Chapter 3: A Mercy in Snow
“You should be dead,” the old priest muttered, tipping a ladle of bitter-smelling broth into Nora’s mouth.
She coughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone said that.”
“You crawled through a blizzard with serum fever, frostbite, and cracked ribs.” He lifted her wrist, frowning at the swelling around the silver burn. “Survival like that isn’t natural.”
Nora managed a half-smile. “I’m not natural.”
The priest snorted. “We’ll see about that.”
---
The sanctuary wasn’t much—just a cluster of root-cellar rooms under a chapel roof, hidden behind ice-wrapped cliffs. No guards. No weapons. Just robes, medicine, and silence.
“You are at the Enclave of Loom,” said the head priestess, a stern woman with midnight braids and inked palms. “We treat all wounded. No flags. No bloodlines. No questions.”
“Good,” Nora rasped. “I have none left.”
She gave a false name: *Arden*. Her voice didn’t tremble. The priests accepted it with a nod.
---
Days passed. Fever ebbed. Pain stayed. A different kind of war began—one fought with tinctures, crushed roots, and sleepless nights.
“You know your way around a suture,” said apprentice Ilya, watching Nora stitch a gash in a traveler’s arm.
“I used to fix broken paws. This isn’t so different.”
“You were a healer?”
“No,” Nora said. “But I learned by necessity.”
She crushed iceberries into pulp, eyes darting toward the bulletin board by the exit. Names. Faces. Bounties.
Her own wasn’t there—yet.
But it was only a matter of time.
---
One night, as sleet tapped on the stone skylight, Ilya whispered, “Have you heard of the Nightshade Circle?”
Nora froze. “No.”
“They say they smuggle medicine to villages like Greywing. Use poison on patrol lines. They’re ghosts.”
“Sounds like rebels.”
“Sounds like hope.”
Nora hesitated. “Why are you telling me?”
Ilya shrugged. “You don’t flinch when we treat soldiers. And you grind nightshade faster than anyone I’ve seen.”
Nora looked down at the scar on her wrist—the mark of the serum cuff.
“Where do I find them?”
---
Joining the Circle didn’t require vows. Only choices.
The contact—a weathered woman named Drin—met Nora in the herb cellar.
“You want in? You serve two doctrines: heal the broken. Poison the oppressor.”
Nora nodded.
Drin handed her a black pouch. “Memorize every plant inside. Some save. Some kill. Know the difference before your first mission.”
“I do.”
Drin looked her over. “You don’t ask questions.”
“I have one,” Nora said. “What’s the name of the officer leading Starblade’s western campaign?”
“Cyrus,” Drin said. “Young. Efficient. Cold as iron.”
Nora’s grip tightened around the pouch. “Good.”
---
Weeks blurred into months.
Nora—now “Arden” by day and “Greywing” by night—earned her codename after her first solo infiltration.
“You replaced the garrison’s antitoxins with paralysis serum?” Drin blinked.
Nora shrugged. “Slow acting. No fatalities.”
“And you left before the alarm?”
“Before the tea whistle.”
Drin smirked. “You’re colder than you look.”
Nora tucked her forged medical badge into her cloak. “I’m focused.”
But at night, alone by the fire, she traced the edge of an old bone pendant she’d hidden in her boot. Once her sister’s. Once a promise.
She dreamed of blue eyes, unreadable and still.
And wondered—
Why did he open that cell? Why did he walk away?
---
One evening, a new report reached the Circle's cave post.
"Starblade’s deployed Major Cyrus to investigate the infirmary sabotage," Drin said grimly. "He's no fool."
Nora stiffened. “He won’t find anything.”
“He’s dangerous, Greywing. Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I just don’t think he remembers me.”
Across the snowy border, in a steel operations tent, Cyrus studied the aftermath of the garrison collapse.
He held up a vial marked with a subtle herbal stain.
“Precision,” he murmured. “No trace of brute force.”
His aide frowned. “You think it’s one of the rebel medics?”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes at the empty bedroll, at the careful order of scalpels in the infirmary drawer.
“No,” he said quietly. “I think it’s someone I’ve met before.”
---
He returned to his tent late, still holding a strand of grey hair found on a discarded bandage.
“You want me to incinerate it?” the aide asked.
Cyrus paused.
“No. Run analysis.”
The aide blinked. “Sir?”
“I want a match,” he said, voice flat. “Run it against all detained defect profiles from Blackstone... six years back.”
“You think she’s alive?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
He stepped outside into the snow, breath ghosting under the stars.
Somewhere beyond the ridge, a girl with volcanic eyes and hands that healed and killed with equal precision was watching flames crackle.
And planning what came next.