"So that's your grand scheme, is it?" The Right Hand snarled, its voice a wet rasp as it clutched its shattered jaw, grinding bone back into place with a sickening crunch. It twisted its mouth, gaunt cheeks flexing, the exposed muscles of its face quivering like agitated worms. "You thought to cut me off from my men."

"More for their sake than yours, if I'm honest," Libro admitted. "You would've butchered them all if they hadn't made a run for it. No need for good men to die tonight."

"Are you not one of the good men?"

"Not for a long time, I'm afraid." Not since Elena. Not since the Empress. "But that's beside the point. I've come for my wife. Hand her over."

"Or what?" The Right Hand cocked its head at an unnatural angle. "What will you do if I refuse?"

Libro's gaze flicked up as thin strands of light slithered from the monster's back, glistening like spider silk in the half light. He swallowed against the tightening in his throat, the scars on his arm burning at the sight of them.

"Or I'll kill you."

The Right Hand barked out a laugh. "You are brave, human. Very brave, or very foolish. What makes you different from the other cattle I've slaughtered today? What hope do you have against me, the very embodiment of death itself?"

"Because I see what the others can't," Libro replied, a fire igniting in his chest. "I see you for the puppet you are, and the strings that hold you together!" With that, he broke into a sprint, charging toward the Right Hand, its black, orb-like eye widening in disbelief.

It swung an arm out, fist the size of a cannon stone, muscle glistening beneath riveted plates of Black Glass. Any sane man would have run for it, but sanity was a luxury Libro couldn't afford. He had to get in close, hit hard, hit fast. Prolonging the fight would only lead to his end.

He had to be brave. He had to be foolish. For Elba. For his son. For everyone.

Instead of dodging, Libro met the Right Hand's fist with his sword, not as a block, but as a parry. A maneuver he'd practiced a thousand times with Elba as his sword-teacher.

He redirected the Right Hand's blow, driving it straight into the cobblestones. The creature roared as it stumbled past him, its bulky frame overcorrecting, carving a trench into the ground as deep as an ox's plow.

His sword scraped against glass as it slid off a shoulder plate, sparks flying like fireflies in the dark. For a moment, he feared the blade would snap, but the Star Steel held firm, the acid-washed letter B glinting off the crossguard.

Libro pressed on, darting under the Right Hand's wild swings. He caught sight of the creature's ribcage, segmented plates yawning open. The pain in his arm flared as he willed the magick inside to grant him the strength necessary to end this monster once and for all.

Light exploded from his sleeve as he plunged the sword into the Right Hand's chest. It roared in agony, armor plates slamming shut like the jaws of a great beast. Libro lost his grip, tumbling away as a sweeping fist nearly took his head off. He rolled to his feet, eyes locking onto the tendrils above the Right Hand, writhing in the still air.

He reached for them, waiting for the familiar tug, but instead felt a pull that nearly dragged him off his feet. He stumbled forward, digging in, pain exploding in his arm, spreading into his chest, into his very soul.

Cold. That was all he felt. As if he'd plunged into mythical frozen seas, where the ice never thawed. A thousand tiny needles stabbed at him, turning his skin to gooseflesh, freezing the blood in his veins.

"You've reached too deep, human." The Right Hand's voice rang with cruel clarity as it wrenched Libro's sword free, red ash spilling into the wind. "You've only glimpsed the witch's true power. Come any closer, and your soul will surely freeze. But then, we'd be brothers, and you would finally understand the beauty in her gifts."

The creature lurched to face him, the wound in its side already knitting together. It tossed his sword away, sending it spinning into a snow drift.

Libro couldn't find his voice. His teeth chattered so violently he feared they would shatter. The light from his scars shifted, the familiar golden glow replaced by a chilling blue, like glass sinking to the ocean floor.

"You're a fascinating one, aren't you?" The Right Hand leaned in, its single remaining eye glinting like polished onyx, its tongue flicking out to taste the air, as if savoring the chill that clung to Libro's skin. "Tell me, how can you see my Lady's influence? I've never seen your kind pull off something so... peculiar."

"F...fe...feck yourself," Libro spat, his voice a ragged whisper, each syllable a struggle against the frost creeping into his bones. His chest tightened painfully, the cold gnawing at him like some ravenous beast. Was this how it felt to freeze to death?

The Right Hand cackled, a terrible, cruel, and ugly sound. "Oh, I admire your spirit, human. I think I'll keep you around. Not as a mere experiment, mind you—more like a pet. But in this state? You are far too fragile." It reached out, fingers like ice coiling around Libro's throat. "A broken neck would suit you much better, don't you think?"

*

They were breaking down the door to the gatehouse. Axes chopped and smashed against the heavy wood, spraying splinters in all directions, sparks spitting off the iron crossbar. They peered inside, human eyes wide with hatred, snarling out curses in a language Moss couldn't understand.

The bar wouldn't hold them forever. Sooner or later they would either chop through it, or rip the door off its hinges, whichever came first. Then they'd have him.

Moss grit his teeth, arm muscles straining over the turnstile as he desperately kept the gate shut. Down below, through the grate of a murder hole, other Foresworn were crowding around the heavy doors, beating at them with axes, smashing at them with shields, all while the Chosen screamed at them in their dry, unnatural voices.

