The woods creaked and groaned around the soldiers, protesting with its feeble limbs against the onslaught of the howling winds.

Stationed with Sergeant Wolturs' squad in this hidden corner of the woods far from the village, the patrollers muttered quiet prayers to Lord Edis under their breaths.

The first time she'd heard them, the words sounded strange to her, for they were in an old dialect of Midaelian used long ago in the north that sounded almost foreign. One of the patrollers had explained it to her in modern Midaelian:

"O King of Winter, we beg thee,
Have mercy upon our wretched souls.
You who commands the north winds,
Let not the cruel ice chill our bones,
Let not the snowstorms wreck our huts,
Let not the cold freeze our beating hearts
To lifeless stone,
O lord of frost and snow, we call on you."

Their voices were hushed, no more than a whisper in unison, a susurration of dry leaves rustled by a wayward breeze. Farren found herself joining in with them, shivering despite her cloak wrapped snugly around her shoulders, her hood pulled up to cover her ears.

Grant us your divine protection, Lord. Spare us your fury...

Seven years ago, when Farren had come to Kinallen and met the vampire patrollers and night-archers for the first time, she'd been terrified, and fascinated by their devotion to the Winter God.

The village she came from, people came up with all sorts of horrible legends about the vampirefolk-- about the patrollers demanding human sacrifices every new moon, preying on unassuming new recruits and draining them dry. So much had those superstitions gotten to them, Finnian had made her pack a bunch of wooden stakes with her things before she'd set off for Kinallen.

Thankfully, she never had the need to put them to use. No Midaelian ever had, for sorcery-crafted blood elixirs were more than enough to sustain them.

Still, Farren had wondered why the centuries-old, long-lived people would ever bow to any God, given their very existence was cursed by Draedona, forcing them to survive on blood and lead bleak, overlong lives. But the vampires still worshipped Edis, offered him tributes, raised temples and shrines in his name.

Why the ill-tempered King of Winter, of all deities? Why the vicious ice dragon that brought destruction in his wake?

✦✧✦✧

Shortly after Farren had made the deal with Atruer, she'd often have trouble sleeping. When after hours of tossing and turning would grant her no escape to the dark depths of sleep, she'd throw on her cloak and wander the deserted training grounds, or climb on the stable roof to stargaze.

Until one day she got caught.

"Who goes there?" The voice came from the watchtower.

Farren halted in her tracks, pulling her hood over her face, but naught escaped the sharp vision of the vampires.

A face peered down from the rails, friendly-looking despite its ashen pallor and red, luminous eyes. Bow in his hands, quiver full of arrows slung on his shoulder. A night-archer.

"You'll be in big trouble if our captain were to see you, kid. Go back. Off to bed, now," he said.

Farren hesitated. This was the closest she'd ever got to a vampire. She could ask him what was their deal with Lord Edis. But was this really the time or place for religious conversations as such? When a gust of cold wind left her shivering, the night-archer sighed.

"Stoked a fire," he said. "Come up here and warm up a bit, if you like. New place, new surroundings-- sleep's gotta be hard to come by. Happened to me too."

Up on the wooden platform, fire crackled in a small brazier in a corner. Erected upon a raised patch of land, the watchtower offered a grand view of the village and the rolling plains beyond. The lake glistened silver in the moonlight. Snow-capped mountains glittered, off to the northern edge of Kinallen.

After many a heartbeats spent in quiet uncertainty, she finally asked the night-archer, whose name she learnt was Dorin Farler, the reason behind their worshipping of the God of Winter.

He'd rummaged around in a desk and simply shown her a well-worn map of Stormvale.

"Despite King Forthwind's protection," he said, pale finger resting upon the name on the parchment, "Valston remains our safe haven from the Drisian vampire hunters. Yet due to its position at the foot of the Drakhall mountains, our home is ever assailed by blizzards. Besides that, landslides and avalanches are something our folk has to live with. Thus the King of Winter must be appeased, else he shall unleash his wrath upon us, our homes-- our very souls."

"But why is he so angry?" That was a question that had bugged Farren for a long while.

