From the western ocean and stretching to the northern mountains and the passing between the Green Lands and the God's Waste stood Andor. A kingdom built on strength and powerful armies, wise kings and godless people. Cities stretched the landscape, from the white called capital of Castermere to the lonely barracks of Cannor. The latter stood with it's back to the mountains, huge and impassable, except for one road. A passage between Andor and the kingdom of Horngul, allies and enemies depending on the season. It was strictly Andor territory, laced with snow and thick heavy fog. Wargs, wolves and bear lurked in the hills and mountains above, always praying on the merchants and travellers who braved trading over such a path.

Cannor was a barracks of purpose, a black spot on the horizon, dimly lit with cold winter's light, torches that struggled in the high winds. It housed the watchmen, the orphans no parent could feed over the winter months. They were children whose parents couldn't bare to kill, who were weak. They were Winter's Children, men bound to life serving at Cannor, protecting Andor and it's king til the day they froze to death. It was a choice few parents enjoyed making, but now that the colder months were on their way, more and more children would be on their way.

Along the mountain paths, hunched forwards into the wind, five men walked. Each cloaked in thick furs, all covered in the white snow that pushed throughout the nights. Of course Winter's Children who managed to live into their thirties were considered to be unbreakable, strong and true soldiers on Andor. Men who could survive the harsh winds that Hillt pushed their way; although that was untrue, the Gods had been dead for far too long.

"We should find shelter!" One man yelled, holding his arms across his chest. It would take hours to find shelter in the freezing and blinding snow, yet to men who knew the land, who had walked those road more times than any other, it would take moments. Even in a blizzard.
"There should be a rook within a mile." Roran shouted. He stood half a head smaller than the other men, yet his hair was fair. It was an unusual look for a child in Andor. Those born near the boarder of the God's Waste were fair, yet Roran spoke of his River Marsh heritage, suggesting his birth to be of the wetlands to the east.

Each of the men trudged on, shivering and shaking as the winds grew stronger. They had food but they'd be eating cold unless they found dry plants. However in the blizzard and cross firing snow, the idea of warm food looked bleak. They'd eat cold and set up a double watch. No doubt they'd remain hidden if anything came looking for food.

**Hillt - Male god of winter, the Winter's Children, death and night.

This was the end. Everyone in the caravan was dead, buried under the cold blanket of snow. Their blood colored the pristine whiteness of the mountain for only a few moments until the snow covered up any trace of violence that ended the life of the men and women from Horngul. Ysabel had been a part of the caravan as one of the swords paid to ward away any threat to the safety of the merchants transporting finished products of Horngul to Castamere. There were five of them mercenaries, who had a contract with the caravan, but after encountering four hungry wargs in the middle of a snow storm, all four of her long time friends were dead leaving only her as the sole survivor.

Ysabel shuddered, but she knew it had nothing to do with the cold. She just couldn’t believe how quickly she had lost four of the people she trusted the most – Elred, Symond, Cilia and Gyles. Yet she kept on willing her feet to move one step ahead of the other. There was no time to grieve.

Still, the storm persisted. The wind howled and the snow threatened to bury every living being foolish enough to be on the mountain pass. Her lips were cracked and it didn’t help that a warg’s sharp paw had torn her cloak and dug deep into the flesh of her upper left arm. It would heal eventually. She was surprised it hadn’t healed yet and blamed it on her lack of anything to eat in the past day after the caravan attack occured. Ysabel pulled her heavy cloak tighter around her. She had to at least find shelter.

It was not her first time crossing that path and on a day with moderate snowfall, she could have found markers indicating her position on the pass, but not in that kind of weather. This had to be the end for her. She might have survived the wargs, but the storm proved to be a more lethal enemy than any of those creatures’ fangs. She had a sword strapped to her back and daggers on her belt, which she thought to use to end the miserable cold, but whether it was cowardice or stubbornness, her feet kept moving one step ahead of the other.

Hours passed and the cold amplified her hunger. She felt as if her strength was wearing thin, but she kept on moving for the sake of those who could no longer move. Then, as if the gods could still hear pleas, not far ahead she thought she saw figures moving. She closed her eyes and shook her head, but when she opened them again, the heavy cloaks were still moving ahead. Ysabel’s hopes soared. Shouting would do little because of the wind and her distance from them, but they might be kind enough to let her share the fire they would eventually build and a little of the food they carried with them. Therefore, she decided to blindly follow them.

"I'd raise hell if the gods were still alive!" Another man shouted his voice carried along the wind to his friends behind him. Each of them struggled against the wind, yet each managing to keep strong. Over ninty years along the mountain path sat between them, ninty years of knowledge on exactly how to cross this path. However, five lips still trembled, ten shoulders still shivered. "Bastards for making us walk this road on a night like this!" The same man shouted. The group shared a bleak and pathetic laugh. Laughter and high morals kept the cold at bay.

"Ranor and Bane, scout ahead for the rook." Roran suggested. He lifted one gloved hand to shield his eyes from the snow. "We need to be out of this before it gets worse."

"Gets worse?" Another man shouted. "It can hardly get worse." The group agreed.

"Regardless, push ahead and find us somewhere to warm and start a fire. Even if it means attracting Wargs." Roran added, handing over his fire starter to Bane. The man was a good four inches taller than Roran, a man perhaps built for such a job. He was tall, stocky and thickly built. Bane nodded and set off at a jog, Ranor following behind, sword in hand. They had each walked this road a dozen times, stepping over the same thick snow, avoiding the same loose rocks and travelling and guarding the same route. In such harsh conditions, all was for naught. On nights like tonight, Cannor didn't expect it's Children to return.

Roran and the remaining too travellers moved closer together and pulled their cloaks further around themselves.
"What do you reckon we did to deserve this?" The first man asked, his voice cracking due to lack of hydration.

"The gods are dead. The mountain runs wild now." Howen added, patting the first man on the shoulder. The each seemed similar in height, leaning over like croons, wise and old. They were distinguishable from most travellers on the road, with their thick black cloaks, fur over clothes, greyed linens and strong Cannor weapons. Their boots were a thick leather, large rims to promote their own ability to walk along the snows surface.

Time drew on, and the remaining three men hunched further over, shivering and freezing in the cold. In the blur of the snow, a light shone. Yellow, orange and reds burst through the white winds. With a cry of triumph and joy, Roran, Howan and Gilly ran towards the light, joining Bane and Rannor by the fire.

The passing of time did not improve the weather. If anything, the wrath of the mountains seemed to grow fiercer as the night went on. She would have blamed it on the gods had they been alive, but unfortunately they died before her time and all that was left to blame was her questionable decisions. Nevertheless, she forced herself to keep on moving. The people ahead of her were certainly moving forward, not looking back. Unless she had given up all hope and decided to die, she would have to keep asking her feet to carry her with one step ahead of the other.

She had no way to tell who the people in front of her were. Even if she first saw them when there was just enough light to distinguish a jutting rock from a person, they were too far away and the snowfall too thick. As the darkness in the mountains deepened, she worked with all she got to close the distance between her and the group. If it got too dark, she would lose them altogether and the snow on the mountain would swallow her whole.

