"Death is not a door, but a threshold. It beckons us to cross, to leave behind the worn shoes of our lives, and step into the unknown. Yet, it is in the living that we find the true meaning of mortality. For to die is to have lived, to have loved, and to have lost. It is the culmination of every breath, every heartbeat, and every choice. The Five Gods whisper: 'Do not fear the end, for it is in the ending that we find the beauty of beginning anew.'"

- "The Five Gods and the Fox", Chapter XV, "The Threshold of Eternity"

SWEAT matted his face and trickled down his back as he tiredly swung his sword down but it didn't lose an ounce of its strength. The clang of metal rang in his ears, blood and smoke filled his nose and a great terrible gust blew down the Shadowed Hill sending dust rolling into the air and into his eyes.

Bodies littered the battlefield downhill, eyes of comrades and enemies alike staring to the sky their faces frozen forever in their last expression. They lay in thousands and thousands donned in the armour of which Asemon Lord they fought for. His men lay in obsidian black armour, and his brothers and sisters varied from red to blue to violet to silver and yellow.

The banners of war flapping in the harsh wind, on their poles struck into the blood-tainted ground. Ardes' heart twisted with hatred and sorrow, those were his men. His fellow Shadowweavers swore to follow him to the ends of the world and they lay there dead in the hands of his brothers.

He yelled pushed his brother's sword back with fresh renewed strength and twirled quickly to block his sister's spear. He had seven siblings with him being the youngest of their great father. Total eight children. And they were all against him.

He slashed at his sister, the Lady of Water, pushing her back, and spun quickly to block his eldest brother's sword. He drew on his powers. There were little shadows here to weave into monsters, but little was enough. It filled him the shadows ran to him, and darkness bleed from his skin. He gathered more and more of its power.

He gathered so much that it began to burn him, burn through him. Hot blood ran down his nose, tendrils mapped rivers across his face. His bones burned and his blood fire. He had gathered too much, magic-the power had a cost, and the greater the power you drew the greater the cost. He let out a scream from his depth, still drawing in while he fought.

Viciously like a wounded beast cornered. He'd gathered enough power then. He sighed to release it, then a spear-

"Where are you now?" He whispered to no one in particular. He was alone in the inn's stables, the smell of horses and pies drifting through the door ahead, mingling together producing a gut-churning stench.

"D' ye always mumble te y'self?" Ardes raised his head at the voice finding its source to be another stable boy whom he shared the stable work with. He managed a smile, tugging the memory to the back of his mind. That was a thousand years ago. He told himself but it did not help soothe the ache in his heart. He once loved them, his brothers and sisters.

He wanted to make them gods and he did, but when they ascended their status of godliness they forgot about him, consumed by their glory.

"Wynric," Ardes grunted as he stood, brushing his earth-coloured breech off hay and dirty. "Is there trouble?"

The boy frowned, the claw gashes ruining half of his once handsome face twisting and becoming more hideous.

"Trouble? Nay, none that we ken. Naught's amiss save what we've long known." He said handing Ardes a warm bowl of oats. Ardes released a breath that he didn't know he had been holding, relief sapping his strength.

He sank back into the pile of hay behind him. Wynric sat down beside him, looking ahead the way he came. The stables to the Lord's Crossroad were small and kept little horses too. There was no need to build a larger inn with a bigger stable when no persons of import came to these lands, so far from the rest of the kingdom they almost seemed to be at the edge of the world.

Forgotten by all. "Ye always expectin' trouble aren't ye," Wynric said with an honest chuckle, spreading his legs on the hay-covered floor of the stable. It was a short but small space with wood beams cutting the ceiling into squares. Only three stalls had horses.

"Nay, I am just the cautious kind," Ardes said with a shrug taking the wooden spoon from Wynric. The lone mare in the stable snorted as if you say,'You are lying.' candle lamps hung on pegs on wood beams separating the stalls. Ardes stirred his oats, letting more steam curl up above the bowl then scooped up the oats and ate.

"Have ye heard?" Wynric asked between swallows.

"Heard what?" Ardes enquired. The horse snorted again, peaking his head out of the stall and staring at them with black beady eyes.

"Old Gudrik is dead, killed by farmer Bryston." Wynric chuckled a bit, choking on his oats. Was that something to be laughing about? Wynric had a queer sense of humour that even he couldn't understand.

