A Whisper in the Dark

The cold night wind howled through the trees as Hakon rode south, the map clenched in his gloved hand. The inked markings told him all he needed to know—another raid, another village soon to burn. He had two days to stop it.

His warhorse galloped through the moonlit wilderness, its breath steaming in the frigid air. He did not stop until he reached a rocky outcrop overlooking a winding road. From here, he could watch the valley below.

And he was not alone.

A shadow moved in the trees behind him.

Hakon remained still, gripping the hilt of his sword. He listened. The crunch of snow. A breath caught in the cold air. Whoever it was, they were skilled—but not enough to escape his notice.

"You can come out," he said, his voice calm. "Or you can die hiding."

Silence.

Then, a figure stepped forward, draped in a dark cloak, hood drawn low over their face. The firelight from the distant valley flickered across their silhouette. A woman's voice, sharp as a blade, broke the stillness.

"I saw what you did to Varic's men."

Hakon turned slightly, keeping his posture relaxed but his muscles taut. "And?"

A pause. Then, the woman pulled back her hood.

She had sharp, angular features, her dark hair braided close to her scalp. Her eyes—cold, calculating—held no fear. A pair of daggers rested at her belt, their hilts wrapped in worn leather. She carried herself like a predator, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

"My name is Svala," she said. "And I have no love for Varic."

Hakon studied her for a long moment. The name was familiar, whispered in the past among mercenary circles. Svala the Ghost. An assassin, if the rumors were true.

"Then why follow me?" he asked.

"Because you're going after him." She stepped closer, folding her arms. "And you won't succeed alone."

The wind howled again, sweeping through the valley below. Hakon remained silent, reading the woman in front of him. There was no hesitation in her stance, no nervous twitch in her fingers. She wasn't here to beg for protection or make false claims of loyalty.

"What did he take from you?" Hakon finally asked.

Svala's expression hardened. "My sister. She was in Greythorne when Varic's men came."

Hakon understood immediately. If her sister was taken, that meant one of two things—either she had been killed, or she had been sold to the Iron Lords.

"And you believe she's still alive?"

Svala's jaw clenched. "I don't know. But I won't stop until I do."

There was a rawness in her voice, the same kind of unshakable resolve that burned in his own chest. He had spent a decade sharpening his mind and body for revenge. He knew what it felt like to be consumed by a single purpose.

"I need fighters," Hakon said at last. "Not vengeance-blind fools."

Svala met his gaze, unflinching. "I survived three years in Varic's dungeons. I killed my way out. I'm no fool."

Hakon considered her words. If she was telling the truth, she had already proven herself against the Vulture's men. And if she lied, he would kill her the moment she turned against him.

After a moment, he nodded. "Then we ride at dawn."

Svala smirked, a shadow of satisfaction flickering across her face. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Hakon turned back toward the valley, scanning the dark horizon. The village Varic's men had marked on the map was still two days away. He would need to move fast.

But now, he wasn't hunting alone.