But what would she do once she caught up on them? Would they find it in their hearts to spare her cold food? She could pay. She would pay with the collected from the corpse of the people she had sworn to protect. They never had to know that the coins were stolen. Money should be enough motivation for these people to share what they had. Besides, due to the lack of information, she had to assume that these people were travelers just like her, who had questionable decision making skills unless…

The difference between them, she decided, was that they apparently knew what they were doing even if, for no obvious reason, they started to run, which in turn forced her tired legs to work harder.

It soon became clear why the three remaining black lumps began running as it was hard to miss the light spilling from a rook carved out from an outcropping rock formation. Ysabel paused in the shadows catching her breath as the wind whipped her cloak. Her dark eyes watched the five men, all in black cloaks and fur huddled around the fire. She then understood the reason why they seemed acquainted with the mountain. Winter’s Children of Cannor.

Well, she had no choice if she wanted to live through the night. The weather was not about to stop its tantrums and the fire called to her. So warm and bright. She needed to get close, just a bit closer and closer still. Until a sound like an animal’s roar tore through her thoughts.

“You!” one of them bellowed, his voice rising over the mountain’s aria. The other four stirred, and she found herself the subject of five strangers’ eyes. “I told you I saw four figures approach, Ranor.”

The one who called her attention got up from his perch on a rock and started towards the opening of the cave, walking up to her. He was a bear of a man, tall and broad, and perhaps with as much muscle as Gyles. Nevertheless, Ysabel stood her ground just outside the little camp. She doubted these men would hurt her unless she gave them a reason, but she could never be sure so she kept one hand resting on the hilt of a dagger.

“Show your ha –“

He didn’t get to finish. The warg didn’t let him finish. In the darkness, these beasts were hard to see until it was ready to pounce. And just as travelers like her were drawn to the light, they were attracted to the warm glow of the fire. It leapt from the boulder adjacent to the mouth of the rook, landing a few feet from where Ysabel previously stood. The woman, thank her unhappy childhood for her good reflex, was able to dive away from that spot and landed somewhere beside the tall man. She immediately rolled to her feet and drew her sword.

The sudden uprising of voices and shouting caused more than one man to draw their weapons. The two nearest pulled strong iron long swords, each lacing with snow. Roran stepped back and pulled a bow from his shoulders and an arrow from his waist beneath his fur cloak. The Wargs were thick, tall and as muscled as a snake. Grey hides that seemed to balance with the night and the heavy blanket of snow, wrapped around them. Gilly made a break for the first Warg, twisting his elbow to get a decent swing on the sword before it made an impact with the animal.

The entire situation was a flash, Bane laid howling in agony as Rannor tried hard to subdue the bleeding. The three others pushed forwards, swinging heavy iron forged swords. Roran's mind moved back to the other, the girl. He released an arrow past Gilly and into the warg he was defending them from. She was quick, silent too. They were pathmen, they should have heard her coming. The remaining Wargs turned their attacks back and latched onto Rannor as he attempted to help his already dying friend. His voice gurgled into the increasing blizzard, echoing off every stone face.

"Howan! Do something!" Gilly yelled, managing to overcome the warg that had clenched all jaws onto Rannor. The younger man stammered for a moment and turned to Roran who tossed a single firestarter. It was much larger than any previous, a heavy iron casing, encrusted with the sigil of their king. "Do it!" Gilly yelled, defending Howan for a moment. The younger man, unshaven and determined, dashed out into the open air. He pulled on the cord and closed his eyes. The valley lit up with a painful bang, one that shook rock and paralyzed both the Wargs and remaining Winter's Children for a moment. The snow shifted as the signal shot straight up into the sky. A vivid red trail followed on, lighting up all darkness for miles. A flare designed by the capital's best magicians to be so bright that any watchman at Cannor could see. They'd be safe within a few hours, providing the Wargs made an escape.

Howan had dropped and covered his ears, cowering under the intense noise. Bane had made no response, his body laid cold in the snow. Rannor laid crying, clutching his open arm as if he could stop the bleeding himself. Roran and Gilly remained stood, watching the Wargs with fear and intent. They had whimpered and cowered, chances are they would leave. The two men let out a sigh of relief as the creatures disappeared from the scene. Ignoring their injured and dead family. Gilly dropped back onto the snow, his weapon cold on the ground. They were safe enough.

During the momentary struggle, the men seemed to have forgotten about Ysabel. Roran dashed towards Rannor, pulling his cloak off. His eyes scanned desperately around for something he could make a wrap out of.
"Someone!" He yelled, scrambling over to the bearded and eldest man of the group. He yanked at Bane's undershirt and tugged as much of it as he could. He tripped back over his body and tried to wrap it around his friend's arm as he howled in pain.

Immediately was apparently not quick enough to do something to stop an attack from the warg. By the time Ysabel was up to her feet, the warg’s fangs already found the part between one of the men’s neck and shoulder. He fell, gurgling in his own blood. Ysabel hacked at the beast, which promptly let go of its victim to face her.

The scene was painfully familiar. An arrow wheezed past her, forced her to look back and see the three more of Cannor’s children spring into action. Two held heavy blades while the other backed them up with well-aimed arrows. Then again, the warg, as was the creature’s nature, did not come to hunt alone. From the storm came two more pairs of menacing eyes, advancing on the humans with wide grins on their wolfish face, before the first beast was even taken care of.

Ysabel, always the one with initiative, broke away from the men who clearly had years tuning in on each other’s battle maneuvers, and issued a challenge to one of the two new comers. She banked on her speed more than the strength of her arms as she met one of the wargs. It leapt for the woman, but she twisted her body at the last moment to dodge its sharp fangs. At the same time, her sword arm made an arc, injuring the creature’s foreleg. It crashed to the snowy ground, but the second of the pair was on the move, leaping from behind its fallen comrade and latching its jaw on a bearded man.

It was a fight ruled by pure instinct until an explosion brought Ysabel to the ground with her eyes shut and her hands desperately covering her ringing ears. When she opened her eyes, it was to the sight of the wargs’ retreating hinds. Surprisingly, the darkness was dispelled by whatever these men did. The ringing in her ears wouldn’t go away though, and she learned, as she tried to get back to her feet, that her balance was not as it used to be. She tripped and extended her previously injured arm to a boulder to steady herself.

”Someone!” yelled one of them.

Ysabel was standing on her feet by then, her bloody sword still held on one hand. She assessed the situation. Out of the five, one was dead and one would probably die soon, three still looked like they were well enough. They were busy tending to their brother that none of them seemed to remember that there was an intruder in the camp. The struggle with the wargs pushed back her hood and she hadn’t managed to pull it back up over her face yet. Her red hair was sprinkled with snow and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. The growling of her stomach was more urgent than before.

She could volunteer her help and heal the injured, but why would she risk the discovery of her unique skills? These people were strangers. Who knew what they would do to her after they learned what she could do?

