When the party returned from the river, frost still clinging to cloaks and lashes, the villagers gathered quickly. The Ice Mephits were gone. The river, while frozen, lay quiet once more. There were no cheers—just long, relieved breaths. Gratitude was offered plainly and honestly. Husavik had little to spare, but what warmth they could give, they did: a hot meal, a roof, and a night free from fear.

At dawn, the road called again.

The two-day trek back to Mistvale passed in rare peace. No ambushes. No howling wind. Just snow crunching underfoot, quiet conversation, and the strange comfort of travelling without the world trying to kill them for once. The Northlands opened gently around them, and for a brief stretch of time, it felt almost like rest.

Mistvale welcomed them back with the familiar scent of hearth smoke and turned earth.

Lyra’s house was alive with motion when they arrived—Zaryth directing, Dandadan carrying armfuls of clutter, Lyra herself sorting what little she intended to take. She greeted them with a tired smile and simple certainty.

“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ll come with you back to the city.”

The house told a different story. Too much remained. Too many things stayed where they had always been.

Zaryth spoke before anyone else could. She would stay. The Northlands still needed a Lady Brightglade, someone to stand watch while Lyra returned south. It was said without drama, but the weight of it settled heavily all the same. Thanks were given. Farewells made. And with that, the road turned south.

Six days later, Ulaa’s Wall rose before them once more.

With Dandadan guiding them safely through and the Borglin threat finally broken, the mountains felt different this time. Still vast. Still cold. But no longer hostile. The party had the rare chance to admire the jagged peaks and pale skies instead of merely surviving them.

Four days beyond the Wall, Angelton came into view.

Tosk made straight for the smokehouse. Hobrin Wesk took the drybox carefully, checking the seal before opening it in front of them all. Inside lay a locket, a few letters, and small personal effects. Wesk said nothing at first. Then he spoke of his daughter, Nellie—posted to Wyrmspath Fort, never returned. He had accepted the worst and carried on.

True to his word, he handed over five heavy parcels of boar jerky, each weighing fifty pounds.

With food secured, the long road home stretched ahead.

Twenty-two days passed as the party made their way back to New Albion. When the city finally rose before them, Lyra fell quiet. Tent Town had grown—larger, looser, and far less guarded than she remembered. She frowned at the sight and muttered that Lady Brightglade might need to spend more time out here.

At the checkpoint, Lyra produced her own ticket. The guard glanced at it, then smiled.

“Welcome back.”

The Tavern With No Name greeted them with open arms and loud relief. Sweetz nearly vibrated with joy at the sight of them, the trip having taken nearly three months in total. He’d kept the place running, dusted their rooms weekly, and barely resisted puffing himself up when introduced to Lyra. The act lasted seconds before he folded completely, welcoming her in and offering a drink.

They drank late into the night.

The next morning came quietly.

Lyra hugged Erisa fiercely, then—carefully, with help—hugged Guardian too. She told them she was going home, promised she would see them soon, and meant it. when asked where Lyra would stay, she produced a key. Her old house. South Lower General District. Now that she was back—and Zaryth held the North—she would reclaim it.

And with that, life resumed.

The party returned to their routines with new purpose: Morlatha still waited. Their mercenary licence still lay out of reach. Strength would be needed for what came next.

So they began to train.

What had begun as a skirmish became a grinding war of attrition as Ice Mephits continued to claw their way up from the black water below. They swarmed in shrieking clusters, circling and diving, their jagged forms bursting apart in flashes of killing cold the moment they were struck down. Tobias and Tosk bore the brunt of it, standing firm on the cracking ice as frost bloomed across their armor and fur.

Tosk, still towering in his giant form, became a beacon for the creatures’ fury. They harried him relentlessly, slashing and shrieking, their blows light on their own but deadly in accumulation. Each icy detonation rattled his massive frame, numbing limbs and stealing breath. Tobias stayed close, shield and blade moving in constant motion, intercepting strikes meant for his companion and taking others head-on as the cold seeped deeper with every passing moment.

The ice groaned beneath them.

More Mephits burst free as the frozen surface split wider, fractures racing outward like veins of glass. On the riverbank, the others fought to keep space between themselves and the chaos, firing into the melee while watching the ground warily for signs of collapse.

One Mephit peeled away from the swarm, drifting low toward Guardian and Eldrin. It inhaled sharply, chest frosting over, then exhaled a blast of killing cold. The air crystallised mid-flight, breath turning to pain. Guardian staggered back as Eldrin cursed sharply, boots sliding across ice-slick stone. They moved without speaking—steel flashing as they closed in together. The Mephit shattered beneath their blades, and Guardian vanished in a blink of magic, reappearing several paces away just as the creature’s death burst tore through the space he had occupied moments before.

Then the river itself screamed.

The ground shook violently as enormous cracks tore through the ice, splitting the battlefield apart. Jagged icicles erupted from the riverbanks, spearing upward with lethal force. Erisa, Thomas, Guardian, and Eldrin leapt forward onto the frozen river to avoid being impaled, boots skidding as the surface buckled beneath them.

From the fragments of shattered Mephits, something new began to form.

Ice shards spiralled together, drawn by an unseen force, fusing into a towering shape of frozen malice. A Greater Ice Mephit rose from the river, its body a jagged mass of compacted frost and translucent ice, glowing faintly from within as it let out a thunderous, echoing shriek.

It dove.

The creature vanished beneath the water in a heartbeat, re-emerging from a fresh裂 directly beside Tobias. Claws of solid ice raked toward him in a blur of motion. Tobias barely managed to turn the blows aside, sparks and shards flying as steel met frozen talons. The impact sent him skidding backward across the ice, boots carving deep grooves as he fought to keep his footing.

Tosk turned to follow—but the swarm would not let him go. Smaller Mephits clung to him, hacking and screeching, forcing him to focus on keeping them at bay while Tobias and the others took on the greater threat.

Ranged attacks hammered into the Greater Mephit. Arrows cracked against its hardened shell. Bolts and spells struck true, but many glanced off, partially deflected by the creature’s thick, icy carapace. Still, the impacts began to tell, fissures spiderwebbing across its surface.

Wounded, the Greater Mephit plunged back into the river.

It erupted again from the ice between the ranged fighters, its body glowing a brilliant, terrible blue. Frost spiralled violently around it, building into a roaring vortex before exploding outward in a freezing torrent. The blast slammed into Thomas, Erisa, Guardian, and Eldrin all at once, hurling them back as ice scoured armor and flesh alike.

As the frost settled, Erisa forced herself upright, vision swimming. She raised her crossbow with shaking hands, eyes narrowing as she spotted a flaw—a chipped fracture in the Mephit’s armour where the ice had already weakened. She fired.

The bolt struck true.

The hardened shell shattered apart in a spray of ice, exposing the creature’s softer, snow-packed core beneath. A howl tore from the Greater Mephit as the party surged forward, redoubling their assault.

Still the smaller Mephits swarmed.

Tobias and Tosk were slowing now, damage finally catching up with them. Tosk drew deep on his reserves, forcing breath back into frozen lungs, while Tobias laid a glowing hand against his own armour, warmth spreading outward—his magic bolstered by the enchanted mitten, the cold’s bite dulled at last.

They exchanged a look.

Then they charged.

Together they barreled toward the Greater Mephit, ignoring the shrieks behind them as smaller Mephits clawed at their backs. Broken ice shattered underfoot as they plunged through slush and freezing water, muscles screaming in protest as the cold tried to seize them whole.

A smaller Mephit darted in to strike at Tosk—but the great mammoth raised a wall of swirling mist in an instinctive sweep of his trunk. The creature’s attack went wide, its frozen claws instead carving into the Greater Mephit’s exposed core.

That was enough.

The Greater Mephit detonated in a catastrophic explosion of cold and shrapnel. Icicles and frost blasted outward in every direction. Eldrin was caught full-on by the blast and thrown hard onto the ice, his body going limp as darkness claimed him.

Silence followed—brief, fragile.

Then the party moved as one.

Tosk and the others finished off the remaining Mephits with brutal efficiency, cutting down the last of the swarm as Tobias dropped to Eldrin’s side, magic flowing once more. Breath returned. Eyes opened. Eldrin gasped, dragged back from the edge by sheer force of will and divine aid.

As the final Mephit fell, the battlefield changed.

Shards of shattered ice began to tremble, vibrating softly before sliding back toward the river as if drawn by an unseen tide. The cracks in the ice sealed themselves, frost knitting back together into a solid surface. Along the banks, the towering icicles melted away with a hiss, collapsing into harmless slush.

The air warmed—just slightly.

Whatever had driven the Mephits to madness had passed. The river lay still once more, frozen, but calm.

No words were spoken as Tobias, Zaryth, Tosk, Eldrin, and Thomas eased themselves away from Lyra’s home, instinctively understanding that this was not a moment meant for all of them.

The longhouse down the way was already alive with low voices and clinking cups, the warmth of firelight spilling out into the cold street. It did not take much encouragement for the night to drift into drink and distraction. Laughter rose and fell, stories half-told and retold, but even as tankards were raised, none of them truly left their thoughts behind.

Inside the small house, the fire burned low, casting long shadows across the walls.

Erisa sat opposite her mother, hands wrapped tight around a cup that had long since begun to cool. Her shoulders were tense, as though bracing herself for words she had waited years to hear and feared just as long. Guardian stayed close, present in every way that mattered, even if Lyra still had to look past him to where he stood. He listened, silent, letting Erisa’s questions lead where his own emotions threatened to overwhelm.

“Please,” Erisa said softly, breaking the quiet. “Tell me again. Why you left.”

Lyra closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath. When she opened them, the years seemed heavier somehow, settling into the lines of her face. “I had a dream,” she said at last. “One that felt… clearer than any I’ve ever known.” She spoke of a voice that came not with cruelty, but with certainty—cold, steady, and impossible to ignore. The hag’s bargain, it warned, would be more faithful to its wording than anyone had understood. Morlatha had promised a child—and the voice made it clear she would be cruelly precise about what that meant. Not a youth. Not someone grown. A child.

“If I stayed,” Lyra whispered, her hands tightening in her lap, “if I watched you grow… the dream said you would die as you came of age. That it would happen only if I stayed, that my presence would be the thing that sealed it.”

Her voice broke. “I couldn’t take that risk. Not even a sliver of it.” She bowed her head, a tear dropping into her cup. “So I left. And every step away from you felt like carving something out of myself. I told myself that pain was better than burying you.”

Erisa swallowed hard, blinking back tears of her own. “Is that why you ended up in New Albion?”

Lyra nodded. “Eventually. I kept moving. Running, if I’m honest. New Albion was the first place I stopped long enough to breathe, long enough to be Lady Brightglade again, instead of a woman in flight.” A faint, sad smile touched her lips at the memory. “I built something there. I helped people. For a while, it almost felt like a life.”

The smile faded. “But I found myself on the wrong side of someone who would not be ignored, and I knew what came next. So I ran again. That’s when I chose Zaryth to take up the mantle. Lady Brightglade needed to remain in the city, even if I could not.”

Time stretched, the fire popping softly as the weight of old choices sat between them. The crackle of the logs seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet. At last, the conversation turned, carefully, hesitantly, to Guardian.

He spoke through Erisa, choosing his words with care. Of the Feywild and its warped beauty. Of Morlatha’s dominion, suffocating and absolute. Of the year of terror after his escape, hunted, half-mad, never certain which shadow might reach for him next. He spoke of Orthod’s destruction, of watching something precious burn because he could not save it.

