just stares like I'm a stranger…!"
The guards didn't respond. They just hauled him back up and continued marching. His cries grew fainter.
"Help… please… they'll take my face… they'll take everything..."
Gavril stopped.
His fists were clenched. Jaw tight. The flicker of rage in his eyes wasn't just sympathy…it was recognition.
He took a step forward.
Joren's hand snapped out in front of him, firm.
"Don't," he said.
Gavril looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You heard him."
"I did," Joren replied. "So did everyone else. And not a single one moved."
Gavril's voice dropped low. "We just let that happen?"
"Yes," Joren said coldly. "Because helping him blows our cover. And if we blow our cover, we don't complete the mission. And if we don't complete the mission…"
"Whitehold falls," Gavril muttered.
"Not just Whitehold," Joren said. "Branwyke. And then the rest of the region. You help that man now, you kill a thousand others later."
Gavril didn't move for a long moment. His arms slowly lowered. His breath came out rough.
"I hate this place," he muttered.
"Good," Joren said. "So do I my friend..."
They turned back toward the alleys. Behind them, the street returned to normal. Merchants shouting. Carts creaking. Boots tapping.
Somewhere behind them, far down the alley, a voice still shouted into silence.