Her other option was lying not too far away in the form of packs she could carry on her back – provisions that could keep her alive until she completed her trek to Cannor. It was a rather stupid plan. Even she agreed that she might regret it in the next hours, but there was a chance that she could get away with it rather than expose herself to strangers and entrust them her fate once she healed their brother.

So, quietly returning her sword to its sheath, Ysabel inched closer to the bags by the fire. She snatched one without inspecting what was inside then ran behind a boulder. The injured man’s howls of pain and his brothers’ fussing over him gave her all the cover she needed. Her remaining problem, then, was that the mountain pass was no longer dark. Should they decide to hunt her down, she had no doubt that no shadow was deep enough to hide her. Well, she had to rely on her speed.

And so she ran with all that she got, even through the thick snow. She would put off eating once more, but this was for her general safety so her stomach could wait.

The mountains were brightly lit with the red light of the firework, a signal that shone miles into the night's sky. It had been a device designed by Castermere's greatest chemists, created to shine bright enough to warn both Cannor and the Capital; so long as the Capital was looking. The only sounds in the mountain at that present moment was howling agony and the ringing of eardrums. Soon however, it would echo with the sound of thundering hooves, riders from their keep and their home. Gilly had finally come to his senses and scrambled over to Roran. His hands were bloodied and his the thrashing of their dying brother had sent strays of red over their clothes and face. The two men struggled, each trying to keep the man still in order to stop the bleeding.

Howan, the man who'd set off their signal and the only thing that may save their brother's life, held his hands against his ears. The ringing was intense. He could hear the muffled sounds of screams, the pained shouts of Gilly and Roran, each shouting at each other. The man opened his eyes slowly, briefly watching Ysabel dash off down the mountain pass. He blinked and watched her figure sway left and right, double up and split into three. He blinked again and turned to Roran and Gilly, their figures staggering over the injured. Sounds returned and grew louder as his hearing returned. He struggled and pushed a hand in the snow to help himself stand. The whole mountain was twisting and turning in his vision. He wasn't injured, not like the others, instead, he suffered what had simply been known as the Red Flash. A non lethal and noncontagious illness that came with lighting the flare. He dropped back onto his knees and heaved into the snow, watching the ground twist beneath him.

***

Away from the snow and the chill stood the walled city of Castermere. A strong fortress built by the last dynasty of God's Kings, before their downfall seven hundred years ago. Andor prized its city and had built some of the continent's greatest architecture there. Huge great temples, one to each of the eight gods. Colours dashed amongst the vivid white painted walls. Today, the streets were a startling red, flecks of purples and pinks, flying high above houses and thrown over various homes within the city. Brothels were decorated with intricate drawings of lovers and woman, detailed to show the beauty of the God of Love and Women.

Along the streets, stairs rose towards the middle of the city. A tall, shining structure rose from the streets, flying colours of yellow and blue. A tree painted on it's banners at it's base, a crown. The adopted banners of House Dullahan, after their marriage and complete ruling of the Crown; a conquest that had taken a hundred years, yet now the crown was utterly their own. Always a Dullahan sat on the throne, son's passed to son's, never would a Dullahan female take the throne. Inside the castle, a room that stretched tall was filled with the sounds of pleasure and godly love. To the east sat the Throne, high above was a painted window, depicting Mirelda and her crown. It shone spectacular colours during the sun rise, raining it down on the throne. The window never shone in recent years. Mirelda never sent her son's light through the window. Instead, the sun shone instead, never catching the glass inside.

The King sat quietly, ignoring his court as they seemed to avoid his gaze. After all, a man sat with two whores pouring over him was hard to take seriously. The King was married. Yet it was common knowledge his wife was barren. Dullahan's were taken to ignoring barren wives, eventually staging their deaths some years down the line. They would always marry again. All members of court were unaware of the vividly bright light shining from the mountains, a light they should have spotted soon after it's flight. Yet for two hundred years, the light had not shone. King's had removed the watch from the walls. Castermere would survive a siege until it's enemy died.

****

Two men sat upon the walls of Cannor, nibbling on two halves of stale bread. One had closed his eyes to enjoy the silence of a sleeping keep. The other seemed to spring with life as the sky light red between the peaks.
"Darryl, wake up!" He yelled, pushing the man off the chair. The second man opened his eyes quickly, catching himself as he fell. The first man had leapt to his feet and darted along the cobblestone to a brass bell, hanging on the walls. That light meant one of three things: Injury, Trader Injury, or invasion. He scrambled over to the bell and began to ring. It was designed with a shrill sounding metal. One high enough to disturb any sleeping Orphan.

The fort slowly began to spring to life. Elder men, each a skilled swordsman and a skilled man of the mountains. Some were over fifty, giving at least three hundred years on the hills between them. They spoke few words and pulled horses from the stables, each a stocky animal built for the world beyond. Then with loud shouts, they charged through the gates and towards the mountains, men running to windows and walls to watch. It was a sight no one had seen in many years.

A few years back, Elred mentioned about a firestarter from Andor that can dispel the darkness in the blackest of nights that even the stars abandoned. It had a very high value, but was not freely sold. Rumor had it that the manufacture and distribution of the item was monopolized by Andor. Therefore, if their little group could manage to come across one, they should consider its value and spare not a moment in acquiring it.

Ysabel couldn’t believe how stupid she was walking away from such an opportunity. Perhaps there were others of the same kind hidden in one of the men’s packs. She could almost hear Gyles growling in her ear and Cilia exhaling exasperated sighs while Symond argued to her defense, except that she could never hear any of it ever again. Their voices were ghosts haunting her memory. She would mourn them, but not yet that night for she needed to live long enough to mourn her friends.

The stolen package was heavy, but the burden added a much needed warmth to her back. She slowed down to a jog when she realized that nobody was pursuing her. They might be busy tending to their injured brother. It was something she was thankful of, something she could not afford to feel sorry for. It was his misfortune that made way for her to escape anyway.

Hours might have passed by, or perhaps it was just mere minutes. The woman lost count of time in her search for a cave or even a big boulder that would shield her from the wind and its icy wrath until finally she found a hollowed space on the mountainside. It was in that space where, some time later, a small fire from the pitiful dried twigs that was tied to the package she stole crackled in front of Ysabel’s sleeping form. The shelter she found was not wide enough to accommodate her lying down. Therefore, after she filled her stomach with the food she was lucky to have been in her loot, she fell asleep with her back to the cold rock facing the direction where she came from. Her sword lay down beside her, but she doubted if she could react fast enough if anything came up. She was exhausted, and her body constantly trying to mend itself, was not helping her conserve her strength.

True enough, Ysabel did not wake up until a booted foot was nudging her leg. Even then, she failed to react as one should when traveling alone on the open. Instead, she stared at the black boot then up to the man who owned it. The sky was still tainted with red though darker than it had been when the Winter’s Children unleashed the flare. The effects were wearing off, she thought. Then her eyes turned its attention to the man looming over her. His face was hidden beneath the shadow of the hood of his thick black cloak, but the blade of his sword reflected the crimson night. Her eyes traced the line from the hilt to its point poised at her chest.