Dorin Farler's bloodless face had gone solemn. "Because we mortals brought on the Great War. Raised a whirlwind of chaos, amidst which Edis lost his brother he so dearly loved."

The vampirefolk of the north had their own different version of the story of the Winter God and his brother, much different from the one Gran used to tell Farren. In this tale, it was not Rhilio who was the villain, but the people of Stormvale themselves.

Bathed in the moonlight peeking through gaps in the watchtower roof, Farren had turned to the night-archer with a final question. "Will there ever be an end to his wrath?"

"Until the brothers are reunited, he shall never find peace. We have but little to offer by ways of meager tributes."

✦✧✦✧

Today, as winds howled through the trees around them and the frost clawed through their armour, Farren was left wondering. Had centuries worth of offerings and tributes ever managed to pacify his fury?

What gripped Farren more than the cold was... impatience. Anticipation clawed at her stomach, mind racing to assume all the things that could go wrong.

What is this part of the plan supposed to achieve?

Why must a select group of soldiers lie in wait, hidden behind trees and bushes while the fight went on in the village?

"Stay hidden, and wait," was all her squad leader, Klo had told them.

Hidden behind a moss-covered boulder, Klo was now at Farren's side, her dark, stern eyes fixed upon the trail. Farren did not have the courage to enquire about the purpose of this... stalking. The sergeant was already furious at Farren and Gray for leaving their positions and sneaking out to the village earlier.

On her other side crouched Rendarr, his patience absolute and unperturbed-- the sole reason being he was sure a group of bandits were to come up this trail, and they were all supposed to ambush them. Although this belief solely belonged to him.

Klo had confirmed nothing of the sort.

The sound of snow crunching beneath hooves caught Farren's attention at once. She swung her gaze to the trail.

Two men came riding, their mounts approaching at a slow trot. Engaged in conversation, they stopped not far from the boulder behind which Farren now sat hidden.

Her heart pounded as she looked upon the faces of the two men.

Karles and Dion.

✦✧✦✧

Earlier that day.

Reins gripped tightly in his hands, Karles took in lungfuls of cold air in a vain attempt to calm his hammering heart as he rode out of the village, Dion in tow. Steady, now. You can't afford to mess this up.

Moments ago, he had seen a man sink his blades into Linder's back, heard with his own ears his roar of pain, the wild neighing of his steed and felt in his own heart, a stab of guilt like a rusty nail.

He turned in his saddle now, glancing at Dion. "Where to?"

"Job's done, so why tarry here long? Off to Sergeant Wolturs' Squad. We do need an alibi, don't we?" said Dion, flicking bits of snow from his dark blond hair. "At least, I do. Don't wanna hang around while your dear Valerius is getting stabbed."

"Playing it safe, eh?" Karles forced a chuckle. "Come, then. I know where Sergeant Wolturs' squad is holed up. I'll need to come up with some excuse to give her, I suppose."

Dion flashed a ghastly grin. "If you can come up with a whole plan to murder your friend, surely you can do that too."

With the battle raging within the village walls, wrought with the dying screams of the bandits overpowered and outnumbered by Midaelian warriors, the two archers set off along a narrow trail into the woods.

Silence stretched taut between them, broken only by the screeching wind and creaking branches.

"The Guild demands the rest of the payment," said Dion slowly, as the two approached a place where the trail blended into dense woods.

Karles halted in his steps, cautious eyes on the moss-covered boulder off to one side.

"Of course, but before that," he said, turning his horse around, "I need assurance that Valerius is well and truly dead. Some sort of proof, if you will."

Dion's face twisted in a scowl. "You saw with your own eyes our man advancing upon him-- the man I hired to stage this bandit raid. And that was no ordinary man. Linder is up against a Vasaen, for Draedona's sake!" he said, "if that doesn't kill him, he'll bleed out anyway. Isn't that enough for you?"

Karles smiled. "That's all very good, but I recall we agreed upon something else as well. We both know there is a certain weapon that's effective against those creatures," he said, his smile widening as Dion's scowl deepened, "...what have you done about that dagger?"

