Session 13

Miquitzil staggered from the snow‑churned ground outside the bloodied canvas of the sundered tent, each breath misting in the frigid air. His wounds throbbed, but the deeper cut lay unseen. He sank onto the edge of Garret’s sled, shoulders rising and falling in ragged rhythm. No tears came, yet the weight of it pressed heavy: his kin — the women who wove tendon into tents, the shaman who prepared the rites, the tribe’s chosen warrior — had been sent to end him.

To them he was not a son or cousin, but the curse itself. Proof, they believed, of the endless winter’s price.

He did not believe it. Not truly.

But the truth that cut deepest was simpler.

He was alone now.

The others searched the remains of the hunting party’s camp. The tent yielded little beyond grim necessities: frozen chunks of seal blubber, strips of leathery smoked fish, a sour brew of herbs steeped in meltwater. The weapons were crude — bone and stone hafted with rawhide, serviceable to Ice Hunters perhaps, but useless to them. No coin, no treasures, nothing worth the weight to carry.

Felwar slipped from the tent, cloak drawn tight. The city watch had gathered at the edge of the scene, their lanterns casting long stripes of gold across the snow. He spoke to them quietly, explaining the clash, his words carrying just enough weight to steady the moment. When the guards learned it was the Brave Hearts at the centre of the struggle, they nodded gravely and stepped back.

“There is nothing more to see here,” one said. “We will see to the bodies. The snow will be cleared before morning.”

And so, beneath the dim aurora and the whispering wind, the Brave Hearts gathered around Garret’s sled.

Felwar spoke quietly, asking Raine and Thelonius whether they should push on to Targos or return to Bryn Shander for the night. His glance slid toward Miquitzil, still hunched and bloodied.

Thelonius didn’t answer him. Instead, he moved to the sled, sitting beside Miquitzil and resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I won’t ask how you are,” he said gently. “That’s plain to see. But what was that about? Were they from a rival tribe?”

Miquitzil didn’t look up. His voice was flat. “My kin. They have sunken into their delusions.”

Thelonius frowned. “What do you mean? Delusions? What do they think?”

“They think I am to blame for all this — the end of the seasons, the forever night.”

“That’s madness. Why would they believe such a thing?”

Miquitzil’s shoulders sagged, strength gone from him. “I do not want to talk. Just know this — my tribe sacrificed me to the snows as a child, but the winter spat me back. I lived, somehow. I suppose they wanted to try again. Their shaman has it out for me.”

He lifted his freshly scarred face, resolve hard in his eyes. “If they come upon us again, we will act first. No questions. I see them — it’s going to end badly for them.”

Thelonius squeezed his shoulder. “And we’ll be there beside you. For what it’s worth, I do not believe you are the cause of this winter.”

Miquitzil gave no answer. His gaze dropped to his lap, where he picked at his blood‑stained hands.

Thelonius rejoined the others. Felwar and Raine had already agreed with Garret to rest briefly and then push on directly to Targos. The hunter promised they could make it in four hours, perhaps less if they did not dawdle. Thelonius nodded, glancing back at the sled.

“Let Miquitzil ride. He is not fit for marching.”

No thanks were given. None were expected. It was simply what companions did.

---

The journey to Targos was uneventful. Once through the gate, Garret turned his sled toward Barnsley’s Mount Hire. The young kennel‑master grumbled at the state of the dogs — lean, ribs showing, their condition poor after hard travel — but brightened when he shared good news.

Three of Garret’s lost hounds had returned from Kelvin’s Cairn. Jaxal, Stinky‑Two, and Talira were alive and well.

Garret’s face lit with relief. He embraced Barnsley fiercely, thanking him over and over. “I wouldn’t be alive were it not for your marvellous dogs,” he said, promising to return with Keegan on the morrow to settle accounts properly. His joy was radiant, yet even the reunion could not hold him long. Keegan would be waiting, and the thought of his husband drew him like a lodestone.

He chattered as they walked, urging the Brave Hearts to hurry. “His cinnamon teacakes are the best in Ten‑Towns — I would wager he has a batch warm for us even now. And there is a bottle of winterwine put aside, cellared when we moved in — we will crack it open tonight!”
His joy was a bright flame in the cold, his stride quick with impatience and love. “What a story we have to tell.”