Her hand instinctively fell to where she left her sword only to find that it was not where she thought it was.

“I took care of it,” said the man. One of Cannor’s orphans, judging by his accent and the similarity of his clothing to the men she ran away from. Behind him was another one. He was kneeling on the ground rummaging through the pack she stole from another orphan.

“Ask here where she found this.”

The man standing over her jerked his chin briefly to his brother. “You heard the question. Where did you find it?”

Ysabel stared up at him. “I can show you the way,” was the answer she said. “You are looking for your lost brothers, I know where they are.” She allowed a small smile as she looked up at the waning light.

The man was silent. Behind him, the other one got to his feet, and slung the bag over his shoulder. “We have men patrolling the pass, Olivere,” he informed.

Ysabel nodded. “Five of them,” she supplied if only to convince Olivere that she did meet the men they were talking about. “Four of them are still alive. One is gravely injured and if you don’t hurry there will only be three left.”

“You will get up and show us the way,” he instructed lowering the point of his sword. The man standing behind him started to move. She followed his movement to where two horses waited. “Derrin, take her sword and meet with the rest of the riding party. Tell them we have found somebody to guide us. Get up, woman.” She didn’t want to, but he had no intention of allowing her to refuse so she did as told and followed him to his horse. Her plan to reach Andor without notice was already compromised.

"Lie still, idiot!" Gilly shouted, fumbling with the wraps. His firm hands gripped tightly around Rannor's arm, holding him as still as he could. Yet the man below writhed in agony, desperate to hold his own wound. "Leave it alone! We can't bandage it if your hands in the way." Gilly struggled, forcing their friend's hand down on and returned to leaving the wrapping to Roran. Gilly stole a glance up at his friend, who strangely seemed intent in thought. Eyes were immediately took back to the injured as he howled. Gilly hushed and forced the unharmed limb down; blood was important, a man could lose a hand and live.

Howan trembled in the blizzard, throwing up the last of his half empty stomach before sitting up shakily. His head swam and shook, as if his head had been tossed off the top wall of Castermere's keep. The world span slowly, twisting this way and that. He could hear noises, although only if he was submerged in icy cold waters. His ears stung and ached. Howan lifted a hand and felt his ears, soon covering them again slowly. The little warmth his hands have off were welcome, bringing life back to his frozen ears. As the world came to a stable stop, Howan finally saw his brother's and friend's pouring over the injured. He picked up his sword and rushed over.

Roran was fumbling over the last bandage wrap, a thick layer on Rannor's arm. It wouldn't be enough to save him, not if this blizzard kept up.
"We need food. Real food." Roran sighed, leaving Gilly to lift Rannor's head upright behind a pile of packs. They covered him with an extra layer of fur before gazing towards Roran. The blonde stood above the first of the dead Wargs and sighed. He pulled out a small dagger and ripped into the stomach of the female beast. She wasn't large, but she'd feed four men enough to give them the strength they needed to get home. Glly stood and walked over to Roran, disgust on his face. Warg meat was tough, stringy and dry. It was a last resort for many. It was their best choice for food tonight.

Gilly stayed beside Rannor, keeping a check on him as he slept, drifting between consciousness and the void beyond. They would lose their brother tonight, no doubt. It was on their minds, silent and unspoken. Howan had turned to tend to the fire, hoping to rekindle it and increase its life. They needed enough to warm themselves and cook the meat none of them wanted to eat.

*****

Four other men waited further down the road, none grumbling about the cold like elders did. It was warmer than it had been for some years. A suspected drought was coming. Many had spoke. Of the Waste's expanding, how the desert stretched further each year, swallowing the land as it moved. Few bothered the pilgrimage to Viltas now. Those who did died of dehydration before they each the cities walls, or any of the wells. Summer was getting hotter. Everyone could feel it.

"Derrin?" One man asked, dropping down from his horse when the man reappeared. "Any news?" The man was thickly built, dark skin, with a heavy beard on his chin. A Child by birth. His mother a refugee from beyond the seas. His life with the watchers was as good as he could have asked for. He spoke with urgency, and walked with distress. "If it was war out boys have warned us against, the Capital won't have listened." A man behind him nodded in agreement.

"When was the last time the King paid any attention to the Northern border? We've been forsaken for many years now. Horngul with not stay our allies when summer comes. The famine last harvest will happen again-"

"Now is not the time to discuss politics and conspiracies, Greymount." Fraym spoke, stopping in front of Derrin. "Right now, we need to find our brother's and get them safe. If war is on the horizon, the King must be warned."

Olivere was the more experienced scout of the two. He was taller, broader, and believed himself to be wiser than Derrin. Although, in truth, Derrin was wiser for allowing his senior to believe whatever pleased him. With their fair skin, dark hair, and brown eyes, both men were generally believed to have come from one of Andor’s cities, although it was difficult to guess where exactly. Though not similar, they possessed the kind of face that was easily forgotten, no remarkable feature as a mole or a birthmark.

Derrin’s brown eyes were a shade lighter than Olivere’s though, and other than being the youngest in the search party, he also had the sharpest eyes. Looking into those brown eyes was like staring into a hawk’s. Therefore, when Olivere scouted ahead of the party, Derrin was handpicked to accompany him.

His shadow stretched on the red-tinted snow in front of him as slowed his pace to a mere gallop. The wind whistled in his ear and the snow started falling again. Soon it would be truly a challenge to locate the boys who fired the signal.

“Derrin? Any news?” Asked one of his brothers. As usual, none of them was willing to waste time in the middle of the desert of ice.

"If it was war out boys have warned us against, the Capital won't have listened."

Greymount added, ”When was the last time the King paid any attention to the Northern border? We've been forsaken for many years now. Horngul with not stay our allies when summer comes. The famine last harvest will happen again-"

But he was cut off by Fraym, who had urged his mount to move to where Derring stopped. ”Right now, we need to find our brothers and get them safe. If war is on the horizon, the King must be warned.”

Derrin maneuvered his horse so it turned sideways. “We found somebody hiding with this,” he said, patting the bag that was retrieved. “This belongs to one of us. It might not be war that our brothers warned us about, but that they are in need of assistance.”

“Rannor and his boys,” mused Greymount. “I would rather that we were roused by war.”

“Liar!” Fraym accused.

Another of the four snorted. “You would rather that we were not roused, Greymount. You’ve been slacking a lot lately, you’ve gone fat and lazy. If it was war that the boys warned us about, that round belly of yours will be the first to spill its contents on the snow.”

“Enough, enough. The two of you, this is not the time to be petty.”

As if on cue, all five heads turned to the sound of hooves on the snow. To Derrin’s delight, it was Olivere, with their guide. “She knows where the others are,” Derring explained.

Olivere shrugged. “She should. She is carrying with her our possessions.” He regarded Ysabel. “Tell us where to go and I might have second thoughts about selling you off as a slave to pay us for these that you have stolen.”