The woods surrounding them fell into a breath-holding, ear-ringing silence, as though awaiting his answer.

Dion tilted his head, a sickening smile spread across his face.

"Ah, so that's it? Should've come to the point sooner, my friend. I was beginning to think you doubt my abilities." He reached into his cloak, pulling out a dagger. Green veins shimmered within its translucent blade. "Linder could be the best swordsman in the world for all I care. It'll take but one swing for our man to finish him."

Karles' heart gave a huge leap. He could sense the tension in the air, feel the many disdainful eyes trained upon them. But he forced himself to sound surprised. "How did you--"

Head thrown back, Dion let out a crazed laugh. "Damned fool he is, kept it in his saddlebag of all places!"

"Alastair would soon be on his way to the Royal Court, and Linder is taken care of," said Karles, his smile bittersweet, "I imagine the Guild would be proud of you."

"Indeed. Only regret is," said Dion, "... I couldn't take their lives with my own hands. A waste of poisoned arrows, if you ask me."

"But we won in the end, and that's all that matters," said Karles.

Little did Dion know, the statement was not directed at him.

Had the assassin's vision not been clouded by his imaginations of Alastair's limp body swinging from the high gallows, or Linder bleeding out upon the snow-laden village path, he would have noticed the shadows behind the bushes, would've caught the sounds of swords sliding out of their sheaths, crossbows being loaded.

Only when Karles turned to address an invisible audience among the woods did Dion notice something was terribly wrong.

"Do you hear me now, my friends? Do you hear him? Confessing his sins out loud?" Karles threw the questions to the silent trees, which answered with naught but a soft rustle of leaves.

When the truth of the words finally hit him, it was too late.

Dion was surrounded.

"Drop your weapons, Edsley," said Klo, her voice low yet dangerous. "Resistance is futile."

It took but a moment for his confident smile to twist into a feral grimace.

On the faces of the soldiers surrounding him was resentment and disbelief. All arrows pointed at him, mounted on their bowstrings.

There was no escape.

"Filthy gutter rats..." Dion muttered, before facing them all, a crazed look about his face, the dagger trembling in his grip. "You won't get away with this. I'll destroy this damned dagger, and watch the Vasaeni tear you to shreds!"

Now Farren stepped forward, eyes scrutinizing the dagger. She cursed under her breath.

"Save your breath, that one's a fake," she said. "Rhilio's mercy, one sly fellow, this Linder."

Dumbfounded, the assassin looked at the dagger, then back at her.

"Don't break it though," she added, "it may be fake, but cost us a fortune to have it forged all the same."

Spittle flew out of his mouth as Dion shouted, eyes wide and veins protruding on his forehead, "the Guild will come after you-- all of you, crows will feast on your innards, you hear me?"

Hardly paying heed to his words, Karles took a few steps back, arms outstretched and addressing the soldiers. "Answer me, protectors of Kinallen, is this proof enough for you? Or do you demand more?"

Answer, they did. With crossbow quarrels rather than words.

"Careful though. We need him alive," was Klo's brief command.

Yet there was still one thing weapons could not cut through.

In a blur of movement, Dion leapt off his horse, pale hands spread flat on the ground before him. A wave of sorcery emanated from him, clearing the snow off the ground and throwing the soldiers backward; all except Karles. A circle of blinding white light now enclosed him and Dion. Time seemed to slow down, the flecks of snow halted their descent. What is this sorcery?

Over the alarmed shouts of the soldiers, one voice reached Karles, loud and clear and piercing.

"He's raising a Death Ring, Karles!" Farren shrieked, "step out, now!"

Dion smiled up at him.

"If I'm going down, so are you," the assassin said. "So are you."

✦✧✦✧

Footnote:

Death Ring: A practice among Midaelian wizards (and other magic users) in which they cast a sorcerous boundary around themselves during a duel. Neither can step out until the other is dead and the duel is won. The boundary would retract over time, and kill both in a lethal explosion, if they do not act fast. How the boundary works is yet unknown to mortalkind. Mentioned in chapter 1.

From here originates the proverb : 'A Death Ring situation' which means a situation or a decision one cannot back out from.