But when they turned onto his street, Felwar slowed. His eldritch‑honed eyes saw it first in the darkness — the door of Garret and Keegan’s house stood wide, snow drifted across the threshold, spilling into the dark within.

Felwar raised a hand. “Garret. Wait. The door is open. Let us check it first.”

But Garret could not be held. Fear and love wrestled across his face, and love won. With a choked breath he pushed Felwar aside. He broke into a run, boots pounding through the drift as the Brave Hearts surged after him. He flung the door wide and vanished into the dark.

A heartbeat later the house split with his scream — a sound of such raw anguish it turned the marrow in their bones to ice.

The Brave Hearts pushed inside, weapons drawn. The cold here was heavier than the night air, as though the Frostmaiden herself had pressed her breath against the walls. A metallic tang filled their throats, sharp and raw.

Garret was on his knees at the table, his hands clawing at the wood, his voice shattering against the rafters. “Why? Gods, no… no, no!” His sobs tore through the silence, ragged and desperate — the sound of a man whose world had ended in an instant.

The candlelight flickered, revealing the horror around them. The walls were painted in great sweeping arcs of frozen blood, a ghastly calligraphy gleaming red‑black in the half‑light. Each wall bore a phrase, as though binding the room in some ritual of cruelty:

• Price paid for the one stolen.
• I am the wind. You will never know me.
• Cease your meddling.
• The never changing is beautiful.

In the centre, Keegan’s body lay upon the table. His chest was split wide, ribs splayed like a cage, and where his heart should have been there was only a jagged lump of ice. A blade of flawless crystal pinned it in place, its point driven through heart and timber alike. Frost spiralled lazily from the wound, webbing across the boards beneath him.

The only sounds were Garret’s sobs, the hiss of their own breath in the frozen air, and the soft crunch of boots on snow‑dusted floorboards.

Thelonius crossed the room at once, stooping beside Garret and trying to draw him back. “There is nothing you can do here. Come with me. Let the others search.”
But Garret would not move. He clung to the table, shrugging Thelonius off with a wild shake of his head, his grief immovable.

Miquitzil stepped to Keegan’s body, lips moving as he called on his magic. The hum of power filled the air as his eyes traced the lines of spellcraft.

Behind him, Felwar stiffened. A sound — wet, obscene — came from the hearth. He turned and with a start saw Boy crouched low, tongue lapping at the half‑frozen lump cast into the ashes. Horror churned through him. Shielding Garret from the sight, he reached in, lifted the ruined heart with reverent care, and placed it upon the table beside Keegan’s body.

“The blade is magical,” Miquitzil said at last, voice low, bitter. “The same as the others. This is the work of the Ice Killer.”

Garret’s eyes lifted to the walls, his lips moving as he traced the bloody script, even as Thelonius tried in vain to steady him.

Felwar’s gaze followed, the words scraping at the edges of his mind until they broke loose in a rush.

“We saved Garret. This is the price paid for saving him.”

Garret’s head snapped round, horror blazing through his grief. “What… what are you saying? That I killed him? No… nooo!”

His voice shattered, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“You did not kill him,” Thelonius said firmly, his voice an anchor in the storm.

But Felwar could not shake the thought. The meaning gnawed at him. “We saved you from certain death… and she sent that monster here to take her due.”

Garret’s grief curdled into something close to madness. He clutched Keegan’s lifeless hand, pressing it to his face. “Oh, Keegan. My poor, sweet darling. What have I done? It should have been me.”

Miquitzil turned his back on the scene, moving silently through the room, tracing frost and blood‑written words with careful eyes. Raine stood like a statue at the door, gaze fixed outward, his silence heavy as stone.

At last, Felwar stopped. He saw how his words had cut Garret deeper, tearing wounds that would never close. He swallowed hard, then knelt beside the broken man. His voice came low, but fierce with conviction.

“You need to live, Garret. There is no undoing this. Keegan would want you to live to the fullest. Are you hearing me? You must go on, no matter how impossible it feels.”