“You do not know whether I did or did not steal the provisions,” she countered coolly. “But I shall lead you to your unfortunate brothers before another one of them leaves us for good. Forward.”

The light from the flare diminished slowly until it was almost too dark to see again. Ysabel, thankful she somehow remembered the path she followed, managed to lead the other men to the rook where she met the owners of the items she stole. Light from the fire shone through the opening of the rook. It was visible even as a small dot up ahead. “There,” she pointed to Olivere, knowing that the man should have already seen it.

Without saying any more, the horses galloped towards the light.

Gilly, Howan and Roran sat quietly, watching night slowly creep back into their lives. The fire was as bright as it could be, fueled as best they could. The group had not spoken for a good while. Their meal was unwillingly eaten and now they waited out the darkness in the hopes of rescue. Rannor had been unconscious for some time, his bandage growing darker as the hours passed by. Soon however, he moved. All three men jumped at once. Gilly, the closest of the trio, turned towards their friend.

His complection was pale, his forehead sweaty and his face pained.
"What's wrong?" He asked, rubbing snow onto Rannor's forehead. None of the boys had sufficient medical knowledge to provide any sort of intelligent remark. Instead Howan made a guess.

"Wargs aren't exactly clean. We know they hunt in groups, trying to attack as many as they can. We know they don't always kill their prey." He paused, taking out his waterskin and walking over to Rannor. "My guess is that they aim to infect their prey with whatever vile chemicals they have in their mouths. Best guesses say-"

"He's dying." Roran stammered, interrupting his friend. The trio sat quietly, each unsure of what they should do. Gilly seemed intent on reducing the fever, Howan had already given up, and Roran had ripped a further section of bandages from the cloak of their fallen friend, a man they buried in the cave. The blonde moved back to Rannor's side and slowly began to unreavel the bandage. It was thick and heavy, more than it had been when the man had put it on. Rannor's skin was thick with dried blood and the further Roran removed, the worse things got.

Beneath the ends of the material, was a black mess. Rannor's wound was seeping thick white puss, his skin blackened and dead. Gilly wretched at the smell, turning to keep his warg meat down. Roran took a moment to do the same. The smell was intense. A smell that seemed equal to a slowly rotting body in the middle of the Wastes. It burnt the nostrils of each of the two boys. Rannor writhed in agony and Roran moved to touch the wound. He was sure that pushing and cleaning out the white gunk was the best option. He lifted a pile of snow onto his friend's arm, hoping the cool snow would turn to water and clean the arm.

Rannor howled out, battling the pain he was already experiencing and the newly found agony that came from Roran's hands on his arm. Howan had moved out of the rook, holding his cloak over his mouth to battle the stench. In the dim red light, he could see figures. He could hear hooves too. He took a moment before running back to the others.
"They're here!" He yelled, regretting his decision to come back into the rook.

Ysabel pointing to the source of light seemed only a confirmation of what most of the men might have already guessed. There were very few fools to march the frozen paths to Cannor anyway. Fraym was the first to arrive to the site, overtaking Olivere. Following Fraym was Andrel, who had kept his mouth shut throughout the whole trip.

Fraym was met by the putrid scent of rotting flesh. His perpetual frown deepened as he wrinkled his nose, assessing the situation from atop his mount. Gilly, Howan, Roran and then his dark eyes narrowed when he found Rannor making agonized sounds on the floor. A dead Warg was at the mouth of the cave, but what made him curious was the fact that the beast had been gutted. “What happened here?” it was not him, but Andrel who demanded answers. Andrel was a year younger than Fraym and Greymount, sporting a neatly trimmed dark beard that covered half his face. He was a bear of a man with booming voice and authority written all over his face.

The other four came shortly after, muttering comments about the smell. Olivere dismounted, pulling their female captive down with him. She heard the other four do the same. “There are supposed to be five of them, Fraym,” Olivere raised. He then turned to Ysabel. “What did you say happened to the other one?”

She glanced at the three men inside the cave trying to guess what was going on in their heads. They had seen her come to the mouth of their temporary camp and then run away. The other three behind her and Olivere started towards their brothers. “The biggest one died.” She turned her attention back to Olivere. Make it good, she thought, considering the next words that would come out of her mouth. “I believe he was dead before the signal was deployed. I left and ran ahead hoping to come into contact with whoever was coming to the rescue so that I can lead them here.”

Greymount crouched beside Roran and asked, “Do you know what you are doing, boy?” But he didn’t wait for an answer and instead nudged the younger man aside with a command. “Move!” He felt for a pulse on Rannor’s neck, while the others hovered nearby, fighting against the stench that was coming from the victim’s body.

“He was bitten by a Warg,” Gilly informed. “There were three of them and we managed to kill one.”

Fraym, still sitting atop his horse, snorted. “Did you mean to brag your accomplishment, boy? Greymount, how bad is it?”

Greymount shook his head. “Not good. He will not make it back to Cannor,” he admitted with a sigh.

“I can help,” Ysabel volunteered before she could stop herself. Damn her compassion. Many had warned her against her being soft, but she had walked out on them once.

A number of pair of eyes rested on her, questioning and doubting the woman who turned out from nowhere. She cleared her throat. “I was trained as a healer,” she lied. “I can help him if you will let me. Show me what you brought with you.” She was cursing herself even as she spoke. Of course she was not going to reveal her secret to these people, but he needed to help the one in pain. Besides, if she showed them good then they might be more inclined to believe her lie about running ahead to look for help.

Howan stumbled back into the trio and turned Gilly and Roran. It wasn't a good sign. Especially so many. They all knew they'd deployed a signal meant for war or life threatening situations. Rannor's life, however, was on the line. Roran turned his eyes away from the oncoming group of superiors. He needed to help Rannor, despite his overwhelming need to vomit. The stench was putrid, acidic and choking. He gagged as his hands touched Rannor's skin, feeling his skin crisp and his pores ooze underneath his hands. Gilly nudged him in the side as Greymount approached, desperate to attract his attention before they got into anymore trouble. Their job had been to watch the road, instead, they'd lost one man, watched a traveller disappear into the snow and potentially kill the best Watchman the keep had.

As Greymount pushed Roran aside, he dropped back off his knees and into the snow. He waited, watching carefully. Howan had left the cave to vomit again, bringing up the partially digested Warg's meat. Roran didn't doubt he'd be throwing up for days. The blonde scrambled upright and stood looking down, clenching his fists. The news of Rannor's fate was hardly promising. Roran exited the cave to stand by Howan, inhaling fresh air deeply. No doubt he'd killed Rannor himself. He was an idiot. He'd caused the guy pain, more pain than nessecary. No officers were left in Cannor, they'd be running riot within the day.