Lyra listened without interruption. Her hands clenched in her skirts, knuckles white, breath shallow as the story unfolded. More than once she looked as though she might speak, only to stop herself and listen on.

At one point, Erisa rummaged through her pack and produced a folded sketch. It showed Guardian as he was, a horned tiefling boy with sharp features softened by youth, charcoal lines struggling to capture the contrast between infernal blood and a child’s uncertain eyes. Lyra took it with shaking hands, tears finally spilling free as she traced the drawing with her thumb, memorising every line. She laughed weakly through them. “Well,” she murmured, voice breaking, “that does explain why no one realised you were twins. A human girl and a tiefling boy… no one would ever think to look twice.”

They talked until they were all exhausted, words growing slower, heavier as the night deepened. Lyra insisted they take her bed, waving away protest with a firmness that brooked no argument, and settled herself into a chair by the dying fire.

Morning brought the others back.

The house filled once more with voices as plans were laid bare over reheated tea and stale bread. Tobias spoke plainly, as he often did: Morlatha was no longer a distant shadow. Timberwood proved she was active in Phealafara. If the party had a purpose beyond survival, it was to find her, and end her.

Guardian hesitated. “She dominated a dragon,” he reminded them quietly. “We are not ready. Not yet.”

Erisa’s hands tightened in her lap. “And if we do?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “If we actually find her… and end this. What happens to us?”

Lyra’s expression softened, some of the fear easing from her face as she reached across the table. “She helped me have you,” she said simply, looking between them. “That’s all. She didn’t make you, and she doesn’t own you.” She shook her head. “Whatever hold Morlatha has, it isn’t your lives. If she dies… you don’t. You were never hers to take.”

The question of where to go next did not come easily.

They lingered over it, voices low, cups forgotten as the weight of choice settled in. Stay in the Northlands, where the wounds were fresh but the ground felt honest? Return to New Albion, where old ties and unfinished duties waited? No one rushed to speak. Even Tosk, usually quick with an opinion, stood quiet for once.

Lyra listened to it all, gaze distant. At last she exhaled, a decision settling into her bones. “I’ll come with you,” she said, not loudly, but firmly enough that it cut through the room. A tired smile touched her lips. “I’ve run enough. If there’s a road ahead, I’d rather walk it than keep looking over my shoulder.”

The moment stretched, then a sudden flutter of wings broke it.

A raven alighted on the windowsill, black feathers stark against the frost-silvered glass. It cocked its head, unbothered by the room’s attention. A small note was bound to its leg. Lyra frowned, untying it with careful fingers, and read in silence before passing it to Erisa.

Husavik, a fishing town, two days’ travel. Ice Mephits haunting the river. Each day, the water froze solid again no matter how often the villagers cut through the ice. They had not been attacked, yet, but without fish, hunger loomed just as deadly.

“A small job,” Lyra said after a moment, more hopeful than convinced. “Four days there and back, at most.” She looked around the table. “If you take it, I’ll start packing what little I have left. Zaryth and Dandadan can stay here, make sure things don’t fall apart while I’m gone.”

They folded the letter away, gathered their gear, and by midday were back on the road once more, northward, toward frozen waters, cracking ice, and whatever waited beneath it.

The road to Husavik was cold, but mercifully kind.

Snow lay thick along the path, crunching beneath boots, hooves, and wagon wheels alike, but the way itself remained clear enough to travel without hardship. With lighter packs and well‑rested beasts, the party made good time, breath steaming in steady plumes as the Northlands stretched wide and pale around them. The cold gnawed constantly, biting fingers and numbing cheeks, yet it lacked the brutal, punishing cruelty of the mountains they had left behind. This was the sort of cold that endured rather than attacked—persistent, patient, and wearying in its own way.

Husavik revealed itself slowly.

Low wooden buildings clustered along the frozen riverbank, their timbers darkened by age and frost. Smoke rose thin and weak from chimneys that burned more out of necessity than comfort. Villagers moved through the streets with stiff, economical motions, wrapped head to toe in furs and wool, conserving warmth and energy alike. Their voices were muted, conversations short and practical. There was no panic here—only worry, and the dull exhaustion of people who had been enduring the same problem day after day with no end in sight.

When the party approached and spoke Lady Brightglade’s name, faces turned with cautious hope. Doors opened a little wider. People gathered, careful not to crowd. Words spilled quickly after that, overlapping as the story came out in fragments. Ice Mephits, they said. For nearly two weeks now. They came from upstream, gliding over the river’s surface like mocking spirits, laughing as they froze solid whatever water the villagers managed to break open. No one had been killed—yet—but frostbite had already claimed one fisherman’s foot, and others bore white scars on fingers and ears. Food was running low. The autumn harvest had been poor, and the river was meant to carry them through the worst of winter.

With little more to be gained from standing and talking, the party turned south, following the river against its sluggish, frozen flow.

About an hour later, the sound reached them first—a faint, crystalline chiming, like glass bells stirred by an unseen hand. It set teeth on edge. Ahead, the ice glittered unnaturally, catching the light in sharp, blinding flashes. Four Ice Mephits drifted lazily across the frozen river, their jagged bodies reflecting the pale sky as they circled and glided, utterly unbothered by the world around them.

The party took position along the bank, spreading out instinctively.

Tobias stepped forward alone, boots crunching as he set foot on the ice. The frozen surface creaked beneath his weight but held. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the Mephits turned as one, hollow eyes locking onto him.

They attacked.

Frosty shrieks tore through the air as the creatures surged forward, skimming low across the ice. The party on the bank opened fire at once—arrows, bolts, and crackling magic streaking across the frozen river—while Tobias and Tosk met the charge head‑on. Steel rang against ice‑hard claws. Frost shattered under heavy blows. When the first Mephit fell, it burst apart in a violent bloom of cold, shards spraying outward with numbing force that coated armor and skin alike.

The ice beneath them groaned in protest.

As the third Mephit exploded, the river cracked open with a sharp report, the sound echoing down the frozen banks. Dark water churned below as jagged fractures spread outward. From the widening breaks, more Mephits clawed their way up, dragging themselves free of the river as though born from it, their numbers growing as the ice failed beneath the strain of battle.

Even so, the fight never truly turned against the party.

Tobias and Tosk held the line on the ice, bracing themselves against repeated icy detonations, armor frosting over with each blast until they looked half‑entombed. Each explosion rattled bones and stole breath, yet they pressed on regardless. On the bank, the others adjusted quickly as rays of cold lanced out toward them and thick fog clouds rolled across the shoreline, swallowing sight and sound alike. They spread out, calling warnings to one another, firing through the haze as best they could.

Again and again, the ice cracked.

More Mephits rose from below, shrieking and swirling, the river itself seeming to vomit them forth as the battle raged on. Frost clung to lashes and brows, fog rolled and twisted in the air, and the frozen surface splintered underfoot, threatening to give way at any moment.

And still the fight continued.

After the violence, after the roar of the Alpha Bugbear and the thunder of collapsing bodies, Wyrmspath’s underbelly settled into an uneasy quiet. The river continued its endless babble, water slapping stone as if nothing at all had happened. Steal Team 6 slumped where they stood or leaned against crates and cavern walls, armour dented, cloaks torn, breath coming in heavy, steaming pulls. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Eventually, Tobias broke the silence with a weary breath. “Let’s… take a minute.”

They did.

When the shaking in their hands eased and the ringing in their ears faded, they turned to the practical matters of survival. Thomas and Erisa began searching through nearby crates and scattered supplies, finding small stashes tucked away, nothing grand, but enough to feel like a reward earned rather than taken. Guardian lingered near the river, eyes tracking the dark water, while Dandadan hovered close at his shoulder, watching him with open fascination.

“I go with you,” the Borglin offered suddenly, nodding toward the ladder that led back up. “He cool, I wanna hang with him.” His eyes flicked back to Guardian.

After a brief exchange of glances, Tobias agreed. Thomas joined them, and the three made their way back toward the surface to secure the horses and check the fort above.

Tosk, meanwhile, wandered into the chamber the Alpha Bugbear had emerged from. It was unmistakably a bedroom, furs layered thick across a broad pallet, trophies nailed to the walls, the sharp smell of sweat and iron lingering in the air. He rummaged with enthusiasm, uncovering small sacks heavy with coin and gems, a handful of well-kept weapons, a heavy leather belt reinforced with metal plates, and a fur-lined cloak still warm from recent use.

Then he opened the wardrobe.

Behind hanging furs and rough-spun garments sat a narrow, hidden door; locked, reinforced, and clearly not meant to be found. Tosk squinted at it, shrugged, and kicked.

The door held.

The explosion did not.

A concussive bang filled the room as a grenade dropped and detonated at his feet. Smoke and sparks swallowed the doorway, and when they cleared, Tosk staggered back out into the cavern, fur singed, armour blackened, expression offended more than injured.

“Door trapped,” he announced flatly. “Thomas. Help.”

Thomas returned below ground just in time to kneel beside the lock. With careful hands and a muttered curse, he disarmed the second trigger and eased the door open.

Beyond lay a hidden storeroom.

Iron-bound chests and wooden crates filled the space, everything packed tight and organised with military care. They opened them one by one, revealing coin, potions, lamp oil, alchemical supplies, weapons wrapped and oiled, armour stacked neatly, and tools meant for repair and trade. It was a hoard built for war and they stripped it down to what they could reasonably carry.

By the time they finished, the cavern felt emptier. Safer.

Tosk claimed the Alpha Bugbear’s bed without ceremony and fell asleep almost instantly.

Above ground, Tobias and Guardian led the animals into the fort’s stables. The space bore the scars of worg habitation, scratched walls, chewed beams, the lingering stench of wet fur, but it was serviceable for a single night. They closed the front gates and, with a shared effort, Tobias lifted the heavy crossbeam into place, barring it securely.

Then they remembered the gap in the rear wall.

With the help of a groggy, soot-streaked Tosk, they dragged a broken cart into position and patched the breach as best they could, wedging timbers and debris until it would at least slow anything trying to force its way in.

Satisfied, for now, they returned below.

Despite the newfound sense of safety, they still kept watch.

Tobias’ shift passed in silence. Guardian’s was much the same, save for the thunderous trumpet-snores echoing from Tosk’s corner of the cavern.

Erisa’s watch was broken only once, when Dandadan startled her by appearing at her side. “Frogs are sleeping,” he whispered eagerly. “We could swim across. There is treasure.”

Erisa studied him for a long moment before shaking her head. “Not now. Not without everyone awake.”

Dandadan nodded, seemingly satisfied, and wandered off to curl up again. Erisa resumed her watch, eyes never fully leaving the shadows.

Thomas’ shift ended the night. A distant, baneful howl drew him back to the caged wolf. He approached slowly, offering another scrap of meat. The wolf sniffed, then gently took it from his hand before curling back into itself to gnaw in peace.

“I’ll get you out,” Thomas murmured before returning to the others.

Morning came quietly.

The cavern stirred with the low murmur of waking breath, the river’s steady rush unchanged by the night’s violence. Packs were adjusted, wounds checked, and the faint stiffness of sleep worked from tired limbs. For a brief, fragile moment, the world felt almost peaceful.

Dandadan shattered it.