Garret sobbed, head bowed, shoulders shaking. Felwar seized him by the shoulders, almost shaking him.

“Look at me! Yes, this horror is almost too much to bear. But bear it you must. You must get through this. He cannot die for nothing.”

The words pierced the fog of grief. Garret nodded, eyes red and wet. He forced his mouth into a tight line of determination — the smallest flicker of strength amidst the ruin of his sorrow.

“Do you have anyone you can stay with?” Thelonius asked.

“My neighbours… yes,” Garret whispered.

“Then let me take you there.” Thelonius rose, nodding to the others. He all but carried Garret from the house, Boy trailing behind with his tail low, as though he too knew something was terribly wrong.

There was nothing more to be done. The others searched the room a final time, but the truth was plain.

“The ponytailed one from Torg’s,” Raine said grimly. “We have to find him.”

“And end him,” Felwar hissed.

Miquitzil gave a weary nod. Too much pain for one day — far too much.

When Thelonius returned from delivering Garret into his neighbour’s care, they closed the door behind them and turned toward the Luskan Arms. But their steps slowed as they reached the frozen docks.

There, set up in the snow, stood the carts and bright awnings of Torg’s Travelling Caravan. Lanterns swung in the wind, and a handful of townsfolk huddled at the stalls, braving the cold to shop.

Felwar’s hand drifted to his blade, eyes narrowing with murderous intent. Beside him, Miquitzil’s jaw was set hard, already shaping the weave of spells he would unleash. Thelonius leaned forward, eager to shift to bear form and tear down the awnings, drag the killer into the snow. Vengeance burned hot in all three — immediate as breath.

Raine lifted a hand, his voice a hard whisper. “No. Not here, not now. The last thing we need is to cut them down in front of the townsfolk and be charged with murder.” His gaze never left the caravan. “We take this to Captain Skath first. Make it clean. Make it right.”

Reluctantly, the others stilled. The fire in them had not dimmed, but Raine’s words held. With one last look at the bright canvas and the shadows moving within, they turned away, circling around the caravan, slipping past the few locals who bartered against the wind. Their boots carried them on toward the Luskan Arms, the promise of reckoning simmering just beneath the surface.

Inside, the inn was warm with woodsmoke and spilled ale, laughter rising and falling in easy waves. The Brave Hearts carried a different weather with them — the iron chill of Keegan’s house, the memory of Garret’s scream still ringing in their ears. They pressed for a meeting and were answered quickly.

Captain Skath entered like a blade through cloth. Tall, armoured, eyes hard, he cut straight to the table where Raine sat and did not bother to look at the others for long.

“Raine. What brings you back to Targos? Do you have my cauldron?”

“Not yet,” Raine said.

“Then it is not here.” The words were flat, final. “You will remedy that.”

“We will. We have been… delayed.” Raine’s voice held steady. “There is an urgent matter.”

Felwar spoke before he could say more. “The ice murders. The killer is with Torg’s caravan.”

Skath’s gaze ticked to Felwar — a measuring glance, nothing more — then returned to Raine. “Explain.”

Raine gave him the bones of it. Bodies sent to Bryn Shander. A priest who spoke with the dead. The victim describing the man clearly enough — ponytailed, ice eyes, winter‑cold. The Brave Hearts knew him to be a worker with Torg’s. And then, the newest wound: Keegan, murdered in his own home.

Skath’s jaw tightened a fraction. “I had not heard.” He stood without another word. “Outside.”

He moved like a storm breaking. Orders snapped. In minutes ten determined militia fell in around him, boots crunching in the snow as lanterns swung against the wind. Townsfolk peered from doorways and shutters as the column swept down the dock toward the caravan, the warmth of the tavern falling away behind them.

Torg’s Travelling Caravan glowed beneath its bright awnings, canvas cracking in the gusts. In moments the militia had it encircled. Torrga Icevein emerged with hands raised to show nothing but rings and frostbitten pride. Sephek was not with them. He had taken leave — a guard and labourer allowed a few days away. When Skath demanded where, Torrga flicked her chin toward the east.

“A cabin,” she said. “North‑west edge of the White Woods. That’s all I know.”

The circle was closing.