Old Gudrik was the village's lone thatcher, an old man who saw much and little he didn't keep to himself but was a kind man, loved by the village. Ardes could find nothing that could lead farmer Bryston to kill him.

"And what did the poo-

"WHERE IS HE? WHERE'S THE BASTARD WHO'S 'EEN FUCKING MY DAUGHTER!" A loud rumbling voice cut him off. Ardes jumped to his feet, heart throbbing in his chest. He clenched his fists, snapping the wooden spoon in his grasp.

"FATHER PLEASE-

"SHUT UP WHORE! YOU BE-AH THERE HE IS." A big man appeared at the entrance of the stable, striding towards him dragging Linnet by the arm, half her face swollen red and a handprint on her skin. She was sweeping.

Ardes gut churned.

He ground his teeth, clenching his fists tighter. The shadows moving across the floor and stalls and corners of the stable, whispered to him, singing softly, a dangerous song.

"YOU-" was all Ardes heard before the world turned white and pain and blood dripped from his nose and filled his mouth. He toppled backward falling hard on the ground and hitting his head on the hard floor.

"Father, PLEASE-

"NOT ONE MORE WORD-

"FATH-" the sound of clapped flesh echoed through the stable. His head spun blood on his tongue. The world blurred flickering in and out of focus, and his ears ran. Slowly, so slowly Ardes sat up. Hissing through the pain at pounding like a hammer on hot steel on the back of his head.

Linnet's father had turned his attention to his daughter, beating and kicking her bloody. His fist red with her blood, she lay curled up on the stable floor. Her hair picked up the hay and red-brown dirt of the stable.

She whimpered in a low voice, crying. Ardes felt a rush of rage fuel him. His mouth turned sour and acid. He pushed to his feet, slowly, almost falling again, dizzy.

Wynric was shouting at the other villagers to stop Linnet's father, Aleywn, from beating his daughter up, but the fuck stood watching on the sides, pointing and whispering among themselves.

They still fear us, not just my Shadowweavers but the whole of us, the Asemon. Is this what you wanted? Ardes forced himself to stand straight, clenching his fists his power filled him. It felt like a cold touch on his spine, a caress from the world of the dead. His bones froze his blood heating and rushing in his veins.

"Leave her and go." Ardes hissed through clenched teeth. Alewyn paused turning to him. His face was still twisted in fury, red almost purple, blistered.

Alewyn sneered and spat turning to Linnet again, kicking her. Ardes ground his teeth, stepping toward him. Shadows stretching dark fingers reached out to him, called toward him like bitches into mutts in a mating season.

"Leave her." Ardes hissed again, darkness poured from him filling the stable. The villagers gasped stepping away, even Wynric was silent. Standing at his side retreating.

"Fuck you-"

The stables shuddered, darkness flooded the space, and howls from the dark echoed in his ears then there was silence, a splatter of blood on his face, and a severed body thudding on the ground. Blood and entrails gush out from every point of the torso. The earth drank the blood quickly and eagerly.

The rush of blood and power left him. Its cold chills fled from his spine leaving him empty and weakened. Ardes fell to his knees, dizzy. His eyes focused on the curled Linnet, whimpering on the ground.

Ardes' vision came and went. Painstakingly he crawled towards Linnet. His bones hurt, blood tasting in his mouth. He drew ragged breaths, his chest tight as if a steel bar pressed down on it hard.

"Linnet," Ardes whispered, fearing to touch her. His hands shook, not knowing where to touch her little broken shivering form.

"I-I-it h--

"Shadowweaver!" Someone in a crowd of villagers screamed. "Kill him!" Ardes tried to stand but all his strength had been leeched from him. Darkness took his eyes and as his ears went deaf. The last thing he heard was. "He's a Shadowweaver, kill him!"

No!

No! No! No! No! You're supposed to be dead, rotting in a grave somewhere. Ricardus grimaced, gripping his makeshift throne's armrest so hard that his bones hurt.

He stared down at the girl, defiantly and challengingly staring at him. She was the spitting image of her mother. Shining red hair tumbling down her shoulders, her eyes bright and green. She was like the ghost of Rossemund Pra'daron'lrag come back to haunt him for the murder of her.

Ricardus sneered. "Did I have your legs spread across the wall sometimes? Strange I don't seem to recall you." He had to remove her. Her very presence was a treat to his grip on the crown, he'd worked so hard and survived too many years to let a girl like her ruin it all.

