"Rebels!" Corvere snarled. "It's always farking rebels around here! If they're not in Oathsburrow, it's Kairnsborg. If it's not Kairnsborg, it's bloody farking Middlefort now. I'm wasting my damn time chasing after these incessant dogs."

He threw a hand out in disgust, smacking at a tree branch and spooking his horse in the process. The creature gave a mad snort, rearing back as its rider held on for dear life. He pulled on the reins, forcing the animal to calm, snarling and spitting curses all the while.

The other riders were quick to look away, more interested in the dead forest or the tidiness of their fingernails. Even with Fenris riding drag the noise alone would have caught his attention, but his mind was elsewhere. Back at the castle. In the High King's throne room.

He still remembered the double doors slamming shut behind him. A clap of awful finality between life and death. The boom of thunder. The snuffing of a candle flame. Before him, darkness rose up in solid sheets of black ice, creating pillars, archways, and a towering, iron throne. Atop it sat a figure cloaked in hoarfrost, a crown of black glass wreathed over ashen temples. Beside it, resting in the crook of one fleshless arm, sat a sword clad in midnight black.

Dawnruiner.

The name alone sent a shard of ice stabbing into his spine. Seeing it reminded him of the dead world he lived in now. The hard life he'd been born into. The hard death that waited for him at the end of the road.

Only when the High King stirred from his frozen throne did Fenris remember what true fear was. He still couldn't recall what his sire had spoken of. Terror had blocked out the memory, but there were bits and pieces he could still recall. The clicking of air as it wheezed through the dead king's lungs, the soft shimmer of light dancing off Dawnruiner's glittering surface, and the faceless woman staring at him from the corners of his vision. Whether from around a pillar, beside a window, or behind the King's throne, she was always there, always out of reach, always watching.

"Go to Middlefort," Fenris mumbled absently on his horse. "And kill them all."

"Something interesting back there?" Corvere turned in his saddle, snarling at him like a child spoiled by his tantrum. "Something you'd like to tell us?"

"Not at all, sir. Merely going over our orders." Fenris flashed a mean grin, putting an edge to his voice. "Find the rebels and kill them all, aye?"

The Butcherman narrowed his eyes, studying him. "Aye, seems Jarl Kriggith's been dipping his toes in the wrong side of the river, and now we have trod off to the boonies to teach him a lesson. Why couldn't our great King have sent Jaina to do this?"

"Jain's in Ogdensand," one of the rider's piped up. "Heard a rumor old Bright Eyes was skulking down there. Couldn't pass up the chance."

"Oh, well bloody good for her then," Corvere spat, pushing a low hanging tree branch aside as they descended down a narrow valley. "She gets to chase after rumors to her heart's content, and I have to actually do my farking job around here. Bloody, useless woman. I hope she gets her head crushed in with a rock."

A few throaty chuckles clamored from the crowd, some out of fearful respect, others for the sheer delight of the idea. Ruthlessness was much beloved by the king of death, and he would see it in his chosen few. Those worthy enough to rise as his honor guard and share in the eternal blessing.

For people like Corvere, they revered such gifts for trivial purposes like power and status, but Fenris knew better. He knew that to reach the top was to reach perfection. A place where he would never know weakness again.

Which would have been ideal for Fenris right about now. His gaze drifted over to Darendel riding close by with a few others, talking in hushed voices. It had to be better than whatever Corvere was droning on about. He wanted desperately to sneak over, to be a part of the conversation, only to remember the last time they'd talked..

The hate in Darendel's eyes. The hate in Darendel's words.

Love was a weakness, Fenris reminded himself, reciting the first canticle of his oath. A mortal attachment to a worthless world. Deep down he knew Darendel had never loved him, and deep down he knew the same to be true for himself. The man was little more than a crack in his armor, a carnal urge he was too craven to fully let go. But he knew better now. If he was to rise in the Forsworn, he would need to abandon such things forever.

Fenris sighed, his heart feeling heavier than it had that morning. He turned away towards the tree line, watching as the Ironwoods and Hunch Oaks swayed gently in a lazy breeze, a hint of calm in an otherwise turbulent north. Even with the eternal night, there was still a hint of spring if you listened hard enough. The hissing of leaves, like rain in the distance. The gentle tap of thaw dripping off the branches.

Fenris still remembered the rain. Even after twenty five years of snow and ice, the sighing pitter patter of droplets drumming against the longhouse filled his head with bittersweet memories. Of long rides with his father under warm summer skies, playing games in his mind to pass the time. Weaving chromatic colored dragons through swaying branches or imagining warriors charging through the trees, always keeping close no matter how fast they rode. How he missed those days.

He imagined what one of the imaginary men must look like now. After all those years of running, he must have grown up and gone off to other adventures. Perhaps he was still out there, slinking through the tree line, ready to race him once again.