Raine stepped in before the cord tightened further. “Stand your men down, Captain. We will handle this.”

Skath studied him in the lanternlight, weighing risk against result. At last, he nodded once. “Very well. Bring him back when you are done.” He finally let his eyes pass briefly across the others — Thelonius, Miquitzil, Felwar — as if counting tools in Raine’s kit. “If he will not talk, his corpse may.”

---

At first light they ate in silence, checked gear, and stepped out into a sky the colour of a bruise. With Thelonius’ familiar ranging ahead, the trail unwound faster than expected — through wind‑carved drifts and groaning pines to a small clearing where a lonely cabin squatted under a hood of rime.

One way or another, it would end here, in the snow.

The snow fell in a fine sift, soft as flour, straight down from a belly of cloud. No wind. Every sound lived and died close to the ground — the crunch of boots, the small chuff of breath, the faint creak of laden boughs. The trees ringed the clearing like a palisade, spruce and fir shouldering close, their branches bowed with powder.

In the centre stood a lonely cabin on short stilts, a porch roof sloped under rime, a low woodpile half buried beside an empty trough. The windows were blind with frost. No smoke rose from the chimney.

They came in from the east, single file at first, then fanning to the edges of the open snow. There were prints here — many — a path scuffed hard from the treeline to the stoop and back again, the topmost blurs still crisp. He was using this place, and recently.

Thelonius sent his familiar skimming through the still air, a dark flicker against the pale, circling the roofline and peering into the seams. Nothing stirred above or beneath. The windows were milked with ice, useless for watching within.

They crept forward — Felwar and Thelonius sliding south through clusters of brush, Miquitzil arcing to the north through thinner cover, Raine taking the path straight to the door. The snow took them quietly, until a low branch tugged at Thelonius’ shoulder and he stumbled. He caught himself against a great fir, and a veil of powder fell from the bough, then another as the limbs shrugged free — a soft, hissing cascade that seemed far too loud for the still morning.

They froze.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

Raine exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and drew his sword. He moved down the path at a measured pace. He was forty feet from the stoop when the door opened.

Sephek stood square in the doorway.

Bare forearms. Linen sleeves rolled to the elbow. No cloak.
No breath in the air.

The cold did not touch him.

His face was set and unreadable, all muscle and control — the look of a man who has never been beaten and has finished every fight. His eyes were ice‑blue and steady, the kind that do not blink when blades come out. He did not fidget or boast. He watched, weighed distances, turned a fraction to narrow his profile, and waited.

His gear was simple and tight to the body — a close‑fitted vest, leather straps and buckles placed to do a job and nothing more. No weapon on his belt.

He carried himself like a professional who expects to win. Quiet. Efficient. No wasted motion. If he stepped forward, it was because he had already decided how the next seconds would end.

He looked straight at Raine.

Raine, unsure, called a greeting that sounded thin in the quiet. Nothing came back.

“Are you deaf?” he tried again. “Cat got your tongue?”

Sephek’s eyes slid once left, once right — cataloguing Felwar in the shadows, Miquitzil crouched north in the snow, and the looming shape of Thelonius between the trees — and then a long blade of clear ice slid into being in his hand, narrow and cruel. He lifted two fingers and beckoned.

Raine did not come.

Sephek watched him a heartbeat longer, unreadable, then stepped back and closed the door.

Raine stepped forward, then stopped, second‑guessing.

From the trees to his right, Miquitzil hissed, “We can burn him out.”

Thelonius sank low, muscles bunching, the bear already stirring beneath his skin. Felwar ghosted around to the rear of the cabin and set his picks to the back‑door latch with cold‑numbed fingers, but the mechanism refused him; nothing gave.

Miquitzil snapped his wrist, and the quiet broke. Alchemist’s fire burst against the frame and climbed the planks.

With Raine, Felwar, and Thelonius circling the rear, Sephek smashed through a window and ran, snow flicking into the air with each step. He slashed twice at Miquitzil — both strikes cutting only air. Miquitzil answered with a gout of dragon breath that took him full on, blistering skin as flame roared across the porch. Sephek’s cold magic snapped back like a sprung trap — winter made pain — but Miquitzil’s natural resistance blunted the worst of it.