“There’s treasure,” the Borglin announced brightly, bouncing on his heels. “Across the water. I asked Pinky last night, when frogs were sleeping, but she wanted to wait.” He beamed at Erisa as though this were proof of good manners.

Erisa gave him a look that said she remembered the conversation rather differently.

The river churned between jagged banks, black and cold, its surface broken by slow, circling ripples. No frogs showed themselves now. Guardian studied the distance, then spoke up. “I can look. Just look.”

Before anyone could object, he stepped forward and vanished in a shimmer of arcane mist.

Guardian reappeared on the far bank in a narrow alcove carved into the stone. Lantern light glimmered off stacked crates, barrels, and carefully wrapped bundles. This wasn’t a forgotten cache—it was an organised reserve.

He moved quickly, cataloguing what he saw: coin piled in small chests, silver ingots stacked with care, potions stoppered and sealed. A bundle of fine parchment lay wrapped in oilcloth. Barrels of dried meat and crates of hardtack promised weeks of food. Trade goods; salt blocks, lamp oil, pitch, tar, filled the space with sharp, utilitarian scents. Racks along the wall held serviceable weapons and armour, all maintained, all ready.

And at the back of it all sat a mahogany drybox, its surface etched with fine silver engravings that caught the light like frost.

Guardian swallowed.

When he returned, reappearing in a puff of mist on the near bank, his report spilled out in a rush. The party listened in growing disbelief, then quiet calculation. Dead weight was discussed and discarded. Choices were made.

Guardian gathered what they could not afford to leave behind, filling a heavy chest until it groaned with the strain. He heaved. The chest lifted, barely, but it was enough. With a sharp intake of breath, he vanished again and reappeared moments later beside them, the chest thudding to the stone.

Tosk knelt immediately beside the drybox, hands reverent as he brushed snow and grime from the silver inlay. “This,” he said quietly. “This is the one.” The meat-smoker’s task, finally made real. Three hundred pounds of smoked meat awaited its return.

They divided the spoils with care, stacks of coin clinking softly, supplies sorted and repacked. As they worked, Tosk couldn’t help himself. He paced the cavern, cloak swirling dramatically behind him, posing atop crates and stones like a conquering hero.

Then he paused.

A subtle warmth settled over his shoulders. The cloak seemed to settle too, hugging him just a little closer. Tosk blinked, then straightened, chest puffing out.

“Oho,” he rumbled. “Yes. This feels correct.”

With packs heavy and spirits lighter, they gathered their beasts of burden and prepared to move on. Dandadan took his place at the front, eager and proud to guide them onward.

They left Wyrmspath Fort behind without ceremony.

Two days later, the mountains finally began to loosen their grip. Snow thinned. Rock gave way to patches of stubborn grass. Trees returned, their dark branches swaying gently in the open air. Ulaa’s Wall stood behind them now, its frozen teeth dulled by distance.

The Northlands spread out ahead.

And for the first time in days, the road felt wide again.

For two days they travelled beneath thinning snow, the air losing its bite inch by inch. Rock gave way to scrub, scrub to stubborn grass pushing through frost-hardened soil. The path widened, the sky opened, and the weight that had pressed on their shoulders since Ulaa’s Wall began, at last, to ease. Behind them, the mountains stood silent and unmoved; ahead, the land breathed again.

Dandadan proved a surprisingly competent guide. He knew where the wind cut hardest, where snow liked to drift, where old paths still held firm beneath ice and time. He chatted constantly, about tunnels, about frogs, about treasure that definitely existed elsewhere too, until someone told him to keep quiet, at which point he did… for a while.

Four days later, the road carried them into a small village nestled among low hills and open pasture. Halsaland was little more than ten buildings clustered around a broad, smoke-darkened longhouse, but laughter and music spilled out into the cold air. Torches burned bright, and the smell of roasting meat drifted across the green.

They had arrived on the Feast of Year’s End.

The villagers welcomed them without hesitation. Food was pressed into their hands, cups filled and refilled, benches dragged closer to make room. When Tobias offered coin for the night, the village chief waved it away with a smile. “This is a time of celebration,” he said. “Not of commerce.” They insisted anyway, leaving five gold on the table. The chief accepted it only with a nod, as though indulging them.

As the night wore on, the chief studied the group more closely. His gaze lingered on Erisa. “You’re from up north,” he said at last. “Mistvale, yes?”

Erisa blinked. “I’m not from there. But I am going up there to see someone”

He chuckled softly. “Ah right, your mother maybe? You look just like someone from there.”

Erisa’s breath caught, she nodded.

“Good woman,” the chief continued. “Say hello to Lyra for me when you arrive.”

Something warm and bright settled in Erisa’s chest at the sound of her mother’s name, so close now she could almost feel it. For the rest of the evening, her smile came easier, laughter closer to the surface.

They slept that night surrounded by song and firelight, the kind of rest that comes only when danger feels far away.

They slept that night surrounded by song and firelight, the kind of rest that comes only when danger feels far away.

When they finally set out again, the road north felt different beneath their feet, less a trial to endure, more a path inviting them onward. Mistvale lay ahead now, close enough to name, close enough to feel.

Erisa walked with her gaze fixed on the horizon, heart light and hammering all at once. Whatever waited for them there, whatever answers or wounds or truths, they would face it together.

And so Steal Team 6 continued on, leaving Halsaland’s laughter behind as the road carried them toward the moment that had been nine years in the making.

Mistvale lay quiet beneath a pale northern sky, the kind of quiet that felt earned rather than empty, yet Erisa felt it tighten in her chest, a fragile mix of hope and dread settling as heavily as the frost on the rooftops.

The village was small, but clearly lived-in: sturdy timber homes clustered close together against the cold, their roofs heavy with white. Somewhere down the lane, a smith’s hammer rang in a slow, steady rhythm, each strike echoing softly between the buildings. A nearby smokehouse breathed out a thin ribbon of grey, carrying the comforting scent of salt, woodsmoke, and curing meat. After days of wind-scoured passes and blood-wet stone, the stillness felt almost unreal, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Steal Team 6 walked the narrow paths slowly, voices lowered without thinking, afraid to disturb something fragile.

They had not gone far when Erisa stopped dead.

A woman knelt in a modest garden outside one of the houses, brushing frost from the leaves of winter-hardy plants with bare hands already reddened by the cold. She straightened at the sound of footsteps, squinting slightly in the thin northern light.

She was Erisa’s mirror.

A little taller, perhaps. Older, certainly. Time had traced its marks in fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Long blonde hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands already threaded with grey. But the eyes—the shape of them, the way they caught the light, the familiar set of her mouth when she frowned in concentration, were unmistakable.

“Mum!”

Erisa ran.

The woman looked up in confusion that turned to shock, then to recognition so sharp it stole the breath from her lungs. Tears welled as Erisa closed the distance, and they collided in a fierce embrace, arms locking around one another as though the years between them might tear them apart if they loosened their grip even for a moment.

Lyra laughed and sobbed at the same time, clutching Erisa’s face between her hands as if afraid she might vanish. “My daughter,” she breathed, voice breaking. “You’re here. I—I can’t believe it. Look at you…” She pulled Erisa close again, pressing her forehead to hers. “I dreamed of this. I dreamed of you finding me.”

Lyra let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I missed you,” she choked, the words tumbling out between breaths. “I missed you so much. Every winter, every birthday… I kept wondering if you were warm, if you were safe.” She clutched at Erisa’s coat, pressing her face into her daughter’s shoulder. “I never stopped missing you.”

“Why did you leave me?” Erisa sobbed, the words breaking against her mother’s shoulder, nine years of hurt spilling out all at once.

Lyra held her tight, fingers digging into the fabric of her coat as if anchoring herself to something real. Her hands trembled. “I had to,” she whispered, voice raw. “I had to… to keep you safe.”

The rest of the party approached more cautiously, hanging back to give the moment its space. Lyra wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand and looked up again, her gaze moving from face to face until it settled on Zaryth. For a heartbeat, she simply stared.

“Zaryth,” Lyra breathed, relief softening her voice. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Recognition sparked—teacher and apprentice, long parted by time and distance. Lyra smiled through tears and stepped forward to greet her, pride and relief mingling in her expression. She nodded to the others in turn and gestured toward the house. “Come inside,” she said gently. “Please. I’ll… I’ll answer what I can.”

She led them into her home, modest and warmly kept, the sort of place shaped by routine rather than wealth. It felt painfully reminiscent of another life left behind, Jarren’s Outpost, with its simple comforts and stubborn resilience. Cups were set out around the table, steam curling upward as Lyra poured, the kettle rattling softly in her unsteady hands.

Everyone received a cup.

Except Tosk and Guardian.

Tosk planted himself squarely in the doorway instead, broad frame blocking it entirely, arms folded with absolute seriousness. “To stop her running away again,” he explained, as though stating an obvious fact.

Erisa sat opposite her mother, shoulders tight, hands shaking just slightly as she wrapped them around the warmth of the cup. She drew in a breath. “Why?” she asked again, the question she had carried for nine years pressed into a single word. “Why did people call me a hag child?”

Lyra’s face tightened. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. “Because…” Her voice faltered. She took a breath, steadying herself. “Because I made a deal with one.”

The room stilled.

She spoke of desperation—of years without children, of grief that hollowed her and Erisa’s father alike. She spoke of nights spent bargaining with the gods, of mornings waking to the same ache, hope thinning a little more each day. She told of an old woman who came to town with promises, who offered hope when hope was already running thin. Only later did she reveal herself as a hag, once the bargain had already taken root.

The terms were cruel in their simplicity: twins would be conceived. One child would belong to the hag, taken away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Nine months later, Lyra gave birth to a boy.

Before his first breath could escape his lungs, the wind swept through the room, snuffing out the lamps—and when the light returned, he was gone.

Moments later, a second child was born.

Erisa.

“And why did everyone know?” Erisa asked, voice raw, eyes never leaving her mother’s face.

Lyra’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Because Morlatha is a scheming bitch.”

The name slammed into everyone like a hammer.

Guardian reacted instantly—anger, disbelief, words tumbling out in a rush as memories and rage collided—but Lyra did not respond. At first, he assumed it was shock, or grief, or simple rudeness. He tried again, softer this time, then louder, irritation creeping into his voice. Still nothing.

An uneasy feeling began to coil in his stomach.

He glanced to the others, half-expecting a look of apology or explanation, but they were focused on Lyra and Erisa, on the story spilling out across the table. Guardian shifted in his seat, then stood, clearing his throat pointedly.

“Lyra?” he said again, stepping closer.

She did not look up.

Guardian frowned and waved a hand in front of her face, close enough to feel the warmth from her breath. Still nothing. The room began to quiet as the others noticed his movement, confusion spreading from one face to the next.

Erisa frowned, following Guardian’s gaze. “He’s… Guardian’s trying to ask you something,” she said carefully, glancing between them. Lyra didn’t look at Guardian—she looked at the others instead.

Lyra’s gaze slid past Guardian entirely, settling instead on Tosk, then Eldrin, then Thomas. “Are… are you Guardian?” she asked uncertainly, a flicker of confusion and worry creeping into her voice. Her eyes searched their faces, not unkind, but frightened. “Is this some kind of game? Did you come all this way to play a joke on me? Or… or are you still angry with me?”

Erisa, shaking, slid her cup slowly across the table into Guardian’s hands. Her fingers lingered for a heartbeat, knuckles white, as if afraid to let go. “He’s right here,” she said softly, her voice tight with emotion. “Mum… he’s been here the whole time.”

Lyra saw only a floating mug “I don’t see or hear anyone…”.

The colour drained from her face. Her gaze unfocused, drifting to some distant point only she could see. “She said… she said I would never see or hear him,” Lyra whispered. “I thought she meant she would take him away… I didn’t understand.” Her voice broke. “Oh Asire. I’m so sorry.”

She folded in on herself, sobbing into her hands.

Tobias rose quietly. He moved with deliberate care, placing one hand over Lyra’s trembling fingers, then reaching out with the other for Guardian’s. Slowly, gently, he guided them together.

Lyra gasped as her hands closed around something solid—warm, real—the porcelain cup rattling softly on the table as her breath caught. She pulled Guardian into a fierce embrace, clinging to him as though afraid the world might steal him away again.

“My son.”

Above them, Thomas scrambled up the watchtower, boots slipping on frost-slick wood, fingers numb as he hauled himself higher. From the vantage point, the battlefield snapped into brutal clarity. He braced, steadied his breathing, and fired. The shot cracked like thunder across the yard and struck the bugbear Tosk was carrying squarely in the head. The creature went limp at once, its massive frame slackening mid-swing. Tosk barely broke stride—he roared and swung the corpse like a grotesque hammer, smashing another Borglin into the ground with bone-shattering force.

Along the ramparts, Guardian’s eldritch power flared, violet light tearing through the gloom. One Borglin was caught full in the blast and hurled bodily from the wall, spinning skyward for a heart-stopping moment before crashing lifeless into the snow beyond the fort, limbs bent at impossible angles.

Zaryth broke from Tobias’ side just long enough to clear his flank, cutting down the remaining Borglins that pressed him. She pivoted back toward the bugbear they faced, eyes hard, and together they pressed it without mercy. Steel rang, breath steamed, and with a final, brutal exchange, Zaryth struck true. The beast staggered and collapsed, shaking the ground as it fell.

The yard fell into a tense, unnatural hush, broken only by the whistle of wind through shattered timbers and the laboured breathing of the living. Eldrin’s arrow sang once more, streaking through the cold air to drop the last visible Borglin as it tried to flee across the yard, its body skidding to a halt in the snow.

Tosk, now returned to his normal size, stomped toward a nearby shack where one of the Borglins had vanished during the fighting. He tore the door open with a splintering crack—only to find the room empty. Letting out a frustrated snort, he stormed back out, trunk lashing.

Eldrin leaned in to take a closer look, eyes scanning the cramped space. He peeled back a threadbare rug, revealing a hatch set into the floor, half-hidden and hastily concealed. A glance passed between the party. Weapons were readied, ropes tightened, and they gathered themselves—along with their bound Borglin prisoner—before descending into the darkness below.

Beneath the fort, the air turned damp and stale, thick with the scent of mould and old smoke, though noticeably warmer than the killing cold above. The tunnel sloped downward into a rough-hewn cavern lit by guttering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows across stone walls. Borglins waited for them there, weapons raised, eyes gleaming in the half-light.

The fight was brief but chaotic. Tables were overturned, benches shattered, boots skidding across slick stone as the party fought with acrobatic desperation. Erisa vaulted over obstacles, Eldrin loosed arrows at arm’s length, and steel rang in tight quarters. The Borglins were cut down quickly, leaving only echoing breath, dripping water, and the coppery scent of blood.

Their captive finally spoke more freely once the dust settled, naming himself Dandadan. He eyed Guardian with open admiration, head cocked. “You throw magic good,” he said earnestly, nodding as if offering genuine praise.

Further in, Thomas spotted a caged wolf, ribs visible beneath its matted fur. It growled low, hackles raised, but hunger dulled its aggression. A tossed chunk of meat skidded across the stone. The wolf snapped it up and retreated, watching them with wary, intelligent eyes.

Tosk, meanwhile, pulled a rib of indeterminate origin from a nearby table and began gnawing on it contentedly, utterly unfazed by the carnage around him.

They pressed on, deeper into the cavern, and soon found more Borglins taunting a massive rat, jabbing at it with sticks and laughing. The rat, however, ignored them entirely, fixing its beady gaze squarely on Tosk as Steal Team 6 dispatched its tormentors. As Tosk approached, the rat abruptly turned and bolted through a hole in the cavern wall, vanishing into darkness.

With a triumphant rumble, Tosk produced a mouse from his fur—Joturn—and sent it scurrying after the fleeing rat. Minutes passed in awkward, increasingly uncomfortable silence. Guardian slowly realised that Joturn was neither familiar nor trained animal, but simply… a mouse. When Joturn eventually returned, Tosk tucked it back into his fur as if nothing were amiss. The rest of the party, thoroughly unimpressed, wordlessly moved on.

A rope bridge soon stretched before them, swaying slightly over a deep chasm studded with jagged rocks far below. One by one, they crossed with painstaking care, knuckles white, Thomas even securing a guide rope to steady the crossing. Once everyone was safely across, Tosk simply walked over without hesitation, earning a mix of stunned silence and embarrassed looks.

Beyond the bridge, they reached the bank of an underground river, black water rushing past with a low, relentless roar. Three Borglins stood at the water’s edge, hurling stones at something unseen beneath the surface, while a larger Borglin rummaged through crates on a raised platform nearby.

The party struck from concealment. Arrows and spells cut down the Borglins at the shore as Tobias and Tosk charged to finish the rest. The larger Borglin grabbed a spherical object and hurled it. It detonated in a thunderous blast, tearing into both of them and throwing snow, water, and debris into the air. The creature reached for another without hesitation.

A heavy bang echoed from the far side of the cavern. A door burst open, splintering, and an Alpha Bugbear stormed into view, its roar shaking dust from the ceiling. It crossed the ground in brutal strides and brought its morningstar down on Zaryth—once, then again. The Triton reeled, bloodied and suddenly in grave danger.

The party rushed to her side, instinctively clustering together. Inspired by the Bugbear’s roar, the Borglin hurled another explosive straight into their midst, the blast ripping through the group in a concussive wave.

Tosk roared and grew once more, muscles swelling as he lunged upward to seize the bomb-throwing Borglin. With a bellow, he hurled it into the river. Three massive frogs surged from the black water and dragged the screaming creature under, the surface churning violently before going still.

All eyes turned to the Alpha Bugbear.

The creature loomed over them, chest heaving, matted fur slick with blood and meltwater. Its roar echoed through the cavern, raw and furious, as it hefted its morningstar once more, daring them to come closer. The air felt thick, every heartbeat loud in their ears.

Guardian blinked across the battlefield in sharp flashes of magic, appearing beside fallen allies just long enough to pour healing light into torn flesh before vanishing again. Each reappearance left frost swirling in his wake. Sweat beaded on his brow as he pushed himself harder, keeping the party standing through sheer force of will.

Tobias stepped forward to meet the Alpha head-on, planting himself between the monster and the others. The morningstar crashed down again and again, each blow jarring his arms to the shoulder, teeth rattling with the impact. He gritted through the pain, turning strikes aside by inches, boots skidding across slick stone as sparks flew from steel on iron.

The Bugbear fought like a cornered beast, lashing out with brute strength and reckless fury. It bellowed in defiance even as fresh wounds opened across its body, refusing to yield ground, refusing to fall.

Then Tobias saw it—a momentary hitch in the creature’s stance, a fraction of a second where its guard dropped.

He surged forward.

With a decisive, brutal strike, his blade bit deep and severed the Bugbear’s left arm at the shoulder. The limb hit the stone with a wet, final thud. The Alpha staggered, dropped to its knees, and roared in agony, the sound raw and breaking.

Tobias did not hesitate. He raised his blade once more and brought it down in a clean, merciless arc, taking the creature’s head from its shoulders. The body slumped forward, lifeless, the echo of its roar fading into the cavern’s depths.

The cavern would have fallen silent, if not for the thrashing in the river behind them. Moments later, even that faded, leaving only dripping water, settling dust, and the echo of their breathing beneath Wyrmspath Fort.

Tobias stood apart, one hand pressed against his side where the bolt had struck. His voice was low, heavy with unease. “I didn’t want it to come to this,” he murmured. “They didn’t have to die.” His words hung in the cold air, a stark counterpoint to the reality around them.

Nearby, Tosk still held a limp Borglin in his trunk, the creature alive but resigned, its arms dangling uselessly. It no longer struggled, as though it had already accepted its fate. The others looked to Tosk, then to one another. There was only one question left: what to do with it?

They chose to ask.

“Why did you attack us?” Tobias demanded.

The Borglin blinked, dull-eyed but sharp-tongued. “We gave you a choice. Give us your stuff, or die. You didn’t give us your stuff, so you chose die.”

“That didn’t work out for you,” Tobias countered.

“Clearly not,” the Borglin muttered, shifting in Tosk’s grip.

“Where are the rest of you?” Erisa pressed.

“All over the place.”

“You’re going to take us to your main base,” Zaryth said firmly.

“Sure,” the Borglin replied, almost cheerfully. “I’ll be your guide. My fee is two teeth per day.”

Tosk’s fist answered faster than words, and the Borglin slumped unconscious. The group gathered in a tense circle, debating. Tobias and Guardian urged they let the creature go, while the rest voted to keep it as a prisoner. In the end, they bound it with rope and tossed it into the cart—Tosk’s new ‘pet,’ as the giant insisted.

When Tosk picked up the strange bag of teeth they’d found among the Borglins’ belongings, Guardian immediately paled. “Put it down—it could be a fae trap!” Trauma still coloured their every suspicion. Thomas, more grounded, reminded them that the Borglins back in Stormwatch Bay had used teeth as currency. The others wondered aloud why they valued teeth when perfectly good gold circulated nearby.

“Gold only has a value because you assign one to it,” the Borglin muttered faintly, still unconscious, though the words were clear enough to earn a startled silence. The party ignored the comment, choosing not to dwell on it.

With a sigh, Tobias crouched beside the prisoner. He pressed a glowing hand to the Borglin’s chest, channeling a sliver of divine energy. A single point of warmth flowed into the creature, its eyes fluttering open as the cart lurched forward. Bound, bruised, but alive, the Borglin’s journey with them had just begun.

The climb grew cruel. Snow came in fine, needling sheets; the wind scraped the skin from their cheeks and stole words straight from their mouths. The Borglin in the cart never stopped complaining. When not grumbling, he sang off-key marching songs that looped endlessly—Tosk, unhelpfully, learned the choruses and bellowed along.

Tobias walked beside the cart, jaw clenched, murmuring to himself between breaths. “I am a paladin of compassion. I am a paladin of compassion.” The Borglin joined in on the refrain until Tobias pinched the bridge of his nose and kept walking.

By late afternoon a dark line cut the white horizon: walls—tall, raw logs spiked together, a squat keep of timber crouched behind them. The captive perked up. “Oh that? That’s our base. Wyrmspath—or summit like that—” He drew a breath and threw his head back to shout, “HE—”

Tosk’s trunk filled the Borglin’s mouth with a whump. The shout melted into a muffled whine. Thomas leaned close, voice soft as a knife’s edge. “Quiet.” Tosk added, deadpan, “If you make noise, I blow.”

The Borglin nodded vigorously, eyes wide, understanding achieved.