The two remaining orphans glanced inside the rook as Gilly replied to any questions. Roran wished the boy kept his mouth shut, he'd known Gilly for nearly have a decade, he'd always had a habit of telling more than was needed. The blonde turned his eyes back up to the sky, his eyes closing as he tried to ignore the smell. Howan had found shelter and solace by the cliff wall, holding himself upright whilst his stomach continued to empty onto the floor. The storm would get worse as tube night drew on, everyone knew that. Whatever the plan was, it needed to be decided fast. Roran twisted back around as Ysabel spoke. He'd forgotten all about her.

"How?" Roran asked, pushing himself through the group of offficers to see the thief. "No healer can stop that." He cursed himself for that remark. Had he not tried the same not ten minutes before. He'd be in far too much trouble when he got back to Cannor, unless he was made to continue his route. Howan, who'd finally stopped vomiting, turned into the rook, intregied.

The reaction of Cannor’s men, both the younger ones and their seniors, was not surprising. They looked at her with anger, frustration, and disbelief playing on their hard faces. She would have looked at her the same way had she been standing in their shoes. Behind them, the storm howled again. There was no way they could travel back to Cannor with the injured and hope that he would recover. No, with the way he looked, he would die sooner than their bonfire.

Ysabel watched the emotions played on the men’s faces. She noticed that their coloring and facial structures were diverse, hinting that these men had come from all over Andor and perhaps even beyond. But despite the diversity, that night, she guessed that they were all contemplating whether or not they should believe her. The silence didn’t stretch long. Somebody pushed his way through the wall of bodies to voice out his thoughts.

“How?” He demanded. ”No healer can stop that.”

Her response didn’t come right away. Instead, she allowed the others time to organize their thoughts and somehow form an opinion towards her. Of course she knew she could do it, she was not just any other healer. The process was painful and she knew just by looking at the exposed part of the injury that she would regret it later on.

Still, she raised an arrogant brow at the blonde man. “And how can you say for certain?” She challenged. He looked young, younger perhaps than most of the men, therefore he couldn’t be the one in charge. Ysabel turned her attention to the one who was still on horseback – the most arrogant looking of them all, the one whose voice sounded like he was used to barking demands and commands. “I am confident that I can help him.”

The man’s beard moved before she saw his mouth did. Andrel had never taken his hard eyes off Ysabel and now that she had the chance to look back into those black pools, she dared not to look away. “Are you a healer?”

“Yes, I am,” which was true.

The men exchanged glances. “He is dead,” Greymount spat. “Or will be in a few hours. The best we can do for Rannor is to ease his suffering. End it fast and painless rather than prolonging his agony and ours.”

“No!” she protested, taking a step towards the man in pain on the floor. “I can guarantee that he will live. All I ask in return is safe passage to Andor.” She knelt down beside Rannor, ignoring the smell that lingered in the cold air around them. “Please, give him a chance. I will guarantee his recovery. I will guarantee it with my life.” Ysabel almost bit her tongue after the words slipped past. What was she doing throwing such a promise?

Greymount’s expression didn’t change. He did not believe her, yet he lifted his eyes to meet with his brothers.

“He is dead anyway,” said Derrin with a shrug. “You said so yourself.”

Fraym grunted as he dismounted. “Prove yourself true, woman. If Rannor dies tonight, before the mountain calms down, I shall have your head.”

“And I shall have supplies before his condition becomes irreversible,” she answered, seemingly unconcerned about the threat.

Derrin was the one who fetched the medicinal supplies, carrying it over to her, who just stared at it, not really knowing what to do. The bag was crowded with jars and powders. She asked Derrin to identify each for her, then asked someone else to heat enough water to clean Rannor’s wound. The camp came to life around them. The elders gave out orders on who was going to be on watch, ate, and generally avoided bothering her, except for Greymount who hovered over her shoulder. She occasionally asked for assistance to hold Rannor’s down. Despite his corpselike skin coloring, he was still strong. She was witness to his strength when at one time he accidentally hit her on the jaw.

In the end, after she managed to clean Rannor’s wound, Ysabel made a hazy concoction which was mostly water and something else Derrin mentioned. By that time, Rannor was limp, his skin was clammy and his breathing very uneven.

“Help me,” she asked one of the orphans, whose name she hadn’t asked. “I need to get him to drink this.” He helped lift Rannor’s head and slowly, Ysabel fed the liquid to her patient. She touched his forehead as if checking for fever then braced herself. While the liquid mixture would not heal Rannor, Ysabel would do it. Slowly, she reached for the thread – a familiar connection that she had learned to establish with another living being when their skins were in contact. She tugged at it, testing the strength of the connection, then gently coaxed the damage to heal.

In Rannor’s case, she wouldn’t close the wound, but rid it of the poison that was slowly eating his flesh. However, as was the law of nature, nothing can be subtracted without anything to be added in return, or else the balance would tip. What she rid of Rannor, therefore, she absorbed to herself – the part which she didn’t enjoy.

Rannor’s breathing became a little more even and a little color came back to his face. Ysabel’s stomach lurched. She covered her mouth, waved at the one supporting Rannor’s head to also do the bandages, then ran to the mouth of the cave, fell on her knees and heaved the contents of her stomach on the snow.

The three remaining Orphans lingered close by. Roran was still baffled by the prospect of her managing to heal the disgusting mess on Rannor's arm. Although he felt the ignorance of his previous actions weighing heavy on his shoulders as his superiors stood around. He waited and waited, watching Ysabel with cautious eyes. She would be one hell of a healer if she managed it. He'd even call it a miracle if the Gods were still around. There was no chance Tyhme or Mirelda would watch over Rannor tonight.

As Ysabel started to work, Roran disappeared out of the rook and sat in the snow, attempting to relax. Gilly had dashed to Rannor's side as soon as help had been summoned. Howan however had taken to trying to sleep. The elders were quietly talking, making a meal out of sourdough from the keep. Roran glanced inside occasionally, immediately looking back whenever Greymount glanced his way. He didn't need to have summoned them here for this. They could have dealt with Rannor themselves, although casualties would hVe been much greater. He could feel the resentment from some of the men who busied themselves with rest or chatter.

Howan soon took up watch and tended to the horses. The snow was starting once more, yet its flakes seemed to slow as the storm eased. No one took notice. Gilly had chosen to stay by Ysabel and Derrin, trying to keep Rannor still. He would ocassionally speak out, calling his brother an idiot for struggling. Roran had shifted his position to a pace back and forth in front of the rook. He needed Rannor to be okay, to survive. His mind flicked over things, trying to work out what would happen if his friend died. Three wasnt a good number to continue a watch over the pass.

Gilly lifted Rannor's head, looking up at Ysabel with bewilderment, worry and confusion. He'd kill her himself if Rannor didn't survive. The man spluttered for a second so Gilly lifted his head further, holding it steady. He slipped a hand under his shoulders to lift his torso, making it easier to drink. He was surprised when the colour of Rannor's skin changed, redness and life returning. He laughed with amazement and lowered Rannor's head back down. Upon orders, he shifted positions and began to twist a clean bandage around his arm.