Fenris blinked. The figure keeping pace with them through the forest was not his imagination. He rubbed his eyes, blinked again, but he was still there, stalking at a careful distance, watching beneath a mop of curly, golden hair. His feet were bare and muddy, a dark contrast to his snowy white skin. A robe of simple blue draped over his thin frame, loosely tied so that one shoulder lay completely bare.

He sucked in a breath, ready to shout in alarm when their eyes met, the air catching in his lungs. It was like staring into a glacier's soul, the stranger's gaze like two blue chips of pure, primordial ice. They bore into him, the tiny dot of the man's iris seeming to pull him in, a dark void of endless possibility.

It scared Fenris, and yet a thrill ran through him as well. There was beauty in the softness of his face, the cherry red of his cheeks, his nose a rosy blush where the cold had nipped him. Two dimples formed as the ghost of a smile whispered across his lips.

And then the man was gone. He ducked behind a tree, never emerging from the other side. Even as Fenris craned his neck, it was as if he'd disappeared into nothingness. He puffed his cheeks, wondering if he'd imagined the entire thing, only for his mood to be ruined as a familiar voice called out.

"All right," Corvere said. "We're stopping here to rest the horses for a bit. Those in drag are on tent duty. Get too it!"

Fenris looked around, realizing he was alone in the very back. With a heavy sigh, he pulled his horse to a stop and set to work.

Steam spiraled off sore fingers as Fenris blew into his hands, his sour mood made worse as he set into the first rounds of guard duty. For several hours he'd staked tents and fed the horses as others gathered wood for a fire, a cauldron of brown stew already bubbling by the time he'd finished. No sooner had he filled his bowl, however, that Corvere had a new task waiting for him.

"Drag takes first watch tonight," he'd said, his gaze drifting over to Darendel sitting with his own crew. "Unless you've a fine story you'd like to tell us, Fenris."

And so he sat, aching, cold, and lonelier then he'd ever felt in his life. He missed being warm. He missed Skuld. Death take him, but he even missed Darendel, the farking bastard. No, he realized through hunched shoulders. He didn't miss Darendel. He missed being wanted. And being wanted was just another weakness hindering his path towards perfection.

A twig snapped in the distance. On instinct Fenris rose, glass sword drawn, its dark surface glinting off the distant fires. A shape moved in the dark, thin and swift, edging closer.

Fenris stepped cautiously towards the tree line, watching for any signs of danger. The glint of an arrowhead. The hiss of boots in the snow. The smell of sweat and desperation. The sight of men charging from cover.

All was quiet. Nothing stirred. He looked around, wondering if he should call the others, but they were far away, camp fires flickering like lightning bugs in the distance.

Fenris wheeled around, realizing the woods had shifted beneath his feet. He wasn't standing at the stump now but in a hillock, cold fog pouring down over scrubby grass, a tiny sapling growing at the top. How had he gotten so far?

A figure stepped out from the haze, blue robe fluttering like a thin shroud, a hint of a hollow collar bone poking out of the fabric.

"Hello, Fenris." The man's voice was soft and sorrowful, as if he were speaking to him at a funeral pyre then in the middle of the woods. "It's good to finally meet you."

Fenris grit his teeth against the man's words, his voice a strange, cooling balm towards the anger raging in his chest. "Who are you?" He snarled half heartedly. "And how do you know my name?"

"My name is Loken, and I have known you for a very long time, Fenris. More than you will ever know." A shimmer of wet fell down the man's cheek, glinting briefly before it plopped to the ground.

"What is this? Some kind of trick? Some game to put my guard down?" Fenris looked around, wondering if he was being surrounded now, men circling in the fog to cut off his escape.

"This is no trick. I will never lie to you. I've only come to make sure you walk down the right path."

The fire in Fenris's chest had cooled completely now. No matter how hard he willed it, he couldn't shake Loken's words. There was no deception in it, no ridicule, no duplicity. It made him oddly scared. It made him want to run. He grit his teeth again, forcing the feeling down. "Is this a joke then? Did Corvere put you up to this?"

"Have you ever seen the witch in the castle?" Loken asked, answering one question with another.

Fenris stared at him, faceless memories scratching against his thoughts. "How do you know her?"

"So you have seen her."

"Answer me!" Fenris snarled, more desperate than angry. How was it after all these years that he'd finally met someone who knew of the woman haunting his mind. "How do you know her?"

Loken's head bowed as another silver tear fell from his cheeks. "Because I am cursed with such knowledge. I know her as much as I know you. I have seen the winding paths of so many souls, and I have known their ruinous ends." He looked up, and the blue, blue of his eyes froze Fenris in place. "But there is hope for you yet. A path that will lead you towards the light, and I will do what is necessary to make sure you stay on that path."

"What are you, my shepherd?" The joke sounded flat to Fenris, but it was enough to make Loken chuckle. It sounded like music. It sounded like hope.

"I'd like to be a friend. One day." And with a swirl of fog, the mysterious stranger disappeared, leaving Fenris alone in the woods once more.

***