Chapter 4 – Chains in the Snow
Five minutes earlier…
"My ursa is picking up blood," Asher muttered, his voice low but sharp, eyes narrowing as the bear like beast beneath him rumbled uneasily.
The silver-haired man sat tall on his saddle, the faint gleam of his chestplate catching the pale winter night. Once, he had been a knight of House Arvel, sworn to protect a noble family in the Ironheart Kingdom. Now, with his oaken axe slung across his back and greed sharpening his smile, now he was nothing more than a slave trader, selling flesh for coin.
The man riding beside him was bald, scarred, his tongue darting like a snake as he spoke he chuckled. "Blood, eh? Heh. Could be fresh pickings. Looks like today's our lucky day." His tone dripped with hunger, not for food but for cruelty and pleasure.
Their band of slavers numbered seven, each astride hulking mounts known as ursa, giant bear-like beasts, twice the size of a man, bred in the frozen Ironheart ranges.
These creatures were no ordinary animals: veins of mana pulsed faintly beneath their thick pelts, their breath were steaming like a kettle. they were once wild predators but the knights of Ironheart had domesticated them into living engines of war. Now, they served lesser masters but still their arrival into a battle field shook their opponents soul with terror.
The riders skewed from the trail they originally planned to go on, following the scent of iron and death carried on the wind.
At that same moment, Auron already sensed them. His eyes flicked to the treeline where snow shook from branches at the approach of heavy steps.
"So, they smelled the blood," Auron whispered, lips curling with disgust. His gaze lingered on the forest floor, still littered with the butchered corpses of assassins.
The carnage godfrey had unleased was too much to erase, even if he had tried. Godfrey's last dance of death painted the ground red, a monument to violence.it was near impossible to clean this blood bath.
The riders burst into the clearing. Ursa growled, sniffing the air, their eyes gleaming with primal hunger.
Asher's gaze swept over the massacre and for a heartbeat, even his seasoned warrior eyes widened. He had seen battles before and he had cut down numerous men in war and betrayal alike, but this… this was slaughter. Bones shattered, steel split, bodies arranged like offerings to a god of death.
Then he saw the boy.
Auron stood alone in the snow, blood on his boots, his skin pale but glowing faintly, touched by the awakening of mana. His features carried a strange nobility, the kind of face slavers dreamed of—youthful, beautiful, which made him valuable.
Asher's lips curved into a smile. "What a catch. That one's no peasant. Look at the skin, the bearing. He's worth double if not more. That old man will pay handsomely."
He raised his voice, adopting a knight's polished courtesy, his tone dripping with false warmth. "Oh heavens! What a sight. Young lord, are you unharmed? Are you hurt?" He slid from his saddle with ease, hand pressed to his chest as though greeting a noble.
"Forgive me. Where are my manners? I am Asher Arvel, knight of House Arvel. My squad was on expedition nearby when we stumbled upon this… misfortune. Fear not. We ask for no coin. It is our duty as knights of house arvel to aid those in need."
Auron's eyes narrowed.
"Lies," he thought bitterly.
He had seen the world's cruelty. He knew better than to believe in knights who offered aid without price. His gut told him the truth: these men were wolves wearing polished steel.
But what choice did he have? He could not fight them, not here, not now.
So he lowered his gaze, softened his expression, and let his voice tremble like that of a pitiful child. "The gods have mercy. To think true knights still walk this world… My party… they were attacked by bandits. Savage men."
He let the words hang like snow on the wind.
Inside, his thoughts burned. Perhaps these men are tied to the assassins. If so, I must play along… until I know more.
Asher's eyes gleamed, though his mask never slipped. He reached out as if in comfort. "So tragic. But worry not. Come with us, young lord. We will see you to safety."
"Yes. Please," Auron whispered, feigning relief.
He mounted the great ursa with Asher's help, the beast's back broad and warm beneath him. Together, they rode deeper into the forest, leaving the corpses and godfrey's grave behind.
Mid-Night came swiftly.
The ursa rumbled, slowing, their heavy breaths misting the frigid air. Asher raised a hand. "The beasts are tired. We camp here."
No one objected.
soon They worked with practiced speed, unloading packs, pitching crude tents beneath the twisted branches of a towering oak.
Soon a fire cracked in the heart of the camp, the snow around it melting to black earth. Shadows danced across armored faces.
Asher sat close to Auron, pulling strips of dried meat from his satchel. He offered one with a smile that almost looked kind. "Jerky. Eat a little, young master. You've endured much."
Auron took it. The smell cleared all the suspicions he previously head.
Beneath the tang of smoke and salt, there was something bitter, sharp - "poison".
His eyes flicked across the circle of men. They watched him with hunger, their gazes like wolves salivating over a lamb.
"So. This is how you play it."
He lifted the jerky to his mouth, bit down, chewed. Moments later, he let his body sag, his eyes flutter, his breaths shallow. He collapsed into the snow with a soft thud.
The slavers chuckled.
"Perfect," one muttered.
Asher rose smoothly, brushing snow from his gauntlet. "Pack him carefully. Don't bruise you dare the goods." he ordered
The bald man licked his lips, stepping forward. "Can I… have a taste? Just a little. He won't fetch less for—"
"Fck off," Asher snapped, his tone dropping like a blade. "Touch him, and I'll gut you myself."
The camp quieted. Orders were obeyed. Chains clinked as they prepared to bind Auron.
They thought they had caught a helpless child, easy prey to be sold in markets of flesh for generous rewards.
But as they laughed and busied themselves, none noticed the faintest twitch of Auron's fingers against the snow, or the sharp, steady rhythm of his breathing beneath the mask of unconsciousness.
they quickly loaded auron onto their usra and they soon set off of their camp in the dead of the night.
little did They realize that they had not captured prey.
They had invited a god of death into their camp. Who will soon rip it to shreds