The flames were Sephek’s enemy. Miquitzil saw it plain as day and, despite the dire turn, he smiled.

He cupped a hand to his mouth and called, “He’s here — out front!”

Raine surged, rage lifting him, charging to where Miquitzil had Sephek pinned. Thelonius gave himself over to fur and fang and thundered around the cabin at his heels. Sephek met them with a cone of killing frost that glazed Raine’s armour and turned the bear’s fur white. Felwar broke from the rear, abandoning the lock to throw himself into the fight.

The air thickened. Sephek glanced from Miquitzil to the looming bear and blew a kiss — the Frostmaiden’s kiss — a suffocating chill that clawed for Thelonius’ lungs. The bear staggered, choking, throat tightening, then shook it off with a roar.

Before Raine or Thelonius could strike back, Sephek dissolved into a coil of frigid mist and slipped back inside the cabin.

From his angle at the rear, Felwar caught the shimmer of movement through the frost‑limned window and shouted the warning.

Miquitzil was not about to step into a confined space with that killer. Instead he kept the pressure on, drawing deep and loosing another ribbon of fire across the porch. The small conifers under the eaves went up with a crackle and a rush, smoke curling beneath the roof. He meant to burn the cabin and drive Sephek out, where the Brave Hearts could close in from all sides.

Raine, wild with rage, kicked the door. It blew inward, flame licking up his boot. He stamped once, never taking his eyes from the assassin. Sephek’s arm snapped and an ice dagger hissed for Raine’s throat. Raine turned it aside with the flat of his sword and shouldered through.

The bear followed, great shoulders forcing the frame. Inside was tight — too tight — but Thelonius did not care. He knocked over a shelf, dragged table and chair in his wake, and closed on the killer. One claw gouged long furrows in the wall, the other raked across Sephek’s side.

Sephek answered with steel made frost — a brutal cut that split fur and hide, then a rake of freezing fingers that burned deeper than the blade.

Outside, Miquitzil swung wide, circling north. He drew again, the curious crystal in his ribs tingling as he loosed a gout of dragon breath across the wall. Flame washed the timbers — frozen through, stubborn — licking bright where pitch and old sap took. Smoke rose and curled under the eaves as the snow drifted lazily down. The wood was alight now, yes, but would it truly catch?

Felwar finally set his picks just so and the back latch gave. He slipped inside. Between him at the rear and Raine and Thelonius forcing the front, they had Sephek near a corner, the room thick with overturned chairs and splintered shelves.

But Sephek was no brawler to be penned. He slid through the clutter with cold economy, reached the back door, tore it open, and slammed it behind him as he vanished from view.

Raine tore after him. He wrenched the door back so hard it dragged the killer half a step off balance and slashed, steel hissing through the cold. Thelonius shouldered out beside him and began to circle, cutting off the easy line to the trees.

Felwar raised a hand and cast his illusion. In Sephek’s mind, spiked chains burst from the frozen ground, coiling tight and biting deep. For a heartbeat he felt the spikes dig and the world close in around him.

He did not accept it. He stepped into rime and was elsewhere — a misty step to the far side of the cabin — then ran for the tree line, desperate to steal strength from the healing snow.

Miquitzil heard the shift more than saw it. He moved around the corner, drew, and let the arrow fly. It punched into Sephek’s thigh and turned his run crooked.

“Over here!” he called, throat singing.

Raine’s rage did not falter. He ran the arc of the cabin, Thelonius and Felwar sweeping after him. The druid pulled up mid‑stride and called a starry wisp into being; tiny motes struck a fir and lit it for a heartbeat like a festival tree as the owl stooped, diving to throw Sephek’s eye.

At the porch the front fire had guttered to a smoulder. Around the back the wet, frozen planks refused to take — the cabin would not catch as Miquitzil had hoped.

Felwar planted and fired an eldritch force‑seed. It struck true, cracking across Sephek’s ribs and staggering him. The killer’s head snapped toward Felwar, a shard of pure hatred in those ice‑blue eyes.