Quite the pickle he was in. If he didn't stop the others from breaking in he was a dead man, but if he let go, even for an instant, it meant the death of his Captain instead. He could hear the clatter and crash of battle outside, the roar of the Right Hand, the crunch of breaking stones.

"Come on," Moss grunted, digging his heels in as a sudden, heavy jostle nearly sent him flying. "Just kill the bastard already and be done with it!"

One of the hinges came loose and toppled to the floor, the gatehouse door leaning in precariously as one of the Forsworn clawed at the crossbar, trying desperately to lift it. Any moment now they would get in. And that would be that.

Time slowed for Moss then. He thought about his childhood in the furthest North, when he and Cent and Fig had been inseparable, until an arrow split them apart. He remembered the old Seer's words when he'd stumbled upon her cave, cursing him with the knowledge of his demise.

Violent and bloody.

It changes a man, knowing how he dies. It chases the silver lining out of the clouds. Steals the joy from tiny moments. Kills the past and turns your future into a straight and narrow line.

His thoughts rested on the Captain, remembering when he'd been a boy once, a lowly Chronicler amidst a crowd of killers. Thought he'd died back in Byzantia, when they'd lost him at the bridge, but he came back. Thought him dead down in the Deadways, but he'd come back too.

All Captains of the Vangen are expected to die violently and bloody. It happened to Dux, and it would one day happen to Libro as well. And yet both of them faced their fates with silent tenacity.

It was damn near inspiring, enough to put Moss at ease for some reason. Every man has his hill to die, and he'd finally found his own. Holding the turnstile in one hand, he pulled his ax free and chopped deeply into the wood.

He let go, and the wheel spun for a brief second before the ax caught it, the solid Star Steel handle bending under the pressure, but holding fast.

The wheel would hold. For now.

Moss turned as the door finally gave under the pressure. It crumpled to the ground, heavy iron bar clattering free and skidding across the floor, stopping mere inches from his feet.

Dust, snow and Forsworn spilled into the room, fanning out until they'd spread into an even half circle, weapons at the ready, Black Glass armor glinting off their torchlight

Moss had his back pressed against the turnstile, the one thing keeping them from getting into the courtyard. The Forsworn stared at him, studied him, waiting for his next move.

Moss smiled and held his hands up in surrender. Some of the Forsworn laughed, mocked him, pointing at the shield strapped to his arm and stabbing at the floor with their fingers.

"Give it," one of them demanded.

"Fine." He slipped the heavy Star Steel disc off his left arm, fingers gliding over the serrated edge, wincing as they bit into his flesh and drew blood.

One of the Forsworn was getting impatient. He held a hand out, demanding the shield be handed over.

So Moss obliged.

He took a step and swung the shield like a discus, finger slipping easily out of the grip. The thing spun in the air for a half second before it slammed into the man's chest, glass armor shattering to pieces as he went sprawling to the ground. The other Forsworn jumped back in shock, giving Moss the necessary time to reach for what he needed.

The iron crossbar. It was damningly heavy and difficult to keep a grip on, fingers digging into the chipped metal for purchase. He lifted it up just in time as one of the Forsworn started charging at him.

"Like chopping wood," Moss muttered, as he brought the bar back down, smashing it into the Forsworn's head, crumpling the man into a heap, the top of his helmet exploding in a shower of angry shard.

He barely had a chance to right himself before one of the Forsworn barreled into him, throwing him to the ground and knocking the iron bar from his grasp. It clattered away, skittering into a corner, a lost cause.

Moss scrambled up, but someone jumped on top of him, a knife clenched in both hands. They fell together in heap, legs kicking, arms flailing, the Forsworn on top, Moss desperately holding him back. The knife was inches from his face, the whites of his eyes bright in the polished surface.

The other Forsworn stepped past, making for the turnstile. If they pulled the ax free, then all his effort now would be for nothing. The gate would open, and the Captain would die.

Violent and bloody.

Sometimes, violence is necessary. Sometimes, blood has to be spilled in order for things to change. Moss knew this. Knew it since the day he'd stumbled upon that damnable Seer.

So instead of holding on, he let go, and the knife sank deep into his chest, much to the Forsworn's surprise. For a moment they stared at each other.

The Moss reached up and broke the man's neck. There was a twitch, a gurgled gasp, and the man fell limp.

Moss threw him off, blade still wedged in his chest, blood pooling around the wound, sliding down his breastplate in big, fat rivulets.

"Don't you farking touch that ax," Moss growled. He pulled the knife free and pointed it at the Forsworn. "Or it'll be the last thing you do."

For a group of men used to seeing dead men walking, they were quite afraid to see him of a sudden. Faces pale as snow. Eyes wide with terror. Not one of them moved, feet frozen to the ground. Like they'd seen a ghost.

Maybe Moss was a ghost, and the knife had killed him after all, and he was here to take his vengeance, bound to the earth as a Revenant, until he'd followed his solemn oath to the letter.

Protect the Captain, at any cost.

Moss smiled and slowly crept towards them, bloody knife flashing in the palm of his hand.

***