The girl smiled at him. "I see your jest are still as hideous as your temper-"

"Who are you, girl?" Grunted Lord Ferro of House Featherich. He was a hairless ugly, dwarf man. Ricardus should have killed that cunt years ago, have his head mounted on a spike until the skin rotted out, and had it shaven and kept for prize like he did his brother's wife, his brother, and their babe son.

The girl chuckled amused, her gaze running through every lord in the Tower of Stars with equal measure and some distaste.

"Who am I?" She asked, mused. Ricardus' gut clenched, his mouth sour. He could call the guards standing guard just beyond the doors of the Tower, but if he did then it would cause suspicion among the lords.

His grasp on the crown was thin as sewing thread and if he lost the support of the High Houses then he was done for.

"I am," the girl drawled her gaze returning to him. A fury lit in them, a green strange fire he'd ignited. He should have searched high and low, turning the realm to chaos for the bitch. "Aalina Leafvale of House Eedlu daughter to Adame Leafvale and Rossemund Leafvale, rightful bearer of the crown and Queen of all Ustela now kneel before your queen." She announced, arrogance dripping from her songbird's voice.

Dread coiled around Ricardus binding him. His jaw was clenched tightly his palms hurting from trying to crush the armrests. His thoughts ran wild regretting what he should have done. He should searched for Aalina high and low, from the Shadowed Hills to the Sunken Sea.

But he did not. He was too caught playing king and trying to win the war he knew was impossible. And now look how his flaw came back to bite him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was lost in the depths of his throat.

"How do we know that you speak the truth, girl?" A harsh raspy and cold asked. Ricardus' eyes snapped to the lord nearest him, on his right side. A weary smile broke his face. Lord Cormac Emberfell of House Harrowmont.

His First Advisor to the Thorn Crown, after his brother had disgraced all the noble Houses both High and Low by letting a bastard son of an Etheri from Nilens wield the title.

Ricardus huffed a sigh, some tension leaving his body. At least there was some little good in killing his brother, some little good.

Aalina chuckled, pacing around the space. Her smile wavering. "I am the-

"Telling us who you are is quite different than who you truly are. But ai believe there is a way to solve this." The man beside Ricardus said, starting towards the center, down the gallery. Ricardus' gut clenched, twisting itself into tight knots. Bile scorched his throat, burning it.

"And what way is that?" Aalina asked, her smile now gone replaced by a stern hard mask. She was a fighter, like her mother. Ricardus could still remember the woman's last actions in life. With three arrows through her belly, blood oozing into her dress she'd managed to kill three of his best men and still struggle, clutching on to the fleeting moments of life. This girl, Aalina, Rossemund's daughter, was like her mother.

"My Lord's I say we call a Reader from the Citadel in Bore. Let this matter be solved by divine right and servants of the merciful Asemon Lords." The man said, stalking toward Aalina like a lion watching prey.

What is that fool saying? Divine right? Ricardus clutched the armrest tighter. That cunt fool just dug his grave and pushed him towards its edge, waiting for him to stumble inside. I should have had his head mounted a spike when his mother pushed him out of her legs!

"I believe that will be the best course of action, now my lords please rest and pleasure yourself. The travel must have been harsh. The House will gather once more." Ricardus said out loud, his voice echoing in his mind and the glittering Tower of Stars. The colours of reds and blue and green and violet cast by the sunlight streaming through the window were a taunt now.

After each lord stood and bowed to him respectfully, Ricardus sprung from the Tower, but not before he caught the glint in Aalina's eyes. A fury, fresh and scorching like dragonfire and deadly. That girl was a thorn in his side, a danger to his claim on the crown. Now he had to find a way to kill her, he'd let no one take it from him again.

The Thorn Crown of Ustela belongs to me, and only me.

The horse, White Widow, galloped down the rugged road passing through the Maiden's Way Pass, a mountain pass cradled like a child between long-range mountain hills. Rolling from north to south and east with a little warm breeze blowing between its spaces.

The mountains, the Kurgward Spires rose around them, rising to the prick the golden red sky of the setting sun behind them. Crickets started their singing and wolves howled from their caves, coming out for the night to hunt. Britius kicked the horse's ribs again, urging it faster.

