The sun dipped fully behind the distant ridges, leaving the horizon smudged with bruised shades of purple and gray. Snow spiraled down in sharp, swirling gusts, pressed against the walls of the State House like shards of glass, cold and insistent. Reddin pulled his jacket tighter, the fabric stiff with frost at the edges, the collar brushing against his jaw. The wind cut at his ears, a biting reminder that Arden's warning was true: outside wasn't the place to rest tonight. Not with this cold, not with the way the snow clung to everything, glittering in the fading light.
Veyra, low to the ground, followed his steps with an almost silent grace, her green eyes flickering between shadow and ember-light. A deep, vibrating growl rolled from her throat as a guard approached, stepping carefully over the uneven cobbles near the pyre. The man's boots crunched over hardened snow, shotgun slung loosely over one shoulder, a hand brushing against the strap like a practiced habit. Veyra's ears twitched sharply; her muscles coiled subtly, every sinew alert. Reddin crouched slightly, extending a hand. She stepped closer, allowing him to stroke the dark fur along her neck. Her warmth was a small, solid comfort against the cold that gnawed at him.
The guard straightened, leaning slightly into the wind, voice rough but steady. "Arden said not to let your ass sleep outside tonight. There's a bunk area right above the northern gatehouse. Got heat, lights… you'll be fine." He gave a small nod, a gesture that was both warning and reassurance. Reddin's gaze tracked him, noting the way he adjusted the strap of the shotgun, muscles tensing as the wind flung snow across the courtyard. "Thanks," Reddin said simply, letting his voice carry in the whipping air.
Veyra pressed close for another second, her body radiating heat that seeped into his gloves as he gave her a final scratch behind the ears. The guard turned and walked back toward the gate, boots leaving deep impressions in the snow. Reddin gave the pyre one last glance before ascending the wooden stairs that led along the wall. The flicker of flames danced against the battered stone and wood, embers drifting lazily upward. There was a rhythm to it, almost hypnotic, like Arden's pulse laid bare in firelight. He could feel the heat from the pyre on his face even from this distance, a tether to the life inside the walls, the hub of the small, fragile society Arden had carved out.
The stairs groaned under his weight, slick with snow, forcing him to move cautiously. Each step sent a small shower of frost into the air, scattering in miniature arcs that glittered faintly in the last light. Veyra padded silently beside him, claws clicking softly against the wood. At the top, a narrow walkway led to a modest door marked with a simple wooden plaque: Gatehouse Bunks. Reddin paused, listening to the wind tearing across the compound, the distant murmur of survivors calling to one another, the occasional clink of metal from the workshops, the faint groan of the pyre. A soft exhale, half breath, half tension, escaped him before he pushed the door open.
Inside, the air carried a faint scent of sawdust and lingering smoke. The space was compact, the floor roughly the size of a tennis court, split cleanly down the center into left and right sections. Each side was a mirror of the other, simple, utilitarian. Eight bunk beds lined each wall, sixteen sleeping spaces total. The wood was raw and sturdy, beds made hastily but serviceably, each mattress thin but practical, the linens folded tight, a mixture of wool blankets and patched fabrics scavenged from who knows where. Dust motes hung in the light, illuminated by the pale glow of several small bulbs powered by the wind turbines perched on the gatehouse roof.
The stove, a squat metal thing with a chimney coiling toward the ceiling, sat in the corner of the left section. It had been used earlier in the season, but for now it was cold, the metal surface gathering frost where the warmth had once lingered. Reddin approached, hand brushing along the stove's edge, feeling the residual chill that reminded him of the bitter air outside. The room was quiet except for the hum of the wind turbines, the faint buzz of electricity through the lights, and the occasional soft shift of a blanket or the creak of wood settling.
He stepped further in, boots scraping softly against the floorboards, Veyra slipping in behind him, her eyes catching the faint illumination like twin emeralds. The beds were bare, unoccupied, the blankets folded in the precise way that suggested respect for the communal space. It was strangely empty—an oasis of calm after the chaos of travel, horde kills, and Arden's relentless leadership.