They ghosted downslope toward the fort, hugging the snow-laden pines. Erisa slipped ahead and knelt behind a fallen log, fingers brushing the frost. “Smoof,” she whispered. The little not-quite-cat crawled from her hood, blinked, and flowed into the snow-shadow. Through Smoof’s eyes, the world tilted: timber grain up close, resin gleam, the breath of wolves pluming below.

Smoof scaled the wall, silent claws finding purchase. Inside, the yard was a smear of tramped snow and ash. Borglins tramped between watchfires; a bugbear in a patchwork fur vest sharpened a cleaver on a whetstone; two worgs paced, muzzles scarred and ears torn, glaring at everything. Along the back wall: two logs that made up the wall had fallen leaving a gap, an invitation.

The familiar scurried down and returned, paws light, tail flicking. Erisa’s sight snapped back into her own eyes. “Patrols inside, angry worgs, one bugbear. There’s a breach at the rear—big enough to slip through.”

They huddled. Tobias wanted words. “If we can talk, we should.”

Zaryth shook her head. “Talk about what? This place isn’t theirs. They’ll want our gear or our lives. We only want them to stop.”

“Then we go in the back,” Thomas said. “Hit hard, end it fast.”

Tobias met their eyes. “I try the gate. If it goes wrong, you move.”

“Front door and back door,” Eldrin agreed. They arranged themselves: Tobias, Guardian, and Zaryth to the front; Erisa, Tosk, Thomas, and Eldrin to the breach.

“Probably not a great idea to plan right outside the front door,” said the captive Borglin, somehow wriggled half-free of his bindings. Thomas blinked, cursed, and tied him again with a neat, unforgiving knot.

They split. Snow hissed. Breath smoked. Somewhere a raven called.

Tobias strode to the gate and rapped with the flat of his axe. A long moment. Then a helmeted head popped over the battlement, nose wrinkled. “Wot you want?”

“I wish to parle with your leader,” Tobias said, voice carrying.

The Borglin squinted. “Wot’s parle?”

“It means to talk.”

“Oh. No thanks. You can leave your stuff, or we take it.”

“Please,” Tobias said, steady. “We want to talk—peacefully—about what you’ve been doing to travellers.”

“Eh. We had no-one complain.”

“What about the people who used to be at this fort?”

“Well, they all dead. So no complainin’. Ha.”

Tobias’ jaw tightened. “Open this gate. Now.”

“’Okie.’”

The gate lurched outward. Three Borglins waited with bows half-drawn, and from the yard a worg launched forward, snow spraying from its claws. The first string sang; three arrows lifted into the pale light—arrowheads bright as teeth—arcing straight for Tobias as the worg’s snarl filled the gate.

The first arrow struck Tobias just below the ribs. His shout—half command, half pain—ripped across the yard and carried through the pines. On the far side of the fort, Team Backdoor heard the yell of pain, the signal to begin.

“Go!” Thomas barked.

They surged through the rear breach. Eldrin’s bow sang the instant his boots hit packed snow; an arrow snicked past a torch and planted in a Borglin’s shoulder. Thomas raised his pistol, braced, and fired—the crack slapped against the timber walls and sent a lookout scrambling for cover.

Ahead, the bugbear turned at the roar of Tosk expanding. The Luxodon doubled in shadow and muscle, snow blooming from under his feet as he charged. He met the bugbear like a fallen tree meeting a river, wrapped both arms and trunk around it, and lifted. The bugbear’s cleaver clattered to the yard.

Up the watchtower, Erisa moved like quicksilver—hand over hand, boot to rung—cresting the platform to find a Borglin gawping at the chaos. “Down you go,” she breathed, and hip-tossed him over the rail. He pinwheeled, hit hard, and lay coughing in a spider of cracked ice.

At the gate, steel and fur swirled. Zaryth stepped into the choke point with her shield high as a worg crashed against it, claws scrabbling for purchase. Tobias gritted through the pain, met a rushing Borglin with the haft of his axe, and shoved it back into its mates. Guardian snapped out a palm and loosed a line of crackling force—his eldritch blast caught a bowman square in the chest and hurled him from the balcony. Boards splintered; the Borglin vanished in a spray of snow.

“Now!” Tosk boomed. Still clutching the bugbear, he trudged to the low ledge that overlooked a hard-packed service lane—an eight‑foot drop to frozen earth. He stepped out into space. Gravity did the rest. The bugbear hit first with Tosk atop like a falling anvil, the impact buckling the ground and flattening an unlucky Borglin beneath with a wet crack. When the cloud of snow cleared, two bodies lay still and Tosk rose, the trident’s points catching the pale light.

Not to be outdone, Erisa took three quick steps along the rail and launched herself. She tucked, turned, and unfurled into a sweeping arc that would’ve made a showman proud—then crashed down on the prone Borglin she’d thrown, driving the breath and the fight out of him in a single, clean finish. She rolled to her feet, hair full of frost and grin feral.

Another gate within the yard banged open. More shapes spilled through—worgs low and fast, Borglins bristling with spears, and behind them a second bugbear with a hammered-iron gorget and a scar that split his lip. He pointed his cleaver at Tobias and roared.

“Front and centre!” Zaryth called, voice ringing. She met the first worg with a downward cut that lit the snow in radiant sparks. Tobias turned a spear aside with the back of his axe and used the momentum to crack a jaw. Guardian blinked from the gate to a balcony in a smear of shadow, then blasted the ladder to kindling as a pair of Borglins tried to climb.

Eldrin and Thomas kept moving—shoot, step, shoot—pinning lines of advance with feathers and thunder. One worg skidded and slid; a spear clattered from a numb hand. For a heartbeat the yard held its breath.

Then the scar-lipped bugbear lowered his shoulder and came on like an avalanche, and the fresh wave of raiders flooded the gap.

Snow, splinters, and steam rose together as the fight deepened—no parley now, only the hard arithmetic of who stood when the flurries settled.

Inside, the group shook off the snow and gathered at a corner table. Talk quickly turned to the haul of boar meat. Tosk, arms folded and jaw set, argued they should keep every scrap. Zaryth countered with measured calm, pointing out the danger of hauling such a large amount through the mountains—predators and opportunists alike would be drawn to it. Tobias suggested a compromise: sell most, keep some. Tosk, unconvinced, later slipped to the stables to fill his pack with loose cuts, muttering about waste.

For the second night in a row, Zaryth quietly covered the cost of their stay. Tobias, unusually solemn, promised to repay her. The party settled under thick quilts, the wind rattling the shutters as the dark silhouette of the mountains loomed beyond.

Morning broke cold and clear. Over steaming mugs of tea, they spoke with Marlenna, the half-elf innkeeper. Hearing their need to sell the meat, she immediately suggested, “Hobrin Wesk—runs the Brine & Ember Smokehouse. Best in the region. Tell him I sent you.”

Tobias and Guardian took the task. Hauling their cart through the thinning streets to the forest’s edge, they found the squat stone building with a chimney puffing steady plumes of fragrant smoke. The air was rich with the scent of spice, brine, and slow-burning wood.

Inside, their voices echoed until a stout dwarf emerged, his black beard streaked with silver, leather apron marked with years of labour. “Hobrin Wesk,” he said, wiping his hands. Tobias explained the boar attack and their surplus of meat. Hobrin inspected the cuts with a practiced eye before offering a flat, “Thirty-three gold for the lot.”

Tobias tried to include bones and hides, but Wesk shook his head. “Ain’t meat, lad. What’m I supposed to do with it?”

With little to negotiate, they accepted. Coins clinked into Tobias’s hand, the cold air outside biting sharper as they left, the smokehouse scent clinging to their cloaks.

Back at the inn, plans turned to mountain supplies. Zaryth pressed the need for provisions; Tosk waved her off. “We’re good for food—with all the meat.”

“I actually just sold all of it,” Tobias admitted.

Tosk froze, then stood without a word, stomping out into the snow. His boots left deep prints all the way to the smokehouse.

The door banged open as he entered. “You’ve bought stolen property,” he barked, “and I want it back!”

Wesk narrowed his eyes. “That so?” A stubborn exchange followed until Tosk claimed he could prove which cuts were his—they’d been stored with three-week-old potatoes. After a long stare, Wesk relented. “Fine. Take whatever touched your precious potatoes.” He weighed out a single pound.

Defeated, Tosk muttered it wouldn’t last the crossing. Wesk paused. “You’re crossing the mountains?”

“Not that it’s your business, but yeah,” Tosk said.

“There’s an old ranger’s cache at Wyrmpath Encampment,” Wesk told him. “Borglins overran it a few months back. If it’s still standing, there’s a silver-etched dry box under the supply hut floorboards. Bring it to me unopened, and I’ll give you the rest of your meat, cured proper. If not, I keep the pork.”

Tosk agreed. Wesk handed over several days’ worth of cured rations as a down payment.

When Tosk returned and explained, the meat debate flared again but soon burned out. By nightfall, they were on the road toward the black peaks. Under the stars, the mountains watching in silence, Tobias lay awake with an unsettled stomach and the weight of unspoken guilt.

The mountains greeted the party with biting wind and a white-knuckled chill that sank deep into their bones. In the dead of winter, the air was sharp enough to cut, and the snowdrifts along the trail turned each step into a slow, gruelling effort. Ulaa’s Wall loomed ahead like a fortress of jagged ice, its sheer cliffs swallowing the horizon and casting the path into perpetual shadow. Even the hardiest among them felt the oppressive weight of the climb—every breath a plume of white, every step sinking into snow that clung stubbornly to their boots.

Guardian fared worst that first day. His tiefling resilience faltered against the mountain’s merciless cold; his lips turned pale, his horns rimmed with frost, and his shivering frame hunched beneath his bedroll. The others built a makeshift windbreak from snow and canvas, but it barely blunted the chill. By morning, Tobias crouched beside him and gave a firm tap with the enchanted oven mitt. Heat rushed into Guardian’s limbs, driving out the cold until the trembling stopped, a reluctant smile breaking across his face.

By the second afternoon, the trail narrowed into a ledge opening onto a snow-scoured clearing cut into the forest slope. The scene was grim: a campsite recently ransacked—tents slashed, supplies scattered, the firepit choked with grey ash. Around the wreckage lounged a knot of Borglins, their hunched frames bulked out by mismatched furs, lean wolves curled beside them with watchful yellow eyes.

The party split in practiced silence. Eldrin, Tosk, Erisa, and Thomas slipped into the tree line, shadows among shadows as they circled to strike from above. Zaryth, Tobias, and Guardian walked openly into the clearing, boots crunching on the frozen ground. The Borglins stiffened, hands hovering over their weapons.

“Wait, wait,” Tobias called, palms raised, his breath misting in the air. “Please—we mean you no harm. We just want to pass through.”

The leader stepped forward, snout twitching. “Jus’ pass? Jus’ pass? Sure. You jus’ pass—pay toll.”

“Of course,” Tobias replied evenly. “What’s the toll?”

“Everythin’ you got.”

Tobias’ tone shifted, smooth and deliberate. He offered them an alternative—help clearing their name with the villages below, proving they weren’t raiders. The leader’s eyes glazed with disinterest. “You talk too much,” he muttered, then gave a sharp whistle.

The air cracked. A crossbow bolt streaked from the treeline and slammed into Tobias’ side. Pain flared hot, and the camp erupted into chaos.

