The creak of the cabin door split the silence like a blade.
Arya's eyes flew open. Her lungs froze mid-breath as she pushed herself up from the hard floor, her blanket sliding away. Across the room, Ivy was already on his feet, his body tense, his weapon raised. Moonlight leaked through the cracks in the wall, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.
Another sound followed. A dragging shuffle, rough and uneven. Then a groan low, pained, human. Whoever it was, they weren't trying to hide.
"Stay back," Ivy whispered without turning his head. His voice was steady, but Arya could feel the storm brewing beneath it.
The door creaked wider, letting in a slice of icy wind that stung Arya's skin. A shadow stumbled into the room. Arya's heart pounded so violently she thought it might tear through her chest.
It wasn't one of the masked killers.
It was a girl.
She collapsed against the doorframe, gasping. Her face was pale, streaked with grime and blood, her clothes torn to shreds. She clutched at her arm, where a crude bandage was already soaked through. Her breaths came short, ragged, each one sounding like it might be her last.
"Help…" she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken.
Arya hesitated, torn between pity and suspicion. What if this was a trap? The killers could use anyone anything to smoke out survivors. But looking at the girl now, trembling, eyes wild with pain, Arya saw not a trick but a body moments away from collapsing.
Ivy moved first. He caught the girl just before her knees gave out, lowering her carefully into the nearest chair. His movements were rough, but precise, like a soldier who'd carried wounded before.
"Close the door," he said. His voice cut through the air like an order.
Arya jumped at the command but obeyed, shoving the heavy wood until it thudded shut. The howling wind outside dulled, leaving only the girl's sharp, desperate breaths.
"What happened?" Ivy demanded. He pressed a hand over her wound, his tone clipped, untrusting. "Who did this to you?"
The girl winced, her lips trembling. "They… found us. Everyone gone." Her words cracked into a sob. "I ran. I ran as fast as I could. Please… don't send me back."
Arya's chest tightened. She crouched beside the chair, gently brushing damp strands of hair from the girl's clammy forehead. "You're safe now," she whispered. "What's your name?"
"Mira," the girl croaked. "My name is Mira."
The syllables were weak, barely audible, but they carried weight. Another name. Another survivor.
For a while, the cabin was filled only with the sounds of quiet work. Ivy tore strips from an old blanket to reinforce Mira's soaked bandages. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, watching her every movement for signs of deception. Arya searched the corners of the cabin until she found a cracked jug half-filled with snowmelt. Mira drank greedily, the water dripping down her chin, though each swallow sent shivers of pain across her face.
When the trembling finally eased, Mira sagged into the chair. Arya thought she'd passed out until her lips moved again.
"They're not killing at random," she whispered. Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and haunted. "It's planned. Organized. They go from town to town, burning, wiping everything out."
Arya's heart stuttered. She glanced at Ivy, but his face remained hard stone.
Mira's voice trembled as she continued. "They're mercenaries. Paid men. I heard them talking. They work for someone powerful. Someone who doesn't want survivors." A tear slipped down her cheek. "This isn't war. It's cleansing."
The word cut into Arya like a blade. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering not from the cold, but from the memory of screams, the smell of blood, the silence afterward.
Ivy said nothing. His silence was heavy, his eyes dark as iron. He didn't need to speak. The truth was already written across his face.
The fire burned low, its glow painting their faces in shadows. Arya pulled the tattered blanket tighter around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on Mira's fragile form. Something about the girl gnawed at her. The timing. The way she had found them so quickly. The parts of her story that felt unfinished.
When Mira finally drifted into uneasy sleep, Arya whispered, "Do you believe her?"
Ivy sat by the door, sharpening another stick into a spear. His movements were slow, deliberate, the rasp of wood against stone filling the silence.
"Some of it," he answered at last. "Not all."
Arya frowned. "Why?"
"She knows more than she's telling." His tone was flat. "Her wound it's bad, but not fatal. And her story doesn't explain how she outran them when no one else could."
Arya's throat tightened. "You think she's lying?"
"I think trusting anyone right now is suicide," Ivy said. His eyes lifted, catching hers in the flicker of firelight. "Not even her."
The words chilled Arya more than the wind ever could. Because in that moment, she wondered did Ivy expect her to trust him, when he trusted no one at all?
The hours dragged. Arya tried to sleep, but each time her eyes closed, nightmares clawed at her. Flames. Screams. The smell of burning flesh. She woke in shivers, her body damp with sweat despite the bitter cold.
The fire had nearly died, shadows spilling across the cabin. Mira whimpered in her sleep. Ivy remained by the door, head bowed, but Arya wasn't sure if he was resting or simply listening with his eyes closed.
Then …
A sound.
Not from inside. From outside.
A faint scrape. Snow shifting under weight.
Arya stiffened. She held her breath, straining her ears. Another scrape. Then the crunch of deliberate footsteps circling the cabin.
Her veins turned to ice.
Ivy's eyes snapped open. He straightened slowly, his hand wrapping around his sharpened spear. His body coiled, ready to strike.
The sound moved closer. Step by step. Toward the door.
Then it came.
Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood.