"Proceed." The floor dropped. The rope snapped. Darkness. [Sync Failed] ... Air scorched Kael's throat, dragging him from the void. He jackknifed, bile coating his tongue with copper. His boots scrambled for grip on the glazed ice while his fingers clawed at his neck, seeking a phantom noose. Only skin met his touch.
"Easy." Tom leaned on his spear, a scarecrow figure against the white. His eyes were as cold as the snow around them. "You collapsed."
Kael cleared his mouth, spitting a yellow smear onto the drift. "I'm standing."
"Barely." Tom gestured with his chin. "The trap is bare."
Kael hauled the chain up. The links rattled, sickeningly light. The bait—rabbit offal frozen solid—sat undisturbed, dusted with fresh powder. Even the rats had abandoned this ridge.
"That's five." Tom massaged the raw scab where his fingernail used to be. "The Steward checks quotas at sundown."
The wind bit through Kael's layers, sharper than any blade. On the horizon, the sun burned low, a dying ember strangled by grey wool. Daylight was failing.
"We move to the ridge," Kael commanded.
"To what end?" Tom stared at the skeletal treeline. "The forest is sterile. We simply wait for the bell."
Kael released the chain. The iron struck the ice, the sound swallowed instantly by the vast silence. He bent, fingers closing around the ashwood staff where it lay half-buried in the drift. He hauled it free, frost cracking loose along the grain.
As he tightened his grip, muscles tensing, a heavy, wet thud broke the silence.
Kael froze. "Bear?" Tom whispered, his silhouette shrinking.
"Possibility." Kael slid his knife from its sheath. Sweat greased his palm against the leather. The fatigue evaporated, replaced by a sharp, animal focus. "Or a clumsy stag."
"Bears mean we run," Tom murmured, taking a step back.
"First, we verify."
Kael crept toward the brush. The hardpack crunched under his weight, each step a gunshot in the stillness. He swept the pine boughs aside.
Metal glinted.
A Knight lay entrenched in the bank, plate armor breaking the monochrome landscape. Kael's pulse stuttered. A Knight. Here. Dying.
Tom peered over his shoulder. "Gods..."
Then, greed twisted Tom's face. His gaze locked on the gold ring. His fingers dug into Kael's jacket, bruising the shoulder. "Kael," he choked. "Look."
"I see it."
"The Quota," Tom stammered. "A year's worth. Perhaps two." He shoved Kael, his grip shaking. "Harvest it. He's unconscious. Sever the finger."
Kael advanced. It was a simple equation: Meat. Gold. Survival. He dropped to one knee, reaching for the hand.
The knight jerked, a wet gasp tearing the air. "No..."
His eye flew open, pupils blown wide. The gaze latched onto Kael, then the blade. Aggression bled from the man's face, replaced by absolute wretchedness. "Aid..." he wheezed, fingers scratching feebly at Kael's boot. "Mercy..."
The knife trembled.
"Strike!" Tom hissed, vibrating on the balls of his feet. "He is barely a corpse! Kael! Before he screams!"
Kael met the Knight's stare. He saw the desperation, raw and human. But he also saw the complication. Killing a Knight brought inquiries. Inquiries brought the Steward.
He sheathed the dagger. "We leave."
"What?" Tom's jaw went slack. "It sits right there!"
"I said we leave." Kael pivoted, turning his back on the risk.
Tom tore his arm free. "Then give me the dagger. If you won't do it, I will."
Behind him, a strangling noise erupted. The Knight convulsed, spine arching in a violent bow. His hand clawed at his helm, starved for oxygen. With a metallic clack, the faceplate disengaged.
Kael halted. The retreat withered in his muscles.
Grey light washed over the exposed face. Kael paused. He looked at the scar. That crooked nose. Those lips that curled naturally into a sneer—even in pain.
Recognition struck like a hammer.
Janson.
The Baron's Patrol Captain. The man who ordered Old Miller's slow execution; the sadist who flayed the man until the screaming died, leaving only a corpse to stiffen in the frost.
"Kael!" Tom yanked his sleeve. "What? Changed your mind, good man?"
Kael rooted himself. The icy dread in his chest evaporated, replaced by a dense, molten heat. Janson alive meant a hunt. Janson remembered faces. Janson silenced witnesses.
"Air..." Janson wheezed, blind to the boy looming above. "Suffocating..."
Kael stared into the pleading eye. Then, a glint caught the dying light. The fine steel dagger at the Captain's hip. A weapon worth a life. The tremor in Kael's hand vanished.
"We stay, Tom," Kael whispered.
Tom stumbled back. "So what was that? Pretending to be decent?"
"Study his face," Kael interrupted, voice flat. "Really look."
Tom squinted, then recoiled. "Captain... Captain Janson?" Color fled his cheeks. "Oh gods," he breathed. "He'll remember us."
"He won't."
Kael stalked back toward the prone form. The snow compacted under his heel—a sound of finality. He drew the blade. It whispered free, lethal and eager.
He looked down at the Captain. "Don't move. It will be quicker that way."