Chapter 7: Helm of the Young Warlord

Snow fell in slanted veils across the twisted forest, coating the bare roots like bone dust. Theo crouched beside a frozen stream, breath misting. His cloak was torn, boots crusted in frost, but he was close. He could feel it.

A low whistle.

He pivoted—just in time to parry a blade with his gauntlet. Sparks flew.

Three figures lunged from the shadows—rag-wrapped, feral-eyed. Exiles.

“You lost, warlord?” one hissed.

Theo didn’t answer. He stepped back, blade raised, eyes locked.

The second exile charged.

Theo dropped low, swept his leg out—sent the attacker sprawling into the snow.

The third went for his throat.

Steel rang.

Theo twisted, countered, disarmed. His sword rested at the man’s neck. “You done?”

Silence.

Then a voice rang out from the trees.

“Stand down.”

The exiles backed off instantly.

Freya stepped into view.

No hood. No mask. Just her.

Silver hair unbound, eyes sharp as moonlight through glass.

Theo straightened, but his words caught.