CHAPTER SEVEN

The air of Windermere, once merely thick with mist, now trembled under a weight far heavier. It was as though the village itself held its breath in anticipation of the storm that approached. The villagers, already silent from the terror of their vanished children, withdrew deeper into their homes, shutters drawn tight, whispers muffled behind locked doors. They sensed the change—a tension unlike the fear they had known, for now came a new terror, one not born of mystery but of deadly certainty.

Rosé stood at the edge of the village, the mist curling at her feet, the weight of failure pressing upon her shoulders. She had yet to uncover the truth behind the disappearances, yet to unmask the shadow in the fog. And now, with Helene drawing nearer, she had no more time to delay. The king’s will was coming, sharp and cold as the blade that Helene bore.

A distant figure appeared in the mist, growing larger with each passing moment. Helene of the Silver Blade, her white stallion cutting through the fog like a sword through flesh. Her posture was as straight as an arrow, her silver-plated armor gleaming with a dull, ominous light, and her hair, a cascade of pale gold, flowed like a river behind her. Her face, set in stone, bore no trace of compassion, no hint of mercy. Only a calm, chilling resolve.

Rosé took a steadying breath, steeling herself as the warrior approached. She knew that once Helene set foot in Windermere, her every move would be marked by blood, for the king’s champion did not come to investigate. She came to end things—swiftly, ruthlessly.

Helene reined in her horse mere feet from where Rosé stood. The mist swirled around them both, thickening like the tension between them. Helene’s cold blue eyes fixed upon Rosé, and for a moment, the village, the mist, the world itself seemed to fall away under the weight of her gaze.

“Rosé of Windermere,” Helene said, her voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade she carried. “I hath been sent by the king to restore order in this forsaken place. Tarry not with pleasantries, for my time is not thine to waste. What hast thou uncovered?”

Rosé swallowed, keeping her expression calm, though she could feel the pulse of urgency hammering at her temples. “Milady Helene,” she began, her tone measured, respectful, “I beseech thee to listen, for this mystery is unlike any other. The mist, it hides something… something ancient, something far more dangerous than mere superstition. I have seen glimpses, but to understand it fully, I need more time.”

Helene’s lips tightened, her eyes narrowing slightly as though the very notion of delay irritated her. “Time?” she echoed, her voice flat, her gaze piercing. “Time hath already been spent in abundance, yet the children remain lost, the villagers cower in fear, and the mist clings to this place like a plague. Thy time is over. Mine hath begun.”

Rosé took a step forward, her heart pounding. She could not let Helene take control. The warrior’s methods were direct, but they were not what this village needed. If Helene acted, she would raze Windermere to the ground in search of answers, and in the process, whatever hope remained of finding the children alive would be lost.

“Milady,” Rosé pressed, her voice firm but pleading, “I beg thee to consider the lives of these people. This village hath suffered greatly, yet there is still a chance—still a thread of hope. If we rush in, if we act without understanding, we may destroy that which we seek to save.”

Helene’s expression did not change. She was a woman forged in iron, and Rosé’s words, however true, seemed to slide off her like raindrops on steel. Slowly, she dismounted from her horse, her movements smooth, graceful, but with the deadly precision of one who had faced a thousand battles and emerged victorious from them all.

The silver blade at her side, Vigilance, gleamed faintly in the dull light of the afternoon. It was a weapon of legend, one said to be so sharp it could cut through lies themselves, cleaving through the falsehoods that men built around their souls. In Helene’s hands, it was more than a mere tool of war—it was a symbol of judgment, of unflinching justice.

Her eyes, cold and distant as a winter sea, locked onto Rosé’s with a kind of detached curiosity, as though she were measuring the younger woman’s resolve. “Thou speakest of hope,” she said slowly, her voice low but laced with an edge of disdain. “Yet hope doth not bring back the dead, nor restore order to a land undone by chaos.”

Rosé’s breath caught. She could feel it—the cold aura of death that surrounded Helene like a shroud. This was not a woman who entertained mercy, nor one who believed in second chances. She was the king’s will made flesh, a weapon honed to perfection, and her mind was fixed on a single path: to cut down whatever stood in the way of peace.

“Thy task was clear,” Helene continued, her voice hardening. “Find the children, uncover the truth. Yet weeks have passed, and still, the mist thickens, and still, the villagers hide in their homes, afraid to speak of what lies in the fog.”

She took a step closer to Rosé, her eyes narrowing, her presence almost suffocating. “Thou hast failed, Rosé. And now, the time for subtlety is at an end.”

Rosé’s heart raced. She could see it in Helene’s eyes—the intent, the murderous resolve that had guided her through so many battles. Helene was not here to investigate. She was here to purge. The warrior’s every step, every movement, radiated the cold efficiency of one who had been sent to bring order through whatever means necessary, even if it meant reducing Windermere to ashes.

“Nay, milady!” Rosé cried, her voice rising, her desperation seeping through. “Thou dost not understand! This is not a foe that can be felled by strength of arms alone. The mist—’tis alive! It watches, it waits, and should we act rashly, it will consume us all.”

Helene’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “Thou thinkest me a fool? That I come here unawares of the dangers this village doth face?” Her hand rested on the hilt of Vigilance, her fingers brushing the cold steel with a familiarity that sent a shiver through the air. “I have seen more battles, faced more horrors, than thou canst imagine, child. The mist is but another foe, another obstacle to be cut down.”

Rosé’s mouth went dry. She could feel the weight of her words slipping away, the argument she so desperately clung to unraveling in the face of Helene’s unyielding certainty. This was a woman who did not believe in mysteries, who did not bend before the unknown. To Helene, everything could be solved with the sharp edge of her blade.

But Rosé could not give up. She would not. The children—Gregory, the innkeeper’s son, the villagers—there was still a chance, still a sliver of hope, but only if she could stall, only if she could convince Helene to give her more time.

“Helene,” Rosé said softly, using her name in a last, desperate attempt to reach the woman beneath the armor, “there is something darker at play here. I have seen it in the eyes of the children, heard it in the whispers of the fog. If thou dost act too swiftly, we may lose everything.”

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, something flickered in Helene’s eyes. Doubt? Perhaps not. But something less cold, less distant, as if Rosé’s words had struck a chord, however faint. Helene’s hand lingered on the hilt of her sword, her gaze searching Rosé’s face, as though trying to gauge the sincerity behind her plea.

But then, just as quickly, the flicker was gone, and the icy mask of the king’s enforcer settled back into place.

“Thy words are but the feeble cries of one who hath failed,” Helene said, her voice as cold and unfeeling as the mist that surrounded them. “Thou seekest to delay the inevitable, but know this: I will not be swayed by fear, nor by pleas for time.”

Her grip tightened on Vigilance, the blade gleaming ominously in the pale light. “The king hath sent me to restore order, and I shall see it done. Whether thou standest with me or against me matters not. I shall find the heart of this darkness, and if it must be cut out by force, then so be it.”

Rosé’s heart sank. She had failed. Helene would not be reasoned with, not now. The warrior’s mind was set, her path clear. And as she mounted her horse once more, her eyes fixed on the distant heart of the village, Rosé knew that the battle was no longer one of wits, but of survival.

For now that Helene had arrived, Windermere’s fate was sealed in steel and blood.

The fog thickened around them, swallowing the village whole, as Helene rode toward it with the grim determination of one who had come not to save, but to end.