The horse snorted tiredly but pushed still, trying to reach the pace he wanted. Britius felt a pang of guilt for pushing this much, if he did then he would drop dead before he reached the inn at the edge of the forest ahead, he couldn't see it yet because of the curving road and the mountains growing into the road.

Shadows ran down the peaks of the Kurgward Spires. After Griselda told what she foresaw, Britius like the madman, left the Black Marches in the hands of a commoner Farseer, and drove the horse near death with his rough riding.

They'd avoided many villages, sticking to the hills and woods and never stopping in a village for long if they did. The more time he spent in villages, resting the more time Griselda's vision came to reality.

No, it must not, I swear it will not. It must not!

"Hold on a little longer girl." He muttered, breathless. Sweat soaked his riding clothes, his cloak whipping in the wind like wings catching the breeze.

The wind caught on his hair, blowing it to his face. Britius' efforts to push it back went in vain so he gave up altogether. His throat was raw and itchy, breathless from the riding. His chest felt as if it was squeezed between two iron bars pressing hard on him.

The path curved, letting the mountain that grew on it take up the space. A long shadow fell over the flat side of the mountain, smooth as if cut by a perfect swing of the sword. Up above, about twenty spans up on the flat side of the mountain were as small arches pace from there it was utter darkness.

Slowly the road straightened again giving the grew of the Kurgwood, a dark green outline at the end of the road. An impassible line of thin wood and leather leaf and needle that the winter could not steal.

And rising from the side of the mountain at the wall of the forest, was a four stories tall inn. Light shone through its window casting shadows on the rocky path. Its roof was low and slatted not a thatched roof but glittering tile of darkest blue.

It sat in the arms of the mountain and the forest carefully placed somehow seeming for defense instead of a place for travelers to lay and rest.

A weak smile broke his face, he kicked White Widow's ribs again urging it faster. He'd stop here for the night, rest and fill himself sell the horse, and buy another in the morn. Nilens was at the edge of the kingdom, near the sea it was still a terrible twenty more leagues away. And the Black Marches were ten leagues away behind him in the hands of Griselda.

He could not leave it without a Steward to protect it though his choice was a horrible one.

There is no point dwelling on it now, I'm riding for Aalina. For my Queen. He told himself slowing the horse as the inn rose higher before him.

The air was a mixture of burned wood, smoke, and wolf and horse. A breeze blew up between the mountains kicking up the dust into his nose. Britius coughed, wrinkling his nose as the window blew dust into his nose and whipped him furiously.

Britius spurred the horse forward until the inn was no more than a few paces away. He pulled hard on the reins halting it then stepped off the horse. Dirt and stone crunched beneath his boots.

His cloak fell to his knees covering him. He led the mare towards the inn's stables on its sides stretching towards the dark bodies of the Kurgwood ahead, it stretched towards its edge. Britius grinned a bit to himself, thinking of a good bed to sleep on and a warm keg of ale and some pie. It's been six days since he ate something that was not squirrel or rats.

The forest game was shy this spring. Likely the wolves chased it off to the east towards the Hills where no man would dare, except Black Marcher folk of course.

Stubborn and hard people who believed in seeing than hearing, but believed the tales of the Black Marches as any other fool in the kingdom do. As he approached the stables figures emerged from the darkness cast by the tall shadow of the inn laid down on the land towards the Kurgwood.

They were four, the stench of ale clinging to them like perfume and tottering towards the inn. Only raised their heads to accept Britius' greetings then continued, mumbling incoherently to each and laughing into the night sky.

After Britius gave White Widow to the stable boys he turned and headed for the inn. It was a lively wide common room of the Four Winds Inn.

The walls were made of wood except one, the one on his far left which was the rough side of the mountain. It was a clutter of drunk men and barmaids. There were a lot of sorts of people or the sort you'd find traveling and selling wares to the villages and towns they passed and trading with merchants who had an eye for their wares.

A cloud of smoke hung in the air, obscuring most the the common room. Drunk men danced in the centre where tables had been cleared, pulling a woman or two to dance while a hand kept on her breast, whispering foolishness in their eyes not knowing they were just whores, not after their cocks but the large purses of gold bulging from their hips and clanking in the dance.

Ten wood beam columns separated the common room with the stairs rising against the walls on the right just beside the bar manned by a burly large man with a leather apron hung over his thick neck and his flat leather face scowling at the guests.

A great many candles burned in brackets and candelabras, along the walls and wood beams covered by glass.

