The Letter

Turin awoke with the first light of dawn on his face, the early rays piercing through the gaps in the tree canopy above. His back ached slightly from sleeping on the earth, but something else caught his attention almost immediately—the pain in his leg was gone. He sat up slowly, his hand reaching to feel the wound that should've still been raw and seeping blood.

Nothing.

No blood. No pain. Not even a scar.

He stared at it in disbelief. "What in the seven hells...?" he muttered. The place where he'd been stabbed just yesterday was now smooth as if it had never been injured.

Had the gods healed him? Was it the ring? The chest? The storm that came when he put it on?

Turin didn't have the answers, but he wasn't going to complain. He stood, stretched his limbs, and shook the stiffness from his body. Snow, his white steed, snorted and woke beside him. Turin smiled and patted his mane.

"Come on, boy. We've got ground to cover."

He strapped the mysterious chest to Snow's saddle, secured the stolen sword he'd taken from one of the Blackwood men, and rifled through the corpses for anything useful. He collected their coin—more silver than he expected, a pouch nearly full—and left the bloodstained clearing behind, heading toward the main road.

Hours passed. The wind was mild, and the sky clear, though the strange weight of the ring on his finger made Turin feel like a storm always lingered just out of sight. Around midday, he spotted an inn just off the road. It was a crooked old place of timber and stone, smoke curling from its chimney, and a faded sign hanging from a rusted iron hook: The Bent Boar.

Turin dismounted and told Snow to stay put. The horse neighed softly and lowered its head to graze. Inside, the inn was nearly empty. A few grizzled men nursed drinks in the corner, and a young girl swept near the hearth.

He walked up to the barkeep and dropped a few coins. "Ale. And a room for the night."

The barkeep eyed him warily, noting the sword and bow, then nodded. "Aye. Small room, but it's got a bed. Six silver."

Turin winced at the price. Nearly all he had. Still, he needed the rest. "Fine."

He took the ale and climbed the creaking stairs. The room was small, dusty, and reeked faintly of old sweat and hay. The bed was little more than a pile of straw covered by a thin blanket.

Turin sighed. "Shittier than the camp with Elle," he muttered.

Before he could lie down, a loud commotion rose from downstairs. Shouting. Screaming. A woman's voice.

Turin's eyes snapped open. He grabbed his bow and a handful of arrows, rushing down the stairs with barely a sound.

Ironborn.

Six of them. Big men with salt-rusted armor and axes, reeking of the sea. One had the innkeeper by the collar, threatening him. Another was dragging the innkeeper's daughter toward the back.

Turin didn't hesitate.

He loosed his first arrow—straight through the neck of the one holding the girl. Blood sprayed across the floor as the man gurgled and collapsed. The others turned, stunned.

The second arrow went through the eye of the man near the bar.

The third pierced a throat, another man falling, clutching his neck.

But then more crashed through the door—reinforcements.

Turin ducked behind a table as an axe thudded into the wood. He spun and shot again, this time into a man's mouth mid-roar. Teeth and blood exploded outward.

He stood, rapid-firing—an archer possessed. The final two tried to charge him together. He dodged left, then drove an arrow straight into the heart of one. The last turned to run.

Turin sprinted after him and caught him just before the door. With a scream of fury, he smashed the man's head against the inn's stone wall. Blood smeared across the stone in dark red arcs. The body twitched, then stilled.

Silence.

The inn was a slaughterhouse. The innkeeper and his daughter looked horrified—but grateful. "You… you saved us," the girl whispered.

Turin wiped his blade and said, "Don't thank me yet. One got away. They'll come back. You need to run. Leave everything. Now."

The innkeeper nodded quickly, gathering what little he could.

While they packed, Turin searched the bodies. On the leader, he found a letter. Blood-smeared but legible.

Lord Kenning orders the razing of Castle Stone. All survivors to be taken as thralls. Leave none alive.

"Castle Stone?" Turin muttered. "Who the fuck names their castle 'Stone'?"

Still, it was a target. A warning. A place that might need help.

He looted every corpse—coin, weapons, anything useful. Then he walked out, Snow already waiting, stomping impatiently.

Turin mounted up, slung the blood-stained sword over his back, and tucked the letter into his cloak. As he rode away from the inn, he looked back once. Smoke still curled from the chimney, but the blood on the walls would stain that place forever.

As the road curved away, he whispered to himself, "Let's see what this Castle Stone is made of."

Snow neighed and galloped into the horizon.