Reddin's eyes traveled over each bunk, noting how tight the quarters were. There was almost no space to move between the beds, a careful dance required to avoid knocking into a metal frame or tripping over a blanket tossed carelessly. Each bed had a small shelf nailed into the wall beside it, for the occupants' few personal items: a tin mug, a pocketknife, sometimes a bundle of letters or notes. He noted how cramped the area was, realizing quickly that sixteen people in here would be cozy at best, crowded at worst. The thought didn't surprise him; it felt right. It felt human, like a place made to keep people alive rather than to pamper them.
Reddin set his pack down in a corner near the stove, lifting the flap to check his supplies before resting it again. Veyra moved to a nearby bed, stretching and curling atop the folded blankets, letting her body warmth seep into the fabric. He adjusted his jacket, shrugged off the backpack straps, and slowly lowered himself onto one of the lower bunks, testing the mattress with his hand and shifting to see how it held. It was firm but not unforgiving, the blankets cool to the touch. He reached into his pack, pulling out a small water flask and taking a sip, the liquid warm against his teeth, an anchor against the creeping chill of the room.
The walls carried the faint marks of previous occupants—scratches where claws or tools had brushed, scrawled initials, simple carvings meant to remind someone that they'd been here, that they'd lived through a night or two. Reddin traced a finger over one, a simple symbol that looked like a small tree with a circle around it. A reminder of something lost or survived. He didn't linger; it felt like intrusion. He leaned back, letting his gaze wander to the small lights overhead. They hummed softly, a gentle reassurance that the power would hold, that warmth could be maintained, that survival was not just an abstract concept but a daily, tangible practice.
Veyra's tail flicked against the edge of the bed as she adjusted, finally curling into a tight circle. Her purring—or whatever low, vibrating sound she made—resonated through the frame of the bed, a subtle warmth against the cold wooden floor. Reddin leaned back, letting his hands rest on the blankets, feeling the weight of the day pressing against him. He listened: the snow pattering faintly against the windows, the occasional groan from the outer walls as the wind battered them, the distant shouts and laughter from survivors completing their day's work.
Movement caught his eye: a small stack of firewood near the stove, neatly arranged but untouched. The cold had kept it from burning today, but he could imagine it: flames crackling, the smell of resin and smoke curling upward, warmth filling every corner, the hum of life in the gatehouse amplified by heat. He shifted, testing the blankets again, feeling the texture of wool against his skin, the rough patches where repairs had been made. It was comfort in a raw, elemental way—no soft luxuries, just protection, just safety, just the simple assurance that tonight, he would not be out in the snow.
He allowed himself a quiet moment, closing his eyes, the rhythmic pulse of the pyre still faint in his mind, the sound of Veyra's breath steady beside him. The space was tight, cramped, but it was shelter. It was temporary, fragile, but it was life. He ran a hand along the metal edge of the bunk, imagining the stories each occupant would have brought here, each night spent in this room, each whisper, each silent prayer, each plan for tomorrow.
Reddin shifted, rolling slightly onto his side, facing the wall. The hum of the wind turbines overhead mixed with the distant groan of the compound, a lullaby of survival. He could feel the faint vibration in the floorboards, subtle but present, as if the building itself breathed in sync with the pyre and the State House beyond. The stove stood cold but ready, the lights flickering slightly as gusts passed through the cracks near the windows.
Veyra stirred slightly, moving closer, her warmth pressing against him. He let himself relax into the thin mattress, the bundled blankets, the quiet. This was a reprieve, a pause between the chaos of outside and the vigilance that tomorrow would demand. The door was closed, shutting out the wind almost entirely, the only sound the faint whisper of survival in the room.
Reddin's thoughts drifted, circling the day's events: Arden's fire, the snow pressing down, the panther at his side, the subtle glimmer of hope in the pyre's flames. He felt a subtle connection to this place, to its people, to the rhythm of life that persisted even in the cold, even in the snow, even in a world that had been torn apart. He shifted again, finally settling, letting the blankets envelope him as Veyra exhaled softly beside him.
Outside, the wind continued to bite, snow accumulating in soft drifts against the walls of the gatehouse. Inside, there was warmth, light, and the subtle hum of electricity—a small, defiant assertion of life against the quiet, encroaching night. Reddin closed his eyes, letting the sounds, the textures, the faint heat, and the soft presence of Veyra lull him toward sleep. Not comfort, not luxury, but survival.
And for now, that was enough.