Barmaids, certainly girls of no more than fourteen summers, wove between the guests serving pies or kegs of ale from their trenchers and some men took a hand of the dancer leading them to the upper floors.

It was a good sight to see. Even though the war taxed the people and some died of hunger, some people fought still. Thriving against the odds, it was comforting to know that at least.

"I would like a bed for the night, have my horse watered and fed, and well rest for travel by dawn break," Britius said to the burly man by the bar, reaching for a coin in his purse. He pulled out four gold and three copper.

The man eyed him from head to toe, grunted, and shook his head. "Of course, m'lord." He grunted swiping the coins off the table. Britius sniffed the heavy, his belly grumbled, empty and hunger gnawing it. He fished out two more coins, silver this time placed them on the counter, and said.

"A keg of your good ale and pie, mutton." He told the barman then turned away, treading through the warm bodies of drunk men and wet women sick with pleasure. The stench of it hung in the air like the smoke and piss and pies.

He found his table, empty and round near one of the fireplaces of the common near the corner against the stone wall.

Britius pulled a chair and sat, the wood creaking beneath him. He leaned back on the backrest, tilting his head back. A hammering pulse struck at the back of his head. A mallet on hot steel. Slowly the sounds of the inn drowned out and he fell in a slumber.

-He stood in a dark long hall. The dead littered the floor and the air was thick and heavy in his lungs. The stench of fire, wax, and blood clinging to it like perfume. Their faces stared at him with wide eyes and mouths ever frozen in last screams before a sword pierced through their bodies, spilling blood and guts to the floor.

Eyes bore to him, accusing him of never saving them, asking where he was. And laying there, dead with his head cut off was his king, the man he'd loved like a lover but could not have. Promised to protect but could never keep it.

He lay there twenty paces away from the door, his head beside him. Screaming.

"You promised! You promised! You promised!" Over and over like a melancholy song. Britius could do nothing but listen in his shape and cry out to the Seven to save him from his sins which were a burden he could not bear.

"You promised-

Clank! The sound startled him out of his seat, his hand flying to the dagger on his hip, eyes frantically scanning the inn.

The inn.

He sighed, turning to look at the worried girl, of eight perhaps, watching him with worried dark eyes and a small innocent face untainted by the world. She looked like her Aalina, before fate was cruel and touched her, tainted her.

His Aalina had looked so innocent then, looking for the good in everyone, and could never harm a fly.

But he took it away, all of it, her innocence and everything. He must bleed!

His thoughts raced, forcing a smile on his lips he nodded at the girl fished a copper nib from his purse gave it to the girl, and nodded her off. As she went slowly, she kept looking back at him.

Children are not meant for this world, when their innocence is taken it can never be returned. Slowly he returned to his chair. It creaked under him and scrapped the floor as he pulled himself toward the table.

A steaming pie and keg of ale sat on it. His mouth went dry, hunger twisting in his belly. He pulled the pie and broke into it. Devouring it bit by bit, gravy dripping down his scruffy bearded chin and dripping towards the stable.

A noise rose from the crowd of drunk me, but he didn't pay heed to it until a man, thirty summers perhaps stumbled out, grinning and spinning carrying a dozen purses in his hands.

The fool was grinning.

Britius said nothing only lowered his gaze back to the pie and continued to eat. The man made his way to Britius' table, pulled a table, and sat, leaning forward and staring at Britius.

"Whence dost thou hail?" The man asked, raising a bushy brow and eyeing Britius from head to toe.

Britius sighed leaning back on his chair and took the keg from the table. He watched the man like the man watched him, a merchant's eye trying to find the value of the stone of metal.

The man had Dragonfolk blood in him. His reddish-brown hair said that much, but he lacked their golden skin and green eyes. His skin was fair and worn by the sun and years of hardship, his eyes grey as steel.

"Ah, ye is a man of noble birth, a lord." The man grinned nodding to himself slowly. Truth be told, Britius was not a lord of any kind. His father was just a warrior people in the west, where he was headed. The Etheri were the people who were gifted with ethereal.

"Aye, now let me. Can't a man enjoy what his coin is worth?" Britius asked with a tired grunt. He emptied his keg and took breaths between gulps then said back watching the man as he watched him.

The man was about to say something and a sudden roar from the crowd of men drew both their attention. Amidst the bodies, there were flashes of green, red, and grey. Britius could not make out what they were until the men forced through the drunks and came to their side.