Borglins surged forward with snarls and flashing steel. Before the leader could whistle again, Eldrin’s arrow ripped through his hand and drove into his skull, dropping him instantly. From the flanks, Erisa’s bolts and Thomas’ arrows cut down their targets, and Tosk roared as he swelled to giant size, charging through the snow. He scooped a Borglin into his trunk and swung it like a flail into another, sending them sprawling.

Tobias, blood staining his coat, still tried to call for peace, but his words vanished under the clash of battle. The Borglins fought with the desperation of cornered beasts.

Another volley of bolts hissed from an unseen sniper, forcing the party to scatter. “They won’t negotiate—kill or be killed!” Zaryth shouted, her blade igniting with divine light. One strike obliterated a Borglin in a burst of radiance, leaving only drifting motes where it had stood.

A dagger flew from the melee, sinking into Guardian’s side. He wrenched it free and lunged to return the strike, but the blow missed. With a frustrated snarl, he vanished in a swirl of shadow and reappeared several paces away.

The wolves broke formation, lunging for Zaryth and Tobias, but quick shots from the ranged fighters dropped them mid-leap, their bodies skidding to a halt in the snow.

The battlefield thinned quickly. Only the limp, wide-eyed Borglin in Tosk’s grip remained alive—too beaten to fight. The sniper, however, still lurked unseen.

Eldrin caught a glint high on a rocky pillar: a Borglin half-buried in snow, reloading his crossbow. The group moved fast, boots slipping on icy stone as they scaled the height. They crested the top and dispatched the last threat in a swift flurry of steel and magic.

Breath steaming in the cold, they regrouped at the ruined camp. The wind keened through the pass as they searched the bodies and debris. Scattered coins spilled from pouches, boots, and sashes—seventy-two gold, forty-one silver, and eighty copper. A single healing potion rolled from a torn satchel, and they found eight days’ worth of rough rations: strips of dried lizard jerky, smoked fish, and hardy root vegetables. Three waterskins held fresh water; a fourth was frozen solid.

The weapons were crude but serviceable—a Borglin-crafted short sword, two throwing spears with thin black feathers tied beneath the heads, and a scout’s longbow still strung. A set of studded leather armour, Borglin-sized and rank with the smell of damp fur, lay bundled near a collapsed tent. Among the smaller spoils were a wolf fang necklace, a battered music box that played only half a tune, and a monocle with a cracked lens. The most unsettling find was a small wooden box containing four human teeth, each etched with a distinct rune.

They divided the loot in heavy silence. Above them, the frozen spires of Ulaa’s Wall stood unmoving, watching with the cold indifference of stone.

By late afternoon, the distant lights of Okoheller flickered across the snowy horizon like beacons. The weary party trudged forward, boots sinking into the fresh powder. As they crested a hill, the Barney Knight Tavern came into view, its tall sign swaying gently in the wind. Warm light spilled from the windows, and the tantalizing scent of roasted turkey, clove, and butter drifted on the breeze, promising respite. Their mounts were led to the stables with practiced ease, while Peanut the elephant, far too large for a stall, was content to settle in the wide walkway. Children from nearby farms stared in awe at the creature, shyly approaching to offer apples and pats while Tosk oversaw Peanut like a proud parent.

Inside, the tavern was a bustling refuge against the evening’s chill. Families and travellers gathered at long oak tables, sharing hearty Starlight Festival meals—plates piled high with golden roast turkey, bowls of buttered vegetables, sugared cranberries, and loaves of freshly baked bread. A few fiddlers played a warm, lilting tune near the hearth, their music blending with the hum of cheerful conversation. Behind the counter, a dark red-skinned tiefling with curling black horns polished mugs, his tail flicking lazily as he greeted new arrivals with a practiced grin.

“Evening,” Tobias said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Any chance you’ve got rooms?”

“Plenty,” the innkeeper replied with a welcoming smile. “Most folks head home for Starlight, so rooms are free. Two silver for the night, five if you want supper as well.”

The group shared uncertain looks, their coin purses lighter than they cared to admit. Before the moment grew awkward, Zaryth stepped forward, the faint glow of firelight dancing across her confident expression. “I’ll cover it,” she said with casual grace. “Call it a gift—for Lyra’s daughter and her friends.”

Relief and gratitude rippled through the group. Soon they were gathered around a long table, the feast laid before them like a festival dream: roasted turkey glistening with herbs, creamy mashed potatoes, spiced vegetables, and warm bread still steaming from the oven. The air was rich with the mingling scents of butter and roasting meat. For a few moments, there was no talk of quests or coin, only laughter and the scraping of plates.

Between bites, reality crept back in. “We really need coin,” Tobias muttered, examining the last crust of his bread like it might sprout gold. “We’re not exactly flush with silver.”

Tosk, never one for tact, grunted. “We should look at that gift we’re supposed to deliver. Might be worth something.”

Guardian fixed him with a glare and pulled a neatly wrapped box from his pack. “No. It’s not ours. And who even was this for? ‘Simon Slubbins’? Sounds fake.”

Simon, drying a plate nearby, looked up with a bemused expression. “Well, it’s the name my Ma gave me. Simon Slubbins, at your service.”

“Oh!” Guardian stammered, hastily handing over the box. “Sorry, uh… here. This is for you.”

Simon accepted it with a curious frown. “Thanks? Was I meant to get you something too?”

“No,” Guardian said quickly. “We were just told to deliver it.”

“By who?” Simon asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

“Your grandmother,” Tobias whispered.

“Your grandmother in Lamaton,” Guardian added a bit too loudly.

Simon’s face brightened. “Oh, Gram-grams! Well, thank you kindly.”

The exchange earned a round of chuckles before Tobias leaned casually on the counter. “While we have you—any work going?”

Tosk, ever tactless, chimed in cheerfully, “Need anyone beaten up or killed?”

The table fell silent. Even Simon blinked. “Not really the spirit of the season, lad,” he said dryly. “No, nothing major—everyone’s home for Starlight. Deliveries are done. Although…” He glanced at the kitchen. “I could use a hand cleaning up. Not glamorous, not well-paying, but it’s coin.”

“Nothing heading north of the mountains?” Tobias asked.

Simon shook his head. “Not with the Borglins up there. They’ve taken over the pass and ambush anyone who gets too close.”

Erisa leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “Would someone pay us to clear them out?”

“Not around here,” Simon said. “But you lot—you’re from New Albion, right?”

“Yeah,” Tobias replied.

“Well, the city pays for ‘Services to the Continent.’ If you clear that pass, you might get a reward for opening the road.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tobias said. “But for now… I’ll help with the dishes.”

The rest of the night was spent in a whirlwind of clattering plates and warm camaraderie. They scrubbed mountains of crockery, splashing each other with suds, while the music from the tavern played faintly through the swinging kitchen door. Even Tosk, who broke two plates with his oversized hands, earned a forgiving grin from Simon. “Don’t worry about it. Consider it a Starlight gift.”

When the last dish was stacked, Guardian wiped his hands and offered, “I can bake some bread in the morning if you’d like. Fresh loaves for your guests.”

Simon’s expression softened. “I’d like that very much.”

As the evening waned, the party sat by the fire, their boots drying by the hearth and mugs of mulled cider warming their hands. Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing Okoheller in silence. For the first time in days, they allowed themselves to relax. The tavern quieted as they climbed to their rooms, the crackle of the fire lingering in their minds. Under the glow of the Starlight Festival, the world felt, if only for a night, safe and calm.

After the laughter and warmth of the Starlight meal the night before, a hush lingered over the tavern as the new day began. Morning came quietly, snow sparkling under the early light, each flake catching the sunrise like tiny shards of glass. Guardian was the first to stir, his hands already busy with flour and dough in the tavern kitchen. The oven mitt he’d enchanted the week before glowed faintly with a soft runic pattern, making him grin as he slid out perfectly browned loaves from the oven. The comforting scent of fresh bread filled the Barney Knight, curling through the rafters like a warm, inviting spell that coaxed even the sleepiest patron from their bed.

By the time the rest of the party descended the stairs, the tavern was far quieter than the previous night’s festivities. Only a handful of locals sat hunched over breakfast, murmuring softly over bowls of porridge and mugs of steaming cider. Guardian emerged from the kitchen with a tray of bread so fresh it seemed to breathe steam. He placed the loaves on their table with a small, satisfied flourish. Simon Slubbins joined them, wiping his hands on his apron with a mixture of gratitude and pride.

“Thank you again for last night,” Simon said warmly, placing a single gold coin in Guardian’s palm. “That’s for the bread. You’re welcome here anytime, you know. My kitchen feels brighter with company like yours.”

Thomas, chewing thoughtfully on a slice, tilted his head. “What was in that gift from your grandma?”

Simon laughed, hiking up his trouser legs to reveal a pair of garish knitted socks, striped in vivid reds, greens, and yellows, bright as festival lanterns. “A seasonal classic. Best part of Starlight, I say. She knits a new pair every year.”

The group chuckled at the socks, gathered their gear, and set off for the road north. Their destination was Angeldenn, a village crouched beneath the looming icy sprawl of Ulaa’s Wall.

The first day of travel unfolded beneath a pale winter sun. The road crunched under boots and wheels, lined with frost-covered trees that glimmered like crystal sculptures. Peanut plodded alongside the carts, his trunk swaying, occasionally reaching down to pluck at frozen tufts of grass. Thomas hummed a wandering tune while Erisa lobbed a snowball at Tosk, who responded with an exaggerated snort and a handful of snow clapped between his large palms. Their laughter mingled with the sound of distant crows and the whisper of wind curling through the pines.

By midday on the second day, however, stomachs began to growl. Rations were wearing thin, and the hearty meals of Okoheller felt like a memory that taunted them with every step.

“Did none of you prepare better for this?” Tobias teased, adjusting the straps of his cart with mock severity. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. You’d all be eaten by wolves if I wasn’t here.”

Before anyone could fire back a retort, the road curved, and a solitary boar stood planted in the middle, snorting plumes of white breath into the frigid air.

Thomas drew a slow breath as he nocked an arrow, his eyes narrowing on the boar’s stance. The creature’s bristled fur and low, rumbling snort sent a ripple of tension through the group. “Easy shot,” he whispered, loosing his arrow—and missing wide.

Eldrin followed suit, but a sudden sneeze, sharp and unexpected from the cold, sent his arrow whistling deep into the brush. The undergrowth erupted with a guttural squeal as four massive boars charged onto the road, their tusks gleaming and hooves pounding like war drums.

“Of course,” Erisa muttered, already scrambling up a rocky outcrop. She steadied her crossbow and began firing, not to kill, but to drive the beasts back, her bolts sparking little explosions of snow and dirt near their feet.

“Peanut! Let’s bring in Peanut!” Tosk suggested eagerly, glancing toward the elephant.

But the elephant stood firm, ears flaring, unwilling to move closer to the chaos. “Fine! Giants’ Might it is!” Tosk roared, leaping down from the cart. His frame swelled, muscles bulging as he grew in size, the Moon-Touched Trident in his hands flashing like a weapon forged for titans. He thundered forward, meeting the charge head-on.

Thomas and Eldrin loosed arrow after arrow, the twang of their bows mingling with the snorts and squeals of the boars. Guardian, his eyes glowing faintly, unleashed twin bursts of crackling eldritch energy. Each blast slammed into a charging boar, knocking them sideways with raw force.

Through it all, Tobias stood, unmoving, his breath fogging the air in measured puffs. “No,” he said flatly. “Not my fight.”