Others hurried round to see the end result, each glad and surprised. Roran shared the joy for a moment before glancing towards Ysabel. Her reaction wasn't what he'd expected. He could hear Gilly retro the situation with the amazement and excitement of a child. Roran's brain ticked slowly, connecting vague loose ends until a story clicked in his mind.
"No.." He mouthed, watching Ysabel for a moment. Outside, the storm had stopped completely, the skies were clear and the stars seemed to shine. Roran walked towards Ysabel for a moment, stopping outside the cave. He noticed the sky soon enough and swallowed slowly. It was unnatural a for a storm of that strength to die down so quickly.

“It’s only within a short period that they will be thankful,“ said a voice in her head – the voice of a friend who had already gone ahead into the next life. “The questions will start soon. Answers will be demanded from you, Ysabel. What are you going to tell them?” Words spoken to her when she was younger and cared less about the world, at a time when she thought herself invincible and capable of ridding the world of its evils.

The woman knelt on the snow, surrendering what little food she had to the snow. She clutched at her stomach, catching her breath. With her head bowed, fine strands of her shoulder length coppery hair spilled from the fur lining of the hood. Her shoulder burned as if slowly being burnt and eaten at the same time. This must be how Rannor felt, minus the ugly wound and awful smell. If she started to see hallucinations, Ysabel wouldn’t be surprised. Still the challenge of not being found out was present. What she had to do to keep her secret was to act as if she was fine, which was farther from the truth than Cannor to Castermere. She shouldn’t have pushed it. Ysabel should have healed Rannor slowly, leaching the Warg’s poisonous essence from the older man’s body in regular intervals. That way she would have given her body to enough time to fight off the small doses before taking in more. However, like his brothers, Ysabel was afraid that Rannor was going to die within the hour.

Voices filled with emotions came from where she left Rannor, Gilly and Derrin. The other men must have gathered around her patient, but she was too busy heaving the contents of her stomach to the ground to be truly certain. She even failed to realize that the gray overcast had already cleared giving way to the glittering stars. It was only when a shadow fell over her that she looked up from the ground.

Turning her head slightly, she chanced a glance at the person who decided to join her. Perhaps he was the most curious of the group, already about to ask questions. Standing a little to her right was the blonde who had earlier expressed his doubt. Despite her condition, she couldn’t help but grace him with a lopsided I-told-you-so grin.

Feeling more confident that her stomach was done throwing away its contents, she wiped her lips with the rough exterior of her cloak then got up to her feet. The moment she did, her perspective went weird, the ground tilted and she instinctively grasped his arm for support. She went still for a few seconds, waiting out the wave of dizziness, until she thought she already found her balance. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, letting him go.

Ysabel stood only a few inches shorter than the man. He looked different from his comrades, his coloring was definitely different. She wondered if he was a half-blood, possibly a product of a passionate night shared between a lonely soldier and a whore. She waited for him to say something, but somebody else beat him into it.

Footsteps were muffled by the snow, but Greymount’s presence was fairly hard to miss. “What did you give him?” he demanded.

Ysabel tugged at the hood of her cloak, under the pretense that she was cold, willing the shadows to hide her face and the paleness of her skin. “Medicine,” she answered. “All the ingredients were from your supply. You should be smart enough to figure out which, but I shall not reveal the formulation. Why else should you lot keep your promise to help me get to Cannor safely?”

The sky drifted clear, clouds disappearing along a silent wind. Astronomers would count the stars tonight, spotting a bright gem sparkling by the moon. It's place was usually taken by the blac of the night, instead it shone, marked down for the first time in centuries. Not many would take notice, but it's presence was there. The moon had been what Roran noticed next. It shone larger and brighter than he'd seen in his lifetime, and brighter than any man alive remembered. It's face was far and round, sharing a vibrantly white hue. Growing up he'd heard these stories, the faces of the gods in their natural states. However, he was tugging at vague memories; he'd been nine upon arrival.

Gilly was still laughing, joining in with Howan as they celebrated. He expected a long break for their brother. The man finished his bandage and poured Rannor some water and broth, giving him something to eat before the journey home. He'd need the strength in the cold, the last thing he needed would be to fight the chill without the energy. Both boys were soon joined by the elders and shuffled out the way, allowing them the room they needed.

Roran's brain ticked slowly, constantly trying to not doubt his hopes. He was suspicious. Incredibly. The blonde watched her stand, his face fairly obviously stating his amazement and astonishment. If she was a healer and his vague grips at the stories he knew were true, despite how much he doubted it, then she wasn't safe. The crown had been part of the siege that had killed the previous God's King. The last place she'd be safe would be in Andor. Her only haven would have been the capital amoungst the Wastes. Getting there was difficult however.

Roran watched her curiously, stepping forwards as she stood slowly. She was odd, so hidden. He deffintely let his own daydreams run away for a fleeting moment, dreams of gods, magic and miracles. No one alive had seen the Gods' work, no one recalled a storm, a battle between brothers in the sky, or the spring flowers, the huge waves and dancing waters. He wasn't expecting her to latch on, at least not so quickly. He made a desperate attempt at working out what exactly was so different about her, but saw very little underneath her hood. The only thing he did manage was a spared comment.
"You're not safe here." Either she'd understand or she'd assume him mad. Regardless, she'd be trailed for theft.

Roran jumped as Greymount spoke. He pulled his arm from beneath Ysabel's hand and stepped away. The gruff leader had scared numerous Orphan's over the decades, he still terrified most even now. He was partially cringing as Ysabel spoke back with a sharp tongue, luckily he had no power over her.
"You should honour your promise." Fraym spoke, walking out from inside the rook. He was curious, they all were. Derrin was their best healer, not once had he managed to stop a Warg's infection before. No doubt there would be too many questions. If word got out, Ysabel would find her head on Castermere's walls before the month was out.

It might be because she was hiding behind the pretense that she was normal, but Ysabel had always found it difficult to trust a person. Even if it was the person who she owed her life to. This was just the way she was raised by people who were not her real parents.

“With all due respect,” Ysabel turned her attention to Fraym, she fought to keep her voice even. “I find no reason to trust you entirely. The information I have – the information which you wish to acquire – is mine to use as I please. And right now, with your men outnumbering me, I have this piece of information to trade for my safety.”

Greymount barked a humorless laugh. His eyes caught the light from the fire making the hazel spark like gold. His beard covered most of the bottom half of his face, but was unable to diminish the sharp lines of his features. His cheekbones, for example, were high and pronounced, especially when he grinned like an evil mastermind. “Such high spirits for a small creature. It will be fun to break you,” he mused then snapped his head towards Roran’s direction. “You, boy.” Greymount commanded his attention. “Have you nothing better to do than stand here all night?”

“Don’t pick on the young ones, Greymount. You are certainly jealous of their youth,” Fraym cut in. “I understand your concern –“

“Ysabel.”

“Ysabel. However, I am the one assuring your safety among my brothers. Not a hair on your head shall be touched.”

