The road to Thalvaren cut through the frost-tipped pines of Ironvale, winding toward the empire’s heartlands. The air was sharp with winter’s bite, the sky a heavy gray blanket threatening snow. The company of riders moved at a steady pace, their banners fluttering weakly in the cold wind—the flower-crowned fox of House Tyndale, silver on a field of cyan, trimmed in white.

       Rystrka rode near the rear of the column, his gloved hands firm on the reins. Years spent as a sellsword had accustomed him to war, but this was different. Now he rode beneath a noble’s banner, sworn to Lord Jaymes Tyndale of the First Keep. Loyalty after so many years of selling his sword to the highest bidder—it was an unfamiliar sensation. He was no longer just a blade for hire. He was a knight now, a lord of a small keep in Ironvale.

  An honest living. He barely knew what to do with it.

     His squire, Kyllan Tyndale, a boy of twelve and cousin to the main line, rode beside him, struggling to stay upright in his saddle. The boy was awkwardly tall, lanky, but he listened well enough. His chainmail rattled with every jostling step, his thin fingers clenching the reins like a drowning man. If the boy ever saw true battle, Rystrka wasn’t sure if he’d fight or piss himself. But the lad had spirit, and for that alone, Rystrka was willing to mold him into something better.

At the head of the column, Lord Jaymes Tyndale and his eldest son, Auster, rode side by side, speaking in hushed tones. Auster was green—barely past his fifteenth nameday, but eager.

Lord Jaymes was of the old blood of the Westermen, a warrior-lord whose name was etched into the annals of the Frostfall Rebellion. Broad-shouldered, with a neck thick as an oak tree, he carried himself with the ease of a man who had spent his life in the saddle. His weathered features were set in quiet contemplation, his sharp eyes sweeping the tree line for threats.

Beside him rode the captain of his house guard, Sir Riler Drox—an old, grizzled knight who had carved his legacy across decades of war. His name had been spoken in the Pirate Wars, the Great Tourneys, the Reign of Blood, and the Harrowing. They said he had survived six battles that should have killed him.

He kept one hand on the reins, the other on the pommel of his sword. Even now, he rode as if expecting death to come from the trees. And death always came when least expected.

The company was a dozen strong—household knights, men-at-arms, and bannermen loyal to House Tyndale. The snowfall was light, swirling around them in ghostly wisps. The woods loomed on either side of the narrow pass, thick and dark.

"Milord," Kyllan broke the silence, snapping Rystrka from his thoughts.

“Yes, Kyllan?” Rystrka asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

"You were a sellsword before being a knight, weren’t you?" The squire nudged his horse into stride beside him.

“Yes, boy, I was," Rystrka answered. "Fought pirates, fought knights, fought would-be kings and bandits. What of it?"

Kyllan hesitated for a moment, gripping the reins tighter. His face was half-hidden beneath the hood of his riding cloak, but his breath curled in the cold air, betraying his uncertainty.

“Well, I was just wondering,” he finally said, voice careful. “Did you ever regret it?”

Rystrka exhaled through his nose, his gaze never leaving the road ahead. The snowfall had thickened, flakes settling onto his cloak, melting against the warmth of his skin. The woods felt quiet. Too quiet.

“Regret?” Rystrka repeated, tone dry. “Regret is for those who have the luxury of choices, boy. Sellswords don’t get that. You take the contract, you fight, and you live long enough to spend the coin. Or you die, and someone else spends it for you.”

The boy fell silent, absorbing his words. The road stretched on, the snow thickening.

“But you had a choice,” Kyllan finally said. “You could have stayed in Ironvale. Your father—”

“My father was a bastard son of a lowly knight who squandered his money and titles,” Rystrka cut in, his voice as cold as the wind. “He had nothing to give me but a name that meant nothing outside his holdfast and a sword he put in my hands before I could lift it properly. My choice was to fight or starve. I chose to fight.”

Kyllan swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

Rystrka sighed. “Why the questions, lad?”

"You never talk about yourself, is all. Then why become a knight just to be a killer? Why not stay a sellsword, milord?"

Rystrka studied his squire for a moment, then chuckled. “This is why, boy.” He gestured toward the column ahead of them. “A sellsword’s life doesn’t have these moments—a quiet ride on the road to the empire’s capital, the chance at a decent life when you're older.” He exhaled, eyes distant. “Granted, knights are killers with banners and better armor. That’s the only difference.”

Kyllan frowned, his young face tightening as he digested Rystrka’s words. He was still green, still clinging to the illusions that nobility and chivalry meant something more than steel and blood. The boy would learn, one way or another.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of pine and the distant promise of snow. Rystrka pulled his cloak tighter, his eyes drifting toward the head of the column, where Lord Jaymes and Sir Riler Drox rode in deep conversation. The two men had known each other for decades, both veterans of too many wars fought over land, pride, and coin.

Jaymes was the last of his line with any real influence, his house holding onto power through old alliances and an iron will. His son, Auster, rode beside him with an eager posture, drinking in every word his father spoke, no doubt imagining the glories that awaited him at Thalvaren.

Rystrka envied the boy’s ignorance.

Ahead, Lord Jaymes and Sir Riler Drox slowed their horses. The company followed suit.

Rystrka’s hand went instinctively to his sword. A lifetime of experience whispered danger.

Drox turned in his saddle, his grizzled face set in a scowl. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

Rystrka followed his gaze, scanning the tree line.

The woods had gone silent.

The birds had stopped singing.

Then the first arrow struck.

A rider screamed as he tumbled from his horse, clutching at his throat, blood steaming in the cold air.

“AMBUSH!” Sir Drox bellowed, drawing his sword.

Then the trees came alive.