The cold winds of the North howled across the barren land outside, battering walls that seemed too sturdy even for a whisper. Yet, within the home, noise persisted.

It was the cries of a mother, a generous smile etched across her face as she cradled her newborn child. The father’s laughter boomed, filling the room with warmth.

“A boy!” he exclaimed, lifting the child high, his rough hands swaddling the infant in cloth, his smile blazed like firelight. “Smaller than the last few, but bolder of heart! Rejoice, my guardsmen, my daughters, my wife! Spread the word—our clan is still alive!”
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Sven awoke with a jolt, his head slamming against the side of a ship. The vibrant memory of laughter vanished in an instant. The floor rocked beneath him, its wooden planks creaking in rhythm.

“Oi! Up with you, scum!” barked a sailor, his voice as rough as the salt-caked timbers. A sharp jab from the butt of a spear hammered into the floorboards, sending Sven scrambling to his feet.

“Dead fish like you don’t get to rest easy!” Another blow rattled the deck with the blunt of their spear, their voice gutteral and certain.

He stumbled up the ladder, squinting against the pale light of dawn as the biting winter air struck his face. They were docked at Northwood, Druvnir in east Greymeric --- the capital of Greymeria and "bustling jewel of the northern sea", but don't tell a Greymer that. Even at that early hour, the docks swarmed with traders, sailors, and beggars, all vying to witness the new arrivals.

Sven’s boots crunched against the frost-laden pier as he wove through the crowd, which thanks to his petite frame, proved to be a simple task. The chill cut through his thin cloak, causing him to clench, but he pressed on. He was only a few strides away—the tangled alleys of the market district, the only place he believed had answers.
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The market was a riot of all sorts of faces. Cargo overflowed with goods from across the realm, an array of raw metals, foreign wine, spices, and swords... a lot of swords. Traders flared their wares, an array of voices outcompeting the hum of the crowd, displaying, for the most part, a collection of smoked fish in salt cakes.

“Problem, lad?” a merchant called, his tone gruff, his gaze sharp.

Sven hesitated, swinging a modest pouch of coins at his side. “I’m looking for a name,” he said, leaning closer. “Coldcloak.”

The merchant’s brow furrowed as he adjusted the trinkets, his gaze darting around nervously, and then closed their blinds. "Best not speak that name again.”

Sven sighed and slid a coin beneath the blinds.

A heavy hand pocketed the coin with a grunt, but the stall remained shut. “That name’s long dead, boy. If you have any sense, you'll keep it that way," they cracked their blinds, "and you were never here."

The words rang like a challenge, and Sven cursed under his breath.

He turned, raising his voice. “Does anyone know the name Coldcloak?”

A crowd turned to attention, but their eyes were looking elsewhere.

A set of ten heavy boots pounded against the cobblestones behind him, and before he could react, a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, hard as metal. Sven thrashed, panic surging, and screamed, but their grip was steady. Despite a multitude of crowds filling the streets, not a single face turned with pity.

Soon, the only sight was the wall of an alley swallowed up by shadows.
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The wind fell silent against damp stone walls, with the only sound being Sven’s quick gasping breaths. The captors bound his arms tightly and blindfolded him, muffling his protests with a gag. Each step they took echoed ominously, and although he couldn't see, he felt the ground shift from cobblestone to packed snow. His heart raced --- whatever the figures wanted, it had to be for more than coin.

After trudging a few minutes longer, he was shoved onto his knees, the cold ground seaping through his trousers, biting at his skin. The bindings on his mouth were yanked free, leaving him gasping for air. A dim light flickered before him --- a lantern, creaking as it swayed in a figure's grip.

"Who are you?" A harsh voice rang out, it's owner concealed in shadows, "to return the name 'Coldcloak' to the streets of Druvnir?"

Sven swallowed hard, his throat dry and his tongue clumsy. "I... I meant nothing by it!" he stammered, the words spilling out as quick as his shivering, "I just...need to know."

__________________________

To the south, eastern mountains cloaking it, and rocks to shed its vulnerability, it stood, the last fortress to keep back Zerethian! However, that day seemed..different... Scouts weren't coming back into its walls; and even with hills of stones and ivy, the people were terrified of what was to come. The fears of what happened in Lorlyn's capital dawned on them all, for every night they worried the same thing would happen to them.