-
The wind had been gnawing at the gatehouse walls for hours, a persistent scraping whisper against the wood and metal. Snowflakes drifted in through the small cracks at the edges of the window, collecting on the floorboards in soft, white mounds. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the overhead lights, their pale yellow glow mingling with the soft shadow of Veyra, curled along the lower bunk. Reddin had finally allowed himself a moment to relax, the rigid tension of travel and combat still lingering like a low hum beneath his skin.
A knock came at the door, sharp and sudden, making him stiffen instantly. His fingers grazed the hilt of the short blade he kept by the bed, instinct sharp from years of habit. For a long moment, he stayed frozen, listening to the slight shuffle outside. Then, shaking his head, he let his hand fall away. It was likely just a survivor, though the muscle memory of ambushes refused to leave him.
He moved carefully, boots quiet against the wooden floor, and reached for the door. Pulling it open, the cold air rushed in, carrying the sting of snow and the distant tang of pine from beyond the compound walls. The first thing he noticed was hair—blond, sun-bleached, catching what little remaining light there was. The woman standing there was just shy of five-foot-seven, slim, shoulders relaxed under a leather-fur jacket dusted lightly with frost. Long, beachy waves tumbled over her shoulders, the sides of her head shaved close, giving her an edgy yet effortless presence.
She was balancing a steaming bowl of stew in one hand, her other arm looped around a small backpack strapped snugly at her waist. The frost had left her cheeks flushed, giving her a healthy glow against the cold. "Jesus, it's fucking cold," she said immediately, voice carrying a light lilt that suggested humor rather than anger. "Move so I can come in already?"
Reddin raised an eyebrow, expression guarded but curious. "Uh… sure," he said, stepping aside. The woman moved past him, boots dusting snow onto the floorboards.
"Cozy," she said, surveying the room with a playful smirk, eyes scanning the bunk beds, the stove, the neat stack of firewood. There was something about the way she moved—assured, fluid, almost predatory in her ease within the small space. She set the bowl down on the floor near the stove and then moved to the metal box itself, sliding open the door. Inside, she stacked small twigs and kindling before striking a match, the flame catching quickly, licking at the wood hungrily. The stove shivered briefly as it accepted the fire, warmth beginning to radiate, filling the room with a soft, comforting heat.
Reddin's gaze followed her, noting the efficiency with which she moved. She didn't rush, but there was a practiced precision in her motions—every step, every placement deliberate. Her hands worked deftly, pulling a small pot from the backpack and adding herbs or spices from a tin Reddin hadn't noticed. The steam curled into the cold air, carrying the scent of simmered vegetables and broth.
"She heard the rumor you saved our fearless commander," she said, voice rising slightly in a playful, dramatic tone, almost teasing him. "He's always getting into trouble somehow. I swear."
Reddin allowed a faint half-smile but remained silent, letting her words hang. He wasn't used to compliments, not like this, not directed at him in casual conversation. Ambrosia—he caught her name in a flash of intuition—continued, undeterred.
"Never asks anyone for help, never asks to carry the weight of leadership," she said, walking to the middle of the room, letting her gaze wander across the empty bunks. "Even though we all trust him. But he sees something in you, ya know? The way he was talking about you earlier in the mess hall… even though you weren't there, he sensed something. Good in you. Strength. Hope."
Reddin absorbed her words, letting them sink in. There was no pretense in her tone, no empty flattery. Just observation, straightforward and oddly comforting.
She settled onto the lower bunk nearest to Veyra, and the panther shifted slightly but didn't move away. Instead, she let the woman's hand brush across her sleek fur. A faint purr resonated from deep within her chest—a sound Reddin rarely heard, one reserved only for him usually. Ambrosia's lips curved into a satisfied smile.
"I love this so much," she said softly, almost to herself. "So damn cool." Veyra stretched across her legs, tail flicking lazily, eyes half-closed in contentment.
Reddin's gaze sharpened, curiosity and caution mingling. "So… who are you?" he asked, voice low, cautious.
"Ambrosia," she replied, eyes twinkling. "You can call me Amb, Rosia, whatever works." She leaned back slightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Arden was kinda bummed you didn't come eat, so I brought you some food—and a fresh change of clothes."
Reddin's brow lifted, a spark of surprise warming his internal thoughts. These people… they really did mirror Arden. Thoughtful, careful, willing to step forward for the small gestures that kept morale alive.
"Thank you," he said softly. "I'll be sure to repay you somehow. All of you. I'll only be staying for a few more days."
