Winter had begun to bite with earnest teeth. The trees, long stripped bare, had shed the last remnants of their golden and auburn coats, standing now as skeletal sentinels against the deepening chill. The air no longer whispered of frost; it commanded, a sharp, pervasive cold that seeped into the very bones of the land. Lux would've ordinarily been trekking deeper into the desolate wilds, trying to outpace the relentless hound that was the Duke—a man who tragically mistook rejection for an invitation. But instead, a twist of fate had brought her to the NightgaleMarch, a rugged, frontier territory nestled strategically east of Baron Paul's softer, more cultivated lands.
Where Lord Paul's domain hummed with the steady, luxurious rhythm of trade and jingling coin, Nightgale throbbed with a different, starker pulse: the rhythmic cadence of marching boots and the cold gleam of drawn steel. This was a region forged for war, its very essence distilled from conflict, and it showed in everything—the unyielding, practical architecture, the hardened faces of its people, even the wind felt like it had been trained to cut, carrying the raw scent of iron and grim determination.
Lux had made it this far by sheer, brutal chance and the occasional, opportune swing of her blade. Just outside Lord Paul's well-guarded border, she'd stumbled upon a merchant caravan under siege by a particularly vicious band of brigands. Lux—ever the reluctant savior, her intervention driven by a cold, practical assessment of opportunity rather than altruism—had stepped into the fray. Steel clashed, blood spilled, and when the dust, thick with the scent of fear and battle, finally settled, she had earned herself more than a handful of tarnished coin; it earned her a ride, a temporary reprieve from her solitary trek. The merchant, Oliver—a thin, wiry man of average height, with dull brown hair and eyes that were perhaps duller, never quite meeting hers directly—wasn't the most exciting company, but he possessed a quiet kindness, a grounded practicality. She'd spun him a carefully crafted story of being lost, of unfamiliarity with the region, a believable tale of a lone girl adrift. It worked. He offered her work as a bodyguard, a silent, watchful shadow for his meager goods, and if she was willing, help running his small, often dusty, store. If she was truly brave, he'd added, his dull eyes lighting with a spark of genuine adventure, perhaps even a dive into the local dungeon for rare, valuable supplies.
That last part caught her off guard. Dungeons? The word resonated with an ancient, half-forgotten echo. Baron Paul, in all his endless, self-important ramblings, had never mentioned anything like that. Either his soft-bellied territory had none—a likely scenario given its focus on commerce—or more likely, he simply didn't care to ramble about such gritty, dangerous places, considering them beneath his noble station. Lux hadn't explored much of Martel Duchy to know for sure, her focus always on survival.
Still, it was a welcome change from the relentless, solitary flight. The Adventurers'Guild was a lifeline—registering would grant her official papers, the kind that smoothed travel and identity checks, crucial for blending in. And, truth be told, she was curious. Maybe even a little excited by the sheer novelty of it. A chance to truly test her newfound senses, to put her innate abilities to a practical, profitable use.
The city of Nightgale itself was no less intense than the lands it commanded. It perched atop a rugged hill, its stone foundations now dusted with a crisp layer of fresh snow and cloaked in winter's perpetual gloom. Massive, rough-hewn stone walls loomed like the very jaws of some ancient, dormant beast, defiant and cold, their battlements silhouetted against the pale,steel-gray sky. The fortified gates, thick with iron bands and bearing the grim sigil of the ruling lord—a snarling wolf's head—groaned open with a deep, resonant sound as platoons of armored soldiers marched out to patrol the ever-watchful borders, their breath misting in the frigid air.
By sunset, the city throbbed with a different kind of life, a grim, determined pulse. Wagons, heavy with supplies, rumbled through the cobbled streets, their wheels grinding against the stones, hauling iron and provisions to armories and barracks. The air was thick with the raw scent of metal, the musk of sweat, the cured tang of leather—and winter's omnipresent, sharp sting that seemed to cut deeper than any blade. Battlements carved a jagged skyline, stark against the darkening sky, while soldiers patrolled the high walls with practiced, vigilant eyes, their movements precise. Below, the rhythmic clang of steel echoed from the training yards, a constant reminder of the city's purpose.
"War is always on the menu here," Oliver muttered, his breath pluming in front of him as they entered the main gate. "Even if no one's serving it today."
In the sprawling central square, the lord's castle reigned like a stone tyrant—cold, hard, and utterly unimpressed by anything less than absolute might. And yet, for all its grimness, the city wasn't lifeless. Adventurers, clad in mismatched armor and muddy boots, their faces etched with fatigue and grim satisfaction, returned from their perilous dungeon dives, their laughter echoing briefly in the cold air. Life, chaotic and loud, resilient and determined, endured here.
Oliver's home was a modest two-floor building, tucked snugly between the roaring clang of a blacksmith's forge and the quiet, shuttered facade of a bakery that had long seen better days. But what stole Lux's attention, drawing her gaze with an almost magnetic pull, wasn't the humble house itself—it was the woman who opened the heavy wooden door.
Helen.
She was warmth incarnate, a soft, vibrant presence in a city carved from cold stone. Her smile was gentle, her eyes kind, radiating an unexpected tenderness. Lux hadn't expected someone like her to be Oliver's part-time wife—a term Oliver had used with an endearing awkwardness. In fact, she hadn't expected Oliver to have a wife at all, part-time or not. Helen's simple, genuine presence made the pervasive cold feel less cruel, less biting.
Dinner was a hearty mutton stew, thick and savory, served with rye bread so hard Lux suspected it had been trained in the same barracks as the city's soldiers. Still, dunked generously in the rich, steaming broth, it softened enough to earn forgiveness. It was a simple, unpretentious meal, but deeply comforting, warming her from the inside out.
The room she was given was small, barely larger than a cell, but it lacked the oppressive presence of masked hosts and knights with coins for eyes—a blessed absence that tasted sweeter than any luxury. For the first time in what felt like an age, Lux finally exhaled, a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the tension melting from her limbs like snow near a hearth.
She had work to do—gear to acquire, a guild to register with, perhaps an apothecary willing to take her on as a student for her burgeoning alchemical skills. The list was long.
But that could wait. Sleep, deep and inviting, came swiftly, pulling her into its dark embrace.
And this time, she didn't chase it away. She welcomed it, sinking into its depths.