A horse galloped within its front gates. The people hoped it was a scout returning with excellent news! With strange scale armor and a shining helmet forged like a painting, it was certainly a beacon to them. It kept galloping and galloping, across steep polished stone roadways, passed peasants and royals; the horse was headed to the fortress's keep.

The iron doors were opened. Generals, commanders, captains and servants. Everyone murmured about the foreign guest. The armored being got off the horse, the murmuring stopped as it walked within the marbled floors.

"Who let this man in?" One of the lower ranked commanders asked.

"Why a man?" The being took off its helmet. "Why not a woman, two children, or a dog?"

"Carrion!" A man approached with open arms, someone the being hadn't seen for months.

"Haylan." He welcomed the man in his arms.

"Seen any of my companions here?" Carrion asked.

"Why, no, Carrion; I don't believe I have." Haylan lost his welcoming smile.

The multitudes of different ranked army men continued murmuring at the seen. The gates of the Keep's main halls were opened. Lena, queen of Lorlyn, with an army of hundreds of High Guard to boot, bent the knee before Carrion, despite having all the ranks beside him (including Haylan), bowing to her.

"No, majesty! You aren't meant to bend the knee to a traitor!" A general said, everyone's voices lit up to the news.

Lena raised her hand, everyone remained silent.

"Carrion Waverly...." She bowed to him, and then the room fell silent. "King Derek placed you a traitor. I place you to whatever benefits that can be given. Become a knight, hold a fief, whatever you desire is yours."

"Pardon, your majesty, but please stand up. The sight of you below me triumphs the fear there's no hope left. Weakness is never the answer in a battle of strength." Carrion bowed to her. "Look around you, your majesty."

There was a long pause after Lena slowly stood up to see the bowing ranks.

"Rule them as you have your husband. There's nothing more I could ask of you. No title of sir, no title of lordship." He crossed his hand to his chest and closed his eyes when looking down as he bowed respectfully. "Faith in yourself and your people; that's all I desire, your majesty."

Despite the risk of death for speaking against the queen, the murmur in the crowd continued.

"This is outrageous!" One said. "No traitor could ever be worthy of holding the authority of a fief or the title of sir! Be gone with his head!"

One of the high guard approached her backside in a whisper, "May we take that man's mouth, my queen; and stuff it until it cannot speak?"

"Not now." She replied in a gentle whisper.

Her hand was raised once more, and everyone was silent again.

"People of Iron Haven; so many of our kin had been taken the nights before. We strive with little hope left, yet despite this we still stir a fire beneath us." She continued to walk to the irritated general. "At this hour we should turn to look upon our own misdeeds. If we cannot hold the hand of a traitor as a brother in arms, we will surely perish!" Her words were like the cries in a sad song. Words of desperation, words without faith to keep forward.

She held her breath in softly, walking towards the royal quarters, requesting Carrion to join her, the whole room lit up in fury despite her speech; warning her for him to stay back, or to have members of the high guard join her.

Carrion didn't speak, out of respect, and quietly walked with her to her bedroom quarters. The door was closed shut.

She hugged him closely, even though they didn't know each other well enough to be normal, she still did it.

Carrion didn't know what to do. He just watched her; tears falling on his leather boots, a grip with such a strong will, but yet so frail...

"I've lost everything, Carrion. My family, my friends; gone: dead without a chance to say goodbye," she looked at him closely, tears and a struggled voice as she spoke, "and in the last stand of my dear husband, the life of a drunkard overcame him, never to see the face of his love. Now he too is gone."

He nervously comforted her, unable to feel the weight of her pain, but yet tried his hardest to show empathy.

"I wasn't born to save the world." She released her grip from his sides.

Carrion scratched his head, eyebrows upward.

"None of us were, your majesty." He tried to smile to warm her heart, but it didn't look like it did anything.

"Then what is there to do?"

There was a long pause. Carrion kept trying to think of a way to reply without making her more emotional.

"What am I doing? Hugging a stranger? Crying about a war when I should be determined to stay strong and fight? Help me!" She begged him, her pain struck upon the ground like a mountain had fallen upon it, stuttering her voice in a stream of tears.