Ambrosia laughed, a short, bright sound that seemed to push back against the cold. "Uh, don't think so. Not with the snow like this, mister. You're in this for at least spring." Her tone was firm, playful but carrying weight. "If you wander off, don't think my ass won't come out there, hunt you down, and drag you back by your feet." She laughed again lightly, and Veyra emitted a small, approving growl mixed with a yawn, as if to emphasize agreement.
Reddin shook his head, a quiet exhale escaping him as Ambrosia rifled through her backpack. She pulled out a folded set of clothing, rough but warm, clearly scavenged and patched with care. He rose to his feet, stretching slightly, rubbing his side where a lingering pain throbbed faintly.
"You alright?" she asked, tilting her head, eyes narrowing slightly in concern.
"Yeah, fine," Reddin replied, though the hand over his ribs betrayed him. "Got nicked a week or so ago by ambushers on my way from Farlow to here."
Ambrosia's gaze hardened slightly. "Let me see. I was a nurse, and we have plenty of medicine. Can't have you dying to infection." Her voice softened as she gestured for him to lift his shirt.
Reddin hesitated, then nodded, peeling the fabric over his head. His torso was a patchwork of scars, each one a story he didn't speak aloud. One ran deep along his chest; the flesh still raw in a fresh wound, crude stitches jagged where someone had closed it in haste. Ambrosia leaned closer, eyes scanning over the scars with a professional focus.
"Holy fuck, that looks bad," she muttered under her breath. Her hands hovered for a moment before she began opening a small kit from her backpack. "Yeah… you're going to get antibiotics, and I'm going to clean and stitch that properly. Can't leave it like this."
Reddin let her work quietly, his mind attuned to the small sounds: the scrape of her scissors, the pop of antiseptic opening, the faint sizzle as she warmed a cloth near the stove. Veyra remained unmoving, tail flicking occasionally, eyes never leaving the scene, a silent sentinel. The room smelled of cold metal, smoke, herbs, and simmering stew.
Ambrosia hummed under her breath as she prepared the stitches, checking the wound with careful precision. "Gonna sting a bit, but you'll be fine. You've been through worse, I can tell." She smiled faintly. "You're stubborn. Good trait to have in this mess."
Reddin exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease slightly as the warmth from the stove spread across the room. The glow reflected on the panther's sleek fur, on Ambrosia's focused expression, on the uneven wood of the bunkhouse walls. There was a rhythm here, a quiet order beneath the chaos of the world outside. For the first time in days, Reddin felt a tentative sense of something close to… safety.
-
The fire in the small wood stove cast trembling shadows across the cramped gatehouse bunkhouse. Veyra lay coiled along the floor near Reddin's bunk, ears alert, eyes following every movement. The warmth from the stove was faint, insufficient to chase away the chill pressing against the walls, yet it was enough to give the room a fragile comfort.
Ambrosia moved deftly across the small space, her hands working with calm precision as she cleaned and stitched the crude wound along Reddin's right side. The crude stitches were holding, but she wasn't finished yet. The sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint smoke from the stove, a pungent reminder that survival demanded attention to details most would ignore.
She paused briefly to look up at him, voice firm yet edged with teasing undertone. "Tomorrow I'll get you the antibiotics. You better believe I'll make sure you take every single one. Don't even think about skipping a dose—or I'll find you."
Reddin let out a dry, humorless chuckle, his eyes scanning her hands as she worked. "Noted," he said quietly, letting the words settle into the room.
Ambrosia hummed softly, returning to her work. Each movement was deliberate, honed through years of necessity. She tugged the thread tight, her fingers steady as she knotted the final stitch. Even with the fire flickering and shadows dancing along the walls, her control never wavered.
Outside, the wind whispered and hissed against the edges of the gatehouse, carrying the low, twisted melody. The sound was faint, but its cadence was unmistakable, curling around the building like smoke and frost. Veyra's ears twitched, her body coiling slightly as if poised to pounce. Reddin watched her, listening to the wind, feeling the familiar tension of danger pressing against the periphery of the room.
"Strange, isn't it?" Ambrosia murmured, wiping her hands on a rag and folding it carefully. "Heard rumors that Arden and Kael saw her once. One of these… things. Even just thinking about it gives you that chill." She glanced toward the window, her brow furrowed as the wind rattled the edges of the panes.