Zaryth’s jaw tightened, conflict flashing in her eyes, but duty won out. She strode forward, her blade igniting with divine light. With a single, precise swing, she struck, her smite exploding against the boar’s flank and sending it crashing lifeless into the snow.

The fight devolved into a storm of snow, mud, and blood. Tosk bellowed as he skewered one boar with his trident, hurling its body aside. Erisa’s final bolt zipped past his shoulder, embedding deep into another’s flank, bringing it down with a guttural roar. As the third beast fell, the last giant boar let out a high-pitched squeal and fled into the trees, the smaller one darting after it, both vanishing into the cold forest shadows.

Silence settled at last, broken only by heavy breathing and the sight of steam rising from the slain creatures. The air smelled of iron and frost. Tosk wiped his trident clean on the snow, then grinned, tusks flashing. “Dinner, anyone?”

They set to work immediately, their breath misting as they harvested their kill. The cold made every movement sharper, every sound crisp. Tosk dragged the carcasses into position, while Thomas and Eldrin carved thick slabs of meat, the warm steam rolling off the cuts into the winter air. Guardian worked with meticulous care, stripping the hides in long, smooth strokes until heavy sheets of boar skin were folded neatly beside the cart. Erisa gathered the ivory tusks, arranging them like pale trophies, while Tobias rendered dense chunks of fat, the waxy pieces stacking in gleaming piles. Bones were bundled with leather straps, ready for later use.

By the time they finished, the snow around them was stained crimson, but the carts were laden with spoils—hundreds of pounds of fresh meat, supple hide, tusks, fat, and bone. It was a gruesome task, but as they stacked the final load onto Tobias and Guardian’s carts, a sense of accomplishment settled over the party. The smell of blood and snow clung to their clothes as they pressed on, the cold air biting harder now, the road to Angeldenn stretching endlessly ahead.

Just as they were preparing to leave, a soft knock interrupted the bustle. A courier stepped in, the scent of frost following them, and handed a sealed letter to Erisa — the parchment crisp, the wax stamped with the symbol of a crescent moon entwined with vines. She stood frozen for a moment, staring at her name written in familiar, careful script. Then, without a word, she retreated upstairs.

The Letter:

Erisa,

I don’t have the words for how many times I’ve imagined receiving this letter — and feared I never would.
Your handwriting is older now. Steadier. But I see the girl you were in every loop and curve.

Zaryth told me you were coming. That you’re safe. That you’re strong.

I always knew you would be.

I want to say so much, and there is so much I can’t. I saw the places where your pen hesitated — the questions you meant to ask.
You’re right to wait. Those questions deserve to be answered in person. Face to face. From me — no one else.

I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

I hope the road is kind to you, though I know it rarely is. But you are not alone — and that gives me hope.
There will be food, warmth, and firelight waiting in Mistvale.

I have never stopped loving you.
And I never stopped hoping you would find me.

Come home.

With all my heart,
Mother
(Lyra)

Upstairs, Erisa sat on the edge of her bed, the letter trembling in her hands. Her eyes welled with tears — not sorrow, but something heavier and warmer. Relief. Hope. Longing that had grown quietly into something fierce. She wiped her cheek with her sleeve and folded the letter carefully, placing it into the inner pocket of her coat.

A knock at the door. Tobias peeked in, voice soft. “You alright?”

Erisa nodded, eyes still shining. She held out the letter wordlessly.

Tobias stepped inside, took the letter, and read in silence. When he finished, he looked up, stepped forward, and wrapped her in a firm, steady hug.

“We’ll get there,” he promised. “You’ll see her soon.”

The morning sun glittered on the snow as the party and Zaryth loaded up their mounts. Horses were blanketed in padded gear, carts stocked with provisions and holiday snacks, and Tosk’s rented elephant stood proudly beneath a tarp of patchwork wool. The group gave a final wave to the tavern windows before setting out, leaving tracks in the fresh snow that wound out of the city and into the quiet countryside.

Tosk made a valiant effort to stash his “treasures” — a collection of found objects, old tools, a cracked lantern, and a box of slightly bruised potatoes — onto Tobias’ cart.

“No,” Tobias said flatly, redirecting Tosk’s arm.

“But they’re cultural artifacts!” Tosk protested.

“They’re damp trash.”

“Historic trash!”

Still grumbling, Tosk stuffed the sacks back onto his own mount.

The roads, though dusted in snow, had been cleared by the city’s effort crews. Meltwater made the going muddy in places, but the caravan pressed on steadily. As they passed out of New Albion proper, the scent of pine grew stronger, mingling with the scent of baked goods and spices from travelers along the way. They passed through Briarwood — quiet and dusted in frost — and then Timberwood, where a few of the locals waved, recognizing the party with small smiles and gloved hands.

As the afternoon light faded behind clouded skies, the group reached the northern edge of the Aslan Peninsula. A line of watchtowers loomed ahead, their spires dark against the snowy foothills. Tosk grew visibly tense.

“Everything alright?” Guardian asked.

“Yeah,” Tosk muttered, watching the towers carefully. “Guards just… make me nervous.”

But the guards paid them no mind. The watchtowers were facing outward, their sight set not on travelers leaving the peninsula — but on whatever might one day try to come in.

Six days into the journey, with the festive season drawing closer, a few members of the party noted something concerning: their rations were running low. The crisp, snow-dusted landscape had offered little in the way of forageable goods, and the extra days on the road had drained more supplies than anticipated. The joviality of the season lingered, but a sense of realism began to set in.

Tosk, having spent the entirety of his coin renting the elephant (which he had affectionately named ‘Mammoth Junior’), looked around sheepishly. “Well… I can’t exactly buy more. Maybe we should pick up a bit of work along the way, yeah? Something to tide us over.”

The party agreed, and their next stop brought them to the town of Lamaton — a quiet crossroads village blanketed in snow, with a warm golden glow in its windows and the scent of baked bread, pine resin, and roasted chestnuts wafting from chimneys.

In the local tavern, decorated with strings of silver bells and evergreen garlands, Tosk marched boldly up to the counter and announced, “I’m looking for delivery work! We’re headed north — strong backs, fast legs, and one elephant!”

An old woman, seated by the hearth with knitting in her lap and spectacles low on her nose, raised a brow and beckoned them over. “I have something that needs delivering,” she said, her voice warm and creaky. “A Starlight Festival gift for my grandson in Okoheller. It’s about two days north of here.”

Tosk considered this with all the seriousness of a seasoned negotiator. “Seventeen gold.”

The party collectively groaned, some even covering their faces.

“That’s a bit much,” the old woman chuckled. “I was thinking something more… festive. How about a hot meal for all of you?”

Thomas nodded. “Maybe a bit of extra food for the road?”

“Oh of course, dear. There’ll be leftovers. I’m a grandmother after all.”

Soon the party found themselves seated around her hearth, enjoying a hearty home-cooked meal of roasted root vegetables, honey-basted ham, warm spiced cider, and a surprisingly delicious cranberry-glazed loaf. Her small cottage was crowded but cozy, decorated with paper stars and hand-sewn ornaments that filled the walls with memories. The laughter and clinking of cutlery made for a warm evening pause.

True to her word, she packed up generous helpings for the road ahead — thick-wrapped bundles of meat and bread, sweet buns, and a sealed jar of pear preserves.

As they bundled up to leave, Erisa asked, “Oh — what’s your grandson’s name?”

“Simon. Simon Slubbins.”

Back on the road, with the cold wind picking up again and stars just beginning to twinkle in the evening sky, Tosk looked at the neatly wrapped package nestled in the cart.

“Sooo… we just open this and keep it, right?”

Guardian extended a hand silently. Tosk, slightly deflated, handed it over — only to watch Guardian quietly tuck it into his travel bag without a second glance.

“Oh,” Tosk muttered, disappointed. “I thought you were gonna at least peek.”

The journey continued, snowflakes beginning to fall again as they followed the winding path northward — a package of promise riding safely among them, and the spirit of the Starlight Festival brightening the long road ahead.

That night, the party settled in around a crackling fire under the canopy of pine and stars. Blankets were unrolled, guards were assigned, and the wintry hush of the forest stretched around them like a velvet curtain. The wind whispered softly through the boughs overhead, carrying the distant calls of owls and the soft rustling of frost-coated needles. It was a night like many others they’d camped through—peaceful, reflective—until something unusual occurred.

Watches were quiet, uneventful—until sometime between Eldrin’s and Guardian’s shift.

When Guardian rose for his turn at the fire, he blinked in surprise. Sitting at the foot of each party member’s bedroll was a small, gift-wrapped box tied neatly in bright ribbon. The paper shimmered faintly in the firelight, each box bearing an elegant hand-penned tag. None had been there minutes before.

Guardian immediately shook Tobias awake.

“We have a situation,” he said, gesturing toward the boxes.

The rest of the camp stirred. Blankets rustled. Eyes blinked open. Tobias sat up groggily, quickly taking in the sight.

Tosk, however, wasted no time. With an eager grin, he tore into his box.

“Wait—it might be a fae trap!” Tobias warned, suddenly alert.

“Or a bomb,” Guardian added with concern. But it was already too late.

Inside Tosk’s box was a squat, stoneware jug painted with cheerful mammoth tusks and capped with a cork. Its surface was faintly warm to the touch, and when he shook it, it sloshed invitingly, promising warmth and mischief in equal measure.

Tobias activated his Divine Sense. A wave of faint celestial residue clung to the boxes like a soft breeze of incense and candlelight—gentle, benevolent, and unmistakably magical in nature.

He cautiously opened his own box. Inside was a single, oversized mitten—thick and patchwork, woven in red, gold, and white yarn that shimmered faintly with unseen energy. The moment he touched it, warmth spread up his arm, calming and bright.

Thomas squinted at the tag on his box. “To Thomas Wilderman, From Papa Ungarmass.”

Tobias checked his wrapping. His bore the same message.

One by one, they unwrapped their mysterious presents. Guardian’s box revealed a small, flour-dusted oven mitt stitched with cheerful blue thread and embroidered with a loaf of bread—and beside it, a tiny likeness of his horse, Sebastian, prancing proudly. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, comfort, and warm kitchens.

Thomas found a battered brass compass. Its needle spun briefly before settling to point due north. There was nothing magical in its movement—just the plain, steady direction of a well-worn traveler’s tool. Still, the craftsmanship was fine, and it held a quiet dignity in its aged design, nestled in soft wool and tied with twine.

Eldrin’s gift was a heavy bronze coin, set on a dark leather cord and stamped with the image of a rising sun. The metal was warm to the touch, the warmth steadying—a hearth against the cold darkness at the edge of his thoughts.

Erisa’s eyes widened as she unwrapped a delicate porcelain mask. Its surface shimmered subtly with painted colors, etched laughter lines shifting like trick light. A pink ribbon threaded through the eyes.

Curious, Erisa raised the mask to her face—and in that moment, her mind pictured Sweets, clear as day: his voice, his posture, his easy grin. In an instant, her form shimmered. The party gasped as Sweets stood in her place, complete with his trademark expression and posture.

The group stared.

“That’s… uncanny,” Tobias muttered.

Immediately, everyone turned back to their gifts with new enthusiasm.

Tosk, holding up his jug, grinned and thought, “Beer.” The jug filled instantly, foam bubbling over the top with a crisp, golden brew. He downed it in one, then thought of something else—nothing happened.