Even promises didn’t work for her. She was more at east in situations which she could control and that night was not one of those situations. There may be something they wanted from her, but what was to stop them if they wanted to abandon her in the middle of the road or worse kill her, because she was someone who would offend the king. The blonde was correct, she was not safe around these men.

“The storm has cleared all of a sudden,” Fraym said, looking up at the night sky. “Makes me believe that the gods are making a return.” Even the winds had calmed down. Ysabel noticed it for the first time just as a wave of nausea washed over her. She swayed on her feet, but managed to keep her balance, cursing herself and her series of bad decisions. She felt lightheaded, and cold, colder than when the storm was raging on, and decided that her body was already feeling the effects of the Warg’s infection.

“May I leave you three men alone? I feel tired.” Ysabel walked back towards the rook, where the others stopped their animated conversations as she came close. Eyes followed her every move, she could feel their curiosity through their stares. They all wanted to hear how she managed to cure Rannor. This was what she was warned against. She was not supposed to use her powers outside her group – the group that had all been left dead in the snow. She pretended not to notice them and went to sit against the wall near Rannor, closed her eyes, and asked for sleep to come and take her.

Gilly had moved back to his spot next to Rannor and Derrin, waiting politely for their friend to return to consciousness once more and begin to rest his body. The harsh cold was still wondering in the mountain air, although without the storm above, the temperature was rising slowly. Derrin continued to check over his pulse and soon took his time tending to any injuries Howan or Gilly had. Howan would need food and something to control his ever present nausea. They would all be best at the Keep, at least until the next group came home.

Roran jumped somewhat when the usual barks of anger were sent towards him. The gates of Cannor and the men inside were said to be kind and share a bond like no other army alive, clearly it wasn't true. Fortunately conversation was twisted back, moving towards it's original subject of Ysabel. He was grateful. He stepped back and shifted his feet in the snow. He was uncomfortable at best, especially when it came to dealing with elders. Perhaps it was the years in the cold that had made them harsh.

Roran fumbled for a short moment before disappearing to find his closest friends. Thankfully, the Capital would not have been watching the mountains, they never did. However, as soon as anyone found out about Ysabel, she'd be the most wanted individual in the whole country. Regardless, she'd need a hand in getting out. She wasn't safe north, west or east and South was just as dangerous. He watched her disappear into the rook too, drifting off into sleep. Everyone was curious, perhaps for different reasons. Everyone expected her to reveal a different secret.

The rest of the camp slowly stirred into life and as the hour passed, each of them prepared for the journey home. Gilly, Roran and Howan would travel behind on foot, making their way home at their own pace. Roran suspected Ysabel would travel by horse, Rannor too. She'd be trialed before they got home. It was at least a days walk, but no more than a four hour ride, at a fast pace. Without the winds and snow, it would take less time. She'd be trialed for theft, and no doubt her ability would be revealed. It wasn't his duty but if she was what he suspected, he couldn't let her die. Instead, Roran clung onto the vague hope, the thin string and desperate desire that she would be safe.

Fraym and the elders prepared their horses before waking Ysabel. Roran, Gilly and Howan had pulled on their remaining belongs and doused the fire. The firepit here would save for another group when they passed the rook. Gilly adjusted the snow where their friend was buried and laid down the thick cloak over the mound. A carful arrangement of stones and it would provide as a decent grave. There was no family to inform, aside from those at Cannor, but after the flash, each of them doubt they expected anyone to come home.

It was impossible to guess how much time had passed by because the sky was perpetually dark, but when the man who had been helping her – she learned that his name was Gilly – gently shook her awake, the camp was already breaking up. “Are you feeling alright, miss?” he asked, to which she nodded in response. He didn’t say anything more, and instead proceeded with his next task.

Ysabel checked herself. She was still breathing, which was a good sign, plus she wasn’t feeling nauseous anymore, but the cold to her was unbearable. Her body shook on intervals, and she clamped her teeth closed to stop them from chattering. She pulled her cloak tight around her and slowly got up. That was when she realized that she was wrong about the nausea. Instinctively, her gloved hand covered her mouth and she breathed long deep breaths.

The man she healed, Rannor, was already conscious. He had mounted a horse and was sitting with his back straight and an arm sling to limit the movements of his injury. She met his dark eyes, but his expression was unreadable, partly because of the beard that had grown thick. Was he thankful? Did they tell him how she got him healed?

Ysabel was guided to a horse by the Winter Children’s healer. “You are going to ride with me,” he declared in a tone of voice that wouldn’t honor any objection. “Greymount wanted the pleasure of riding with a woman, but both he and you in one horse will exhaust the animal. Besides,” he turned around and pushed back her hood. The cold wind bit on her skin sending shivers down her body. Ysabel immediately tugged it in place and hugged herself to conserve body heat. Whatever Derrin was about to say was lost.

“I – I’m n-n-n-ot feeling w-well,” she stammered. “Fever.”

Derrin shrugged and helped her up the horse. “We don’t have enough supplies,” he explained to her. “So you will have to wait until we are back in Cannor. Fevers are not uncommon and it is very unlikely that you will die because of it.” He smiled up at her then mounted. “It’s more likely that you might die on Greymount’s sword because of your impudent tongue and his infamous temper.”

He might have heard the short conversation she had with Greymount. However, before she could answer, Fraym gave the signal and the riders wasted no time and galloped into the night, leaving the three on foot.

*******

The riding party arrived at Cannor before the sun was up. It was a long hard ride without a pause, which made Ysabel feel sore. She had slept through most f the journey, allowing her body to shut down and rest as it fought against the infection in her bloodstream. This was the reason why she missed the view of Cannor from the mountain pass.

When she woke up again, the horses were already inside the gate and Derrin was nudging her. “If I were you, I will take advantage of the fatigue we older men are feeling right now and sleep as much as I can. At dawn, I predict that no matter how sick you are, you will…”

“Derrin,” Olivere called, walking towards them. As it seemed, Derrin and her were the last of the riders to arrive. Ysabel saw the Fraym was right behind Olivere. No matter what happened, they should not know about what really healed Rannor.

Derrin dismounted from his horse and helped her down. She was feeling a bit better, at least, she wasn’t dizzy and her head was a clearer. They were met by Olivere and Fraym. The others, including the intimidating Greymount had already dispersed, while the ones who were on foot were not yet expected to arrive any time soon. “We have prepared a room for you for the night,” said Fraym. “Sleep well. We will see you in the morning.”

She was dismissed just like that. Olivere and Derrin walked with her to the empty room, although it was a younger orphan who really led the way. The room was a simple square space with a single bed, a table and a closet. The window was high and narrow and the walls and floor were gray. It reminded her of a prison cell, except that it was clean and dry.

“Somebody will guard the door,” Derrin told her before leaving. “For your safety and to make sure you don’t run away. Have some rest.”

She was definitely a prisoner. They were just polite enough not to throw her in the dungeon, perhaps because of the favor she did for one of their brothers. But even thinking was exhausting her. She needed her strength that her passive magic was using up as it healed her body. Banishing all worries, she crawled to the bed and almost instantly fell asleep.