Chapter 2: The Arrow in the Mist
The storm rolled in without warning.
Snow howled like a beast across the pass, erasing tracks and blinding eyes. The scouting squad staggered through the drifts, cloaks heavy with ice, breath already ragged. Freya led the line, arrow nocked, senses sharp.
Behind her, one of the cadets cursed. “We should turn back!”
“We’re too deep,” barked the squad leader. “Stay tight!”
Theo, assigned last-minute as liaison, marched near the rear—grim, silent, armor dusted with frost.
Freya’s voice cut clean through the wind. “Stop talking. Listen.”
Everyone froze.
Silence.
Then—
*Snap.*
A crossbow bolt whistled through the storm, embedding into a cadet’s throat. He fell without sound.
“Ambush!” the leader shouted, too late.
Shapes moved in the whiteout—Ironmane scouts, cloaked in bone and fur. Blades flashed. Arrows flew.
Freya moved like shadow—ducking behind a snowdrift, loosing an arrow. A man fell mid-leap, eyes wide in death. Another arrow curved clean through a second enemy’s eye socket. Her face remained unreadable, breath steady despite the chaos.
Theo drew his sword, slashing one attacker aside—but a second Ironmane raised a crossbow.
*Thwip.*
The bolt struck Theo square in the chest.
He collapsed with a grunt, eyes wide, mouth opening without sound.
Freya's pupils narrowed. The world muted.
She leapt forward, planting an arrow between the shooter’s eyes, then dropped beside Theo.
His chest wasn’t rising.
“Poison,” the healer gasped, kneeling beside her. “Fast. His heart’s stopped.”
Freya hesitated. She glanced around—the others were either fighting or dead. No one was watching.
She slipped off her glove.
A deep cut across her palm shimmered. Silvery liquid oozed from the wound.
*Silver Blood.*
She pressed her bleeding hand over Theo’s wound.
The blood hissed on contact—frost meeting fire. Light pulsed, just once, then again. Theo’s back arched as if struck by lightning.
He gasped.
His eyes fluttered open, wild and unfocused.
Freya whispered, “You’re not allowed to die.”
He blinked, dazed. “What—what are you—?”
More Ironmane shouts rang in the distance.
Freya wrapped his chest with linen, fast and tight, then pulled a wolf-tooth pendant from her pouch. She closed his hand around it.
“Don’t forget this.”
She hauled him up briefly—just long enough to half-carry, half-drag him through the snow to a nearby cave. Inside, she laid him down on moss, whispered something inaudible, then turned and disappeared into the storm.
By the time the others arrived, she was gone.
---
Theo awoke to the scent of winter roses.
The ceiling above him was stone. The pendant lay against his chest, warm. His chest ached, but he could breathe.
He pushed himself upright.
“Where is she?” he rasped.
The healer shook his head. “You were dead, boy. We found you alone.”
Theo’s grip tightened on the pendant.
“She saved me,” he said softly.
The others looked at him strangely.
“Who?”
He stared into the fire. “She had ice in her eyes.”
---
Back at Frostfang, Freya limped through the servant tunnels, clutching her wrapped hand beneath her cloak. Her arm burned. Every step echoed.
She reached the storage wing. Voices echoed from inside.
“She abandoned the squad.”
“She was always suspicious.”
“She didn’t even return with a report.”
Freya stopped in the shadows.
Ulric’s voice rang out, cold and certain: “The girl is an Ironmane sympathizer. I’ll submit the tribunal report myself.”
Freya’s fists clenched.
That was a lie. He hadn’t seen the ambush. He hadn’t seen her drag Theo out. He hadn’t seen her take the wound that still leaked silver beneath her wrappings.
She stepped forward.
“I did not abandon anyone.”
All eyes turned.
Ulric’s brow twitched. “So the traitor returns.”
“I saved Theo.”
Ulric smiled. “How convenient. You disappear, and now you claim to be a savior.”
“Ask him.”
“He’s unconscious. And we have *proof*.”
He held up a forged document, bearing Freya’s seal. Orders written in her name, promising Ironmane scouts safe passage.
She stared at it.
“That’s fake.”
The crowd murmured.
Ulric turned to Garrick, who stood in the doorway.
“She’s a threat,” Ulric said. “And dangerous.”
Garrick’s eyes were unreadable. “A tribunal will decide.”
Freya’s voice rose. “You’re framing me!”
“No,” Garrick said softly. “I’m protecting the realm.”
Two guards seized her arms.
She didn’t fight them.
Because she saw the decision already etched on Garrick’s face.
---
The next morning, chains clinked through the courtyard.
Snow fell softly as the servants gathered. Cadets pointed. Nobles watched from balconies.
Freya stood between guards, wrists bound, eyes forward.
Theo wasn’t among them.
Ulric read the charges.
Treason. Conspiracy. Desertion.
Freya said nothing.
Her gaze rose to the sky.
The moon hung pale and silent above.
They marched her through the gates toward the forest. Beyond the wall, the trees twisted black and gnarled—the edge of the Deadwood. No soul returned from there.
One guard snorted. “Good riddance, runt.”
The other shoved her forward.
Freya stumbled—but caught herself.
Before she crossed into shadow, she whispered to the wind, “I was never the one who betrayed you.”
And then she vanished beneath the trees.