"I just want to die. I can't fight anymore." She covered her eyes, Carrion bent his knee and lowered his head again.

"Stop bowing!"

"I'm truly sorry, your majesty, but I cannot help you. All I know is that there's a battle at every corner, but how must one win when they let it take hold? Should one seek hope at the sea bed of sanity?"

"Get out!" She cried again, sobbing so hard people in the other rooms could hear, thinking that Carrion was to blame.

She sounded like a beast, so much rage: throwing items across the floor in a loud bang, one after another with a deafening scream. Carrion was terrified, as were the guards who stood hesitant to pursue their concerns for her as Carrion passed by them.

He made his way back through the halls, seeing the scowling faces of the guards, then the commanders and vassals, with not a word as he made eye contact with each. He awkwardly stepped past them, seeing Haylan once more among the crowd.

All of her guardsmen rushed to her at the sight of Carrion's return. A muffled scream born by the thick walls to make it so was rather liberating. However, that only grew the tensions between Carrion and the others. A muffled voice told them to leave as well.

"What happened? Why'd she bring you there? How are you a traitor?" Haylan was puzzled, eyes full of wonder.

"Shh..." Carrion put a finger on his lip, moving his voice to Haylan's ear.

"Meet me at west Inn. This place isn't safe." Carrion walked to the front gates to return to his horse, "At dusk, friend; and not a minute later." He spoke aloud: those within the keep continued to murmur. "Yah!" The horse screamed as a steady lead, He was heading to the main road.
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Sven was dragged into a room full of silence, and the smell of blood filling the air around his skin. His behind was dragged to solid ground with a feeling of hope within his terrified heart, or at least for a time. The door was opened again, the cold winds creeping in and all around him, and then... silence... For when the sound of the door shutting, it's like everything that harmed him disappeared into nothing, but he wasn't dumb to believe he truly was safe.

"Please sir!" He cried, "J-just kill me already. I don't want to deal with this anymore."

Just after those gentle but desperate words, the sound of wind blew, but the doors weren't opened this time. The warmth from what felt like candles went into pure darkness. The cold skin of a human hand gripped to his bindings which covered his face, they were thrown to the floor (or at least that's what he felt), for there was no light left for him to see anything, leaving him in his mind to cheer sarcastically. The fact that he could still feel the pain rush down him, that's what really terrified him, as if he was to die in silence with a single being peering down to him as he was tied to a chair, that he could see its eyes glow from the light of the moon reaching from a nearby window. He wanted to scream! But, he thought if he screamed the pain would only increase and was too scared to; the eyes disappeared less than a second after.

Footsteps went away to the sound of steel. Was it a sword to bring more harm to him or just his imagination he did not know.

He could see a lantern float in the distance, but from where it was coming from it felt like hell's flames were reaching to consume his soul! The footsteps were getting closer, he could feel the heat rising. It got to his skin! He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs at the touch! Cries for help filling his mind over and over that the entire city was against him.

It was a bowl!

Of....

Soup?

Never had he met a gaze with such joy! The candles were lit and the being unmasked to be a memory he thought he'd never meet again.

"Steffen?" Sven squinted at the being. "Steffen! It IS you!" He cheered, though still tied to a chair, which he entirely lost balance of and fell on the floor. Steffen grabbed the bowl just in time, but Sven's face was still planted into the ground. He gently placed the bowl on the table and quickly untied him.

"I'm sorry, I'm new to this." He grabbed Sven's hand to let him up.

Sven was entirely confused, still rushed from what happened before, but he was unbelievably grateful still.

"Oh right! You must still be in pain. Please, eat up! I put a cure to what caused it inside." He brought the bowl to Sven's still petrified face.

Sven did grab it, but not without the face of someone lost of breath.

Though he tried to hide it, he loved the soup. Fish? Multiple sauces and spices? Salt? He couldn't tell but knew it was great.

"Sven."

"Yes?" He mumbled in a sip.

"Everything that happened here wasn't to hurt you, and I hate to say but I can't let you leave."

Sven spat in the bowl and coughed by that remark.

"I don't know why you decided to come here and announce the name Coldcloak, but if I didn't set you up the same thing would happen to you."

"What do you mean?" Sven looked up at him.