“Okay, so one thought per day?” he mused, wiping froth from his chin. “Reasonable.”

Eldrin slipped the medallion around his neck. The quiet, gnawing anger that usually tugged at the back of his thoughts seemed to withdraw, its edge dulled for the first time in weeks. He exhaled slowly, eyes closing in rare peace.

Guardian, putting on the oven mitt, began cooking breakfast over the fire using leftovers from Granny’s meal. The food sizzled with new aroma, and when the party ate, they felt bolstered, energized, their spirits rising with every bite.

Thomas turned his compass in his hand, frowning. “It’s just a compass.”

Tobias, staring at his oversized mitten, was equally stumped. “It’s… cozy.”

Then he noticed a slip of parchment inside the mitten.

“For every pain endured, may joy return twice over.”

He blinked, re-read it, then turned to Tosk. “Punch me in the face.”

Tosk didn’t hesitate. With cheerful, unblinking enthusiasm, he stepped forward and, without a single word, delivered a sudden, solid right hook straight to Tobias’ jaw. The sound echoed across the quiet camp. Tobias reeled, dazed, blinking stars from his vision as he stumbled back a step.

“You know, I probably should’ve started with a scratch,” he mumbled, holding his cheek.

He cast Lay on Hands through the mitten. The healing surged through him brighter than normal, a warm pulse that lingered in his chest and fingertips.

Thomas found his own note tucked inside the compass’s wool:

“You’re not lost, lad. You’re just finding new ways home.”

He focused for a moment, thinking of the Tavern With No Name. The needle spun and then pointed steadily south, a comforting reminder of where he belonged.

The others rifled through their wrappings, discovering notes of their own:

Erisa: “For every face you try on, remember the heart beneath is always yours.”

Eldrin: “Let each day be your own, not the echo of the last.”

Guardian: “You can’t feed the world, but you can warm a heart.”

Tosk: “Strong arms, Stronger Drinks, Warm Friendship, Warmer heart.”

Zaryth, last to open hers, found a slender silver bell engraved with tiny lunar phases. Its clear chime carried through the trees like moonlight in sound. Tied around its handle was a cord of blue silk and a folded note:

“May your light reach those wandering, even when you cannot. —Papa Ungarmass”

They sat together by the fire a while longer, talking quietly, watching the flames and turning over their new treasures in their hands. The gifts felt personal, impossibly thoughtful—like they’d been made not just for what each of them did, but for who they were.

With the dawn casting rose gold across the snow, the party packed away their gifts with quiet reverence. Whatever magic had left them these gifts, it seemed kind—an ember of comfort against the winter road ahead.

Shouldering their gear once more, the party continued northward—toward Okoheller, and whatever lay beyond.

“Mama!” she shouted, launching herself at Lady Brightglade and wrapping her arms around the figure in green armour.

Lady Brightglade froze, armour clanking as she instinctively raised her arms, caught off guard. “I’m sorry—what?”

Erisa held her tighter, face buried against the polished breastplate. “You’re my mum! It’s me, Erisa!”

Brightglade gently grasped Erisa’s shoulders and eased her back. Her tone was careful, uncertain. “I’m sorry, but I’m not…”

Erisa’s face twisted in confusion and heartbreak. “But… the way you dropped from the roof, your armour, everything—I thought…”

Brightglade glanced around, her posture stiffening. Snow drifted lazily in the still air as she hesitated. “Look, I owe you my life. I can trust you with this.” Slowly, deliberately, she reached up and removed her helmet. Beneath it was the face of a Beta Fish Triton—blue-scaled, finely featured, with delicate flowing fins in place of hair.

Erisa’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. Then the realization settled in. “No… no, you’re supposed to be—no! NO!”

Tobias, standing just behind her, stepped forward, his voice quiet but steady. “I’m sorry, Erisa. We’ll keep looking. I’m sure we’ll find her.”

Brightglade, eyes softening, tilted her head. “Did… did you say Erisa? What’s your mum’s name?”

Erisa blinked away tears. “Um… Lyra. Lyra Brightglade.”

At the name, Brightglade’s hands flew to her mouth. “By Undyne… you’re her daughter. You’re really here. I—I’m not your mother, but I know her.”

Erisa’s eyes flared again, hope sparking like tinder. “You do?! Can you tell me where she is? Is she alright?”

Brightglade paused, then shook her head slowly. “Not right now. We’ve probably got a lot to talk about—and I’d rather not do it in full plate armour in a back alley. Let me change into my commoner clothing. I’ll meet you at your tavern this evening. ‘Tavern With No Name,’ right?”

Erisa clutched Brightglade’s wrist with a trembling hand. “You will come, right? Promise?”

Brightglade gave a small nod and a half-smile. “Of course.”

She reaffixed her helmet with practiced ease, her demeanour shifting as she turned sharply and vanished down the alley at a jog, snow crunching beneath her boots.

Erisa stared after her in silence for a few long moments before muttering, “I need a drink.”

The Tavern With No Name was warm, firelight flickering from the hearth and a faint smell of spiced cider wafting through the air. The party entered through the front door, shaking off the cold.

Tobias stepped inside—only to immediately stumble over a heap of hessian sacks carelessly left by the entrance. “Wh—ack!” He staggered, catching himself on the edge of a barrel.

“Nooo, my treasures!” cried Tosk, bounding forward with a look of exaggerated horror.

Guardian blinked, puzzled. “Your what now?”

Tosk dropped to his knees and began frantically rummaging through the sacks. “Stuff I found while working with the guards! You wouldn’t believe the things people just leave behind! And they said I could keep it—can you believe that?”

He pulled out a mismatched collection of junk: a cracked lantern, a bent copper pan, a child’s lost mitten, a spoon carved with a star, and then—with triumphant glee—a crate.

“Look! Potatoes! Mostly unspoiled!”

Tobias peered into the box, eyebrows raised. “You found a whole crate of potatoes?”

Tosk nodded excitedly. “Yep! It fell off the back of a wagon. I checked! Totally abandoned. That means it’s fair game, right?”

Guardian crossed his arms, smirking. “I’m not sure that’s how law works, but I admire your commitment.”

“Finders keepers!” Tosk chirped, already gathering his bags.

“You’re going to store all that in your room?” Erisa asked, arching a brow.

“Of course! These are valuable cultural artifacts!” he said, dragging the sack upstairs with a determined grunt.

The rest of the group shook their heads in amusement and made their way to their usual table. The tavern was quiet but comforting, a few locals clustered in corners nursing drinks and talking softly.

Tobias ordered a round of light ale, and the group sank into their chairs, the tension of the day easing slightly with each sip.

As the snow continued to fall outside, laughter and the clink of mugs gradually returned to the room. The evening was far from over—but for the moment, they allowed themselves a breath, a drink, and the comfort of not being alone.

As the evening wore on, the tavern slowly filled with its usual ebb and flow of patrons. Familiar faces and strangers alike trickled in and out, laughter and conversation rising and falling with the clink of mugs and the strum of a lute in the corner. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting golden light against the stone walls and pooling in the dark wood of the floor. Candles were lit one by one as the sun dipped below the horizon, cloaking the streets outside in snow-touched twilight.

Among those entering were two members of the former Final Cut. They spotted the party across the room, paused, then raised their mugs in silent acknowledgment. No words were exchanged—just a quiet nod of respect—before they took a table for themselves near the back and drank in quiet companionship. Whatever lingering tension may have remained was left unspoken.

Later still, the tavern door creaked open once more, letting in a chill gust of air and snowflakes clinging to woollen cloaks. In stepped Lady Brightglade—though the title hardly applied now. She was no longer clad in her distinctive green plate armour. Instead, she wore simple traveling leathers, a wool-lined cloak wrapped tightly about her shoulders, and a satchel slung over one side. Her hood was pushed back, revealing a blue-scaled Triton face framed by delicate fin-like crests. Her presence was calm, confident, and very much trying not to be noticed.

Tobias rose instinctively. “Lady Br—”

“Ahem,” she interjected with a sharp gesture, quickly closing the distance and lowering her voice. “No, no—let’s not shout my name across a tavern, yeah? Secret identity and all that.”

Tobias winced slightly, giving an apologetic shrug. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Thomas leaned forward from his seat, a teasing grin curling across his face. “So what should we call you, then?”

The Triton gave a small smile. “Zaryth. Zaryth Luminar.”

Tobias nodded. “Well, pleasure to meet you properly, Zaryth. Tell me, how did you—”

But Erisa was already on her feet, voice sharp and impatient. “Look, enough of this. Tell me where my mother is.”

Zaryth turned to her, her smile fading into something softer, more serious. “Of course. I’m sorry—it’s just been so long. Your mother is alive and well. She’s living in the uplands, beyond Uraa’s Wall.”

Thomas frowned. “Uraa’s Wall?”

“The mountain range that spans the northern peninsula,” Zaryth explained. “She’s in a small village called Mistvale. It’s remote, but peaceful.”

Erisa’s eyes shone, though her voice remained guarded. “What is she doing up there? Why did she leave?”

Zaryth hesitated. “She never told me exactly. Just that something called to her—something she couldn’t ignore. She said she had to go, and asked me to stay here. To continue her work.”

The conversation drifted into quieter tones as Zaryth shared more: stories of Lyra Brightglade’s years as a vigilante, how she evaded the city guard while helping those in need. Tales of moonlit rooftop chases, healed wounds, hidden safehouses, and whispered warnings to the right people at the right times. She had been a guardian, even if the law didn’t see it that way.

Laughter mingled with awe as drinks were poured. The party asked questions, and Zaryth answered what she could. They spoke not just of Lyra, but of what had changed in the city, what had stayed the same, and the kinds of burdens that linger after choosing to walk away from the world you once saved.

Finally, as the candles burned lower and the tavern’s crowd thinned, Erisa placed her mug down and looked Zaryth squarely in the eyes. “I’m going to see my mum. Will you take us?”

Zaryth didn’t even blink. “Of course. But it won’t be easy. Uraa’s Wall is a dangerous pass even in the best conditions. And now… there are reports of Borglin encampments all throughout the mountain paths.”

“We’ll manage,” Tobias said firmly. The others nodded in agreement.

And so, over the next several days, the party began to prepare. Erisa, Eldrin, and Tobias rented sturdy, winter-trained horses from a stable near the east gate. Thomas, ever independent, purchased his own mount outright. Tosk—never one for subtlety—returned proudly with a rented elephant, its thick woollen blanket dyed in mismatched festival colours.

Each member checked in with their day-job employers, invoking New Albion’s legally protected Adventurer’s Clause. By city law, an official adventure took precedent over standard employment, and their posts would be held for them until they returned—or were declared legally dead.

Zaryth, meanwhile, wrote a letter to Lyra. It was simple and direct: “I’ve found her. She’s coming to you.” At the same time, Erisa penned her own message—more personal, filled with nervous excitement and questions long held in silence. The two letters were sealed together and sent north via a pair of swift messenger birds, their wings cutting through the grey winter sky.

Then, there was nothing to do but wait.

The party stayed at the tavern, their belongings packed, their travel cloaks hung near the fire. Supplies were checked. Maps reviewed. Idle chatter filled the long hours. Every knock at the door brought someone to their feet. But days passed slowly.

And then, one morning, as frost rimmed the windows and the sun peeked over the snowy eaves, a letter arrived…