Reddin shifted slightly, careful not to irritate the wound, letting her words sink in. The stories he'd heard in Farlow, whispered between survivors in hushed tones, had always seemed exaggerated. But Ambrosia's voice carried weight, grounded in experience, and her caution lent them an air of possibility that made him pause.
"She's… different," Ambrosia continued, her hands resting for a moment on her knees. "Farlow has one too, but this one… more human. More twisted. The tales people tell… they call it Farlow's Curse, the Whore of Bishop… or make up stories about cannibals and hordes. But every time someone claims they've seen her, the details change. Different height, different eyes, sometimes not even human-like at all. You can't pin her down."
Reddin remained still, eyes following the motion of her hands as she packed away her supplies. The room was quiet except for the faint crackle from the stove and the occasional hiss of snow against the windows. Veyra shifted, purring softly as Ambrosia reached down to stroke her fur. Even the panther seemed to sense the unease in the air, yet relaxed under the calm assurance of Ambrosia's presence.
"So," Reddin said quietly, after a long pause, "that's why they call it Farlow's Curse? A story to keep people from wandering too far?"
Ambrosia shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Kinda. Maybe. Or maybe the world is stranger than we can understand. Arden and Kael… they've seen a lot. Days without sleep, planning, drinking, watching the mountains. Maybe they saw something real. Maybe they didn't. Doesn't matter, the fear keeps people alive, even if the truth is… something else entirely."
The wind outside shifted again, carrying the haunting, fractured melody of what sounded like singing and scraping together with the howl of distant wind. Reddin's hand brushed absently over the stitches, assessing them through his own practiced eye. Pain was a constant companion, but it never slowed him for long.
Ambrosia packed her kit, brushing her hands on a clean rag, the motions methodical. "Tomorrow I'll get those antibiotics for you. You'll take them all. Every single one. If I have to, I'll chase you through the snow myself," she said with a faint grin.
Reddin let a small smirk slip, the first bit of levity since arriving. "I'll keep that in mind," he said quietly. The warmth from the stove had begun to seep into his bones, and the panther's weight against his leg was oddly grounding.
"You're lucky Arden's a hell of a fighter," Ambrosia continued, leaning back against the bed frame. "He trust you."
Reddin nodded silently, letting the words settle. The stories and rumors outside, the strange melody carried by the wind, and the comfort of this room with its faint firelight and Veyra curled against him all combined into a strange, fragile sense of stability.
"You sure you know what you're doing with my panther?" Reddin asked softly, nodding toward Veyra.
Ambrosia laughed, reaching down to scratch behind the panther's ears. "Yeah, she's not as scary as she looks. She only bites the idiots. And trust me… she knows who counts and who doesn't."
Veyra shifted slightly, giving a low rumble of agreement, the purr vibrating against Reddin's leg. The panther's presence was a constant reminder of the fine line between predator and companion, death and trust.
"Alright," Ambrosia said, finally settling herself on the floor near the stove, letting the firelight fall over her. "You'll rest for a bit, eat the stew later, and keep warm. Don't wander outside. Not tonight. Not with that wind. Not with… her out there." Her voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. "I've heard stories. Most of them are probably bullshit. But some of it… well, we've seen enough to know not all of it is."
Reddin exhaled, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly. He had come here expecting chaos, but instead found… this. A small, grounded order in a world of frozen ruin. He looked down at Veyra, her massive head resting across his lap, eyes half-closed, and allowed himself a moment to feel… not safe, exactly, but steady.
Outside, the wind carried the melody again, distant and fragmented. Even here, inside the walls of the gatehouse, it was a reminder of the world beyond. Yet inside, with fire, company, and the subtle grounding of routine and care, Reddin allowed himself the smallest measure of reprieve.
Ambrosia hummed quietly as she cleaned the last of her kit. "Sleep. I'll check on you tomorrow. Take the antibiotics. Keep your wound clean. And if you step outside before the snow dies down… I'll hunt you myself." She chuckled softly, the warmth in her voice contrasting sharply with the icy wind outside.
Reddin allowed himself a small smile, finally letting his body sink into the bunk, muscles relaxing. Veyra shifted slightly, settling more firmly against him. The night stretched on, the wind's melody cutting faintly through the darkness, but inside the gatehouse, for a moment, the world was still.