His gut clenched suddenly at the sight of their armor. They were the king's men. Padded under the intricately forged breastplates of the House Eedlu with thorns curling and twisting at the chest and a cloak as red as blood draped down their shoulders.

Ricardus, after their narrow escape from Bellbroke Keep had put out a bounty for her him. A man to brought him his head would be rewarded three chests of a thousand cold crowns.

The king's men chattered with each other in low voices then suddenly seemed to notice they weren't alone. They turned to Britius and his forced companion. Their leader, not the Lord High Captain of the Guard, another ordinary guardsman perhaps?

The tension in the air was thick and heavy, it felt as if Britius was being crushed beneath the weight of the stone.

"Rough travels, lads?" The leader guardsman asked starting towards them, his gauntlet-covered hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw.

"Aye, Sir. Rouges and wolves be all men talk 'bout and rightly so. I saw them devour a man whole." Britius' new companion said, grimly though there was an edge in his voice.

Britius touched his dagger on his hip. It wasn't much do to against swords but he would get out. Fighting in the Hills had taught him that any blade could be a true weapon if you could wield it right.

"Tough times." The guardsman nodded slowly. He turned his eyes towards Britius, brows low and creased. "Let me leave you lads be-"

"Wait, you're-that's the him. The king has a bounty on his head!" Yelled another guardsman pointing at Britius. A heavy silence fell suddenly as all eyes turned to Britius, waiting.

He felt as if his guts were going to spill out. He'd almost escaped, but it seems not. Slowly he stood, silently drawing his dagger.

The leader of the guardsman stepped forward, his sword slightly drawn. They stood nose to nose with Britius, but the was taller by a length.

"Is this true lad-"

"It is ca-

"Shut your flapping mouth fool!" The guardsman roared at the other. Britius' heart drummed in his chest, trying to hammer its way to freedom. He scanned the common room of the inn for a moment, trying to find a way to escape easily without alarming the men.

There wasn't any, it was tight as a sail knot. Fuck.

"Aye, it is." The minute those words left his mouth the sound of steel leaving the scabbard sounded. Quickly like lightning, Britius swung up digging the blade of his dagger between the gap of the guardsman's helm and breastplates, blood sprayed his hands and the body fell. A pool of red formed around the body.

Another silence fell. Britius raised his eyes to the surprised guardsman. Their eyes were wide and watching their dead comrade on the floor. It was the small silence before the chaos.

"Kill him!" One of the guardsmen, suddenly out of the silence spell roared charging, breaking the spell of his comrades as well.

Britius reached for the sword on the dead man quickly and rose before a sword cleaved his neck. Steel met steel and sang.

Britius pushed, sending the guardsman toppling backward just before he met two swords with his own. Their clash sent a hum through him. The smell of blood hung thickly in the air, overpowering everything else.

Britius' breath quickened, he pushed back and spun, swinging his sword down with might and cut through ring mail and flesh and bone.

A scream and spray of blood. Before the other guardsman advanced close enough for combat, Britius dashed into the sea of bodies. Shoving and pushing ignoring the curses and shouts he left in his wake.

He shoved the girls out of his way and jumped outside into the night air.

It whipped him mercilessly. Blood rushing, heart drumming and ears ringing. Britius' head spun, ringing. The smell of blood clung to him like perfume, a poison to his throat. The sound of roars inside the inn seemed to wake from the dream. He scanned the road. It was empty, damn.

At the sound of a wailing horse, he sprung to the stables and searched the stables. He found White Widow at the last stall, grazing on the hay.

"Come on girl, we ride again." He opened the stall and led White Widow out. He started for the saddles hanging on the wall on his left.

"There he is, kill him!" The roar woke him, he turned to face the four guardsmen running towards him. A low murmured curse left his lips, and he grabbed White Widow's mane roughly, earning himself a whine from the beast.

He pulled himself onto the horse and kicked it. Without needing more urging White Widow thundered, kicking dirt, hay, and dust into the air, charging towards the guardsman.

They charged as well, trying to halt the horse but White Widow tore through them. Kicking them aside and dashed out of the stable, thundering towards the Kurgwood. Blood rushed in his veins. Britius held the horse's mane like he would its reins and kicked it again.

Driving it deep into the dark Kurgwood where the wolves were howling now.