"Instead, whatever cuts your flesh would cause real wounds, and you would die alone in dark/cold silence of the night."

Sven immediately looked at his shirt to see he had no wounds, and the pain was already subsiding.

"Half of Greymeria belongs to Almar; the Darkcloaks worship him. With no one else to lead, Almar owns this place."

"Almar? In this frozen waste land?" He swallowed another sip of his soup.

"Yes."

"Then why are you here?" He dropped the spoon.

Sven's face was slapped.

"Hey!" Sven stood up. "You tie me up expecting me to believe I'm done for and you SLAP ME?"

"To get you I had to meet every threat head on with whatever I had. You're alive because I let you live."

There was a long awkward pause to go along with what he last said.

"Oh." Sven replied.

"But who in the world are these mysterious 'Darkcloaks' you speak of? I've never heard of them!"

Steffen remained silent, then replied with a sigh.

"We're going to be here for a while." He gripped his forehead and rubbed off some sweat. "Okay listen, they're a secret society hidden within each city across Greymeria. The main headquarters held not far from Yori, the port you dropped us off from." He began. Sven was intrigued, but Steffen seemed uncomfortable talking about it. "Their leader is a corrupt man who seeks nothing more than to purge humanity under his deity, Almar, as he searches for all the wealth of the land as it continues to be given to him, ignoring every aspect of a genuine human being.... He's nothing but a mad man now."

"But why do you know all of this if it's in secret?" Sven got up to place his finished bowl on the dining table nearby.

Steffen sighed again. "It's where Drew died.... We were part of it...."

"So that's why you're still here!" Sven spoke aloud. "Your friend died, all you could think about was what there was to do next. Perhaps you hoped we meet again."

"Yeah... He died so I could live, I'm not losing my life for dishonorable things like robbery."

"Then you're forgiven."

"W-what? You aren't mad at me?"

"What happened to Drew repaid your sins. I mean, personally I didn't like the guy and was always suspicious of his alliance, but to sacrifice his life for someone you he met only a few days before? Set aside our differences, Drew is an honorable man! Don't worry about me being upset about it." Steffen felt a warmth in his heart. "You purged me, and for that I would slap you, but you also saved me when I was ignorant to save myself. All I can think now is a way to repay you." Sven smiled.

Sven approached Steffen, gently hugging him to make him feel less guilty.

"Alright, enough of the goody goody." Steffen took a hard swallow. "There's danger lurking everywhere around us, Sven; but at least you can speak comfortably of the name Coldcloak now (which you so graciously wish to sound to the world)." Steffen sat down, Sven pulled out a chair to speak face to face. "And why exactly does it matter so much to you to speak of such a name?" He crossed his legs and put his hand on his small beard.

"Coldcloak is my family name." Sven began.

"What?" Steffen stood up, then tried to quiet down.

"Yeah? So what if I'm a Coldcloak? Not like it matters, I was kicked out of my home before I could even pick up a sword."

"It's just...that name.... It belongs to the house that once held control of every stab of Greymeria, were you not aware?" Steffen sat down again, letting out a long sigh.

"No, I wasn't."

"Listen, Sven. Anyone that still goes by that name is crying out for someone to kill them if they speak of it. A fair price to anyone who finds one of their heads; by now your whole family might as well be dead."

Sven was silent, at that moment he wanted to scream, cry; he was scared, in every direction people wanted him dead, and no matter how far he ran from danger he continued to meet it face to face.
_______________________________________

A wooden door creaked open to reveal a cluttered room filled with the comforting, though mildly overwhelming, aroma of peasants. A wench arrived by their table, setting down a golden-brown pheasant roast, buttered rolls, and turnip stew. With the capital gone, refugees flooded every table, with each drink they downed being the final bastion to believe they were safe.

Carrion sat at a worn wooden table, deeply immersed in his meal.

"Why am I here, Carrion?" Haylan finally broke the silence, devoid of his usual smirk.

Carrion glanced up, his mouth full of roast, and explained all that had happened since they last met, all the while filled with a handful of meat and stew.

It took Haylan a while to process it all, partly by the smell of the room, partly by Carrion's incoherent recollection, but he came around eventually.

"That's a lot. I hope you don't expect me to remember most of it." Haylan said bluntly. "But I do have a few questions...if you'll let me."

Carrion nodded his head in approval, swallowing his last bite.

"One; how could a cure-all flower made by demigods not cure the Eyru's ailment? Two; why did you choose the Eyru's father, a man she's vehemently refused to meet, as your first choice?" Haylan said bluntly, a hint of shame sprinkled in. "Do you often dabble with poor decisions?"

"I thought for sure it would work. That flower is supposed to keep all illnesses away permanently. I thought I did everything right." He rubbed his forehead as if trying to erase the disappointment from his mind.

"But you did, Haylan. You almost saved a country. No, the world!" Carrion stood, collecting his empty plate and setting it aside with a sense of finality. "She gave us the idea to seek out her father. Without her, armies of a hundred thousand would have marched into the free lands unchecked. It's thanks to you that we have this meal today." He offered a reassuring smile, though the gravity of their situation remained heavy in the air.

Haylan stood, his eyes locked onto Carrion's with a mixture of empathy and concern. "And I thought for sure you'd be settled down by now, living a peaceful life." His voice carried a note of wistful nostalgia. "We're too old for this, old friend, and I'd wager you're more aware of that than anyone."

Carrion sank back into his chair, his expression reflecting a mix of resignation and contemplation. "I... don't really know why. You're right, I've always been aware that I'm too old for this life-traveling, saving lives, meeting new people. Yet, it seems I don't care what a normal life looks like." He chuckled softly, though it was tinged with melancholy. "I guess she's really been my driving force all these years..."

"Then marry the girl already!" Haylan's voice was firm but carried an undercurrent of humor.

"I'm forty-seven years old, Haylan..."

"Then at least find someone who can give you a reason to keep moving. If she's really gone, let there be someone else in your life to keep you going. Besides me, of course." Haylan's grin was a mix of warmth and mischief.

A long silence followed, the weight of Carrion's contemplation hanging between them. His eyes were troubled, a look of deep concern reflecting his inner turmoil.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing. I just feel I've made so many mistakes I don't know how to make things right." Carrion's voice was soft, almost lost in the ambient noise of the crowded room. He looked away, his gaze distant. "Listen, get out of this land while you still can. There's no need for another one of my friends to die."

"Alright... I will..." Haylan's voice was subdued, the seriousness of Carrion's words sinking in. Despite their long friendship, Haylan felt he could not fully grasp the depth of Carrion's fears.

"So what's with the queen, then?" Haylan asked, trying to divert the conversation from the somber tone.

A lengthy silence followed, the tension palpable. Haylan shifted in his seat, uneasy with the awkward pause.

"Haylan."

"Y-yeah?"

"You know what it feels like to lose your family, don't you?"

"Y-yeah."

"Well, Haylan, Almar took the last of her family. All her children were already dead a month ago. Kera and Darius were only children, not even ten years old. Just think about how your mother would react if she lost you." Carrion's voice was heavy, carrying the weight of his own sorrow.

Haylan listened in silence, his expression one of deep empathy as he absorbed the gravity of Carrion's words.

"Besides that sorrow, she mentioned a name I thought I'd never hear again. My mother's name, Ali, as my father used to call her. But it's also a coincidence, Alicia, as I always called her. I don't know what to make of it, but I feel she knows less about this than I do." Carrion's eyes were distant, lost in thought.

He tossed a leather bag filled with coins onto the table, the clink of metal breaking the silence. "Going to leave abruptly yet again, friend?"

"Got no options left." Carrion's hand tightened on Haylan's shoulder, a gesture of both farewell and reassurance.

"There's always a want, you understand? Maybe I'll die never knowing the truth behind Lena and my mother; but a need matters more. I say these last words, for I may never see you again..." He embraced Haylan tightly, his voice filled with emotion. "Please... don't die..."

As the tavern door creaked open, a cold winter wind swept in, cutting through the warmth of the room. Carrion donned his Drakon helmet, mounted his horse, and rode off into the night. The moonlight cast a silvery path across the fields as the sun dipped below the mountains, cloaking the world in twilight.

With each step forward, Carrion felt the weight of his journey, a haunting melody of memories and regrets echoing in his mind. The thirst for redemption drove him onward, a silent song of hope lingering in the chill night air, whispering through every shadow and star.