Sephek weighed the wounded and chose his mark. He closed on Felwar and cut. The first slice opened the warlock’s ribs and flooded his tunic with heat. In that instant Felwar knew how close he was to falling — and reached for the tiny forest blessing at his throat. The chwinga charm flared. Warmth surged through him as torn flesh knit and his breath steadied.

He smiled, thin and stubborn.

Sephek did not.

The second stroke went wide as Felwar ducked under it. “A‑ha,” he hissed through his teeth.

Miquitzil’s next arrow whipped past in the snow haze. Above, the owl stooped again, a snap of wings that tugged Sephek’s focus for a heartbeat — just long enough for Raine to take the opening. He drove in with advantage and landed a brutal hit that hammered through leather and into bone.

Sephek answered with the Frostmaiden’s kiss. His palm struck Felwar’s chest and a cloying, freezing pressure flooded the warlock’s lungs. Felwar’s eyes went wide as breath refused him. Thelonius raked across the snow, but his next claw found only air.

Felwar fought the suffocating cold, coughed hard, and forced air back into his chest. He rose through it, pact blade flashing, and struck Sephek across the flank.

The killer threw a fan of frost that washed over Thelonius and Miquitzil, then turned and drove his blade for Raine.

Raine’s answer was a sound none of them had heard from him before — a raw, tearing battle cry. He stepped inside the line and cut sideways in a single, savage arc.

The blade took Sephek’s head clean off.

The body held a heartbeat, rigid as iron, then toppled backward into the drift.

The clearing fell still.

There was no steam from the stump or head as the heroes gathered their breath.

It was done.

Miquitzil and Thelonius agreed that Sephek was no ordinary man. There was no warmth in the flesh, only desiccated organs inside, already blanching white in the cold.

Miquitzil calmly removed the assassin’s eyes first, slipping them into a vial. The others grimaced but said nothing. Then, with the last of his dragon breath, he bade the others step back and blasted the body and head with magical fire. When the flames died and the head cooled somewhat, he placed it in a sack and handed it to Raine.

It might not be exactly what Captain Skath wanted, but it was proof — and the killing would stop.

They searched the cabin. It was in disrepair. If Sephek stayed here, he did not live here. Food lay spoiled or frozen solid in corners, a rind of ice on jars and a stink of old fat under the cold. A film of damp dust clung to every surface, streaked with long‑dried mud where boots had passed and never wiped. The bed was askew, covers tugged and creased, but no one had slept there in a long time — the sheets were stiff with frost and ice crystals webbed the mattress.

Under a threadbare rug they found sigils cut into the floorboards, the lines sharp and deliberate, etched deep. Emblems of Auril, the Frostmaiden, spread across the planks like a private shrine. Everything else spoke of neglect, but this was tended. Sephek had no use for mortal comforts. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He came here only to stand in the cold and kneel among those markings, closer to his goddess.

“That confirms it,” Felwar said. “He is her agent. She is behind the killings. Anyone who dodges the lottery — she sends him.”

Raine frowned. “How would she know?”

“Who can say,” Miquitzil answered. “She is a god. Likely she knows everything.”

Silence followed. If that was true, what would she do next?

At last Raine moved. He dragged a rusty box from under the bed, checked it for traps, then levered the lid. Inside lay a tidy stack of gold, tarnished from sitting; a set of fine clothes stained with old blood; a pair of crag cat gloves; and a small, well‑made hunting knife. Miquitzil tested them for magic and smiled. The gloves and knife glowed faintly. The gloves, he said, would aid climbing and let the wearer cast feather fall a few times each day. The knife would never dull — a minor magic, but useful all the same.

They were all hurt, some worse than others. It had not been an easy fight. Miquitzil suggested they rest here and bind wounds, but Felwar would have none of it. The sigils had unsettled him, and the thought of staying in that room — this place — a moment longer made his stomach turn.

They put the torch to the cabin instead. Flames took the rug first, then licked along the carved lines until the shrine blackened and curled. The cabin went up slowly, but smoke was soon pouring into the silent snow and inky black sky.

They walked back to Targos under a falling hush and reported to Captain Skath. Raine passed him the sack. Skath loosened the strings just enough to peer in, then pulled them tight at once.

“Well, that’s that,” he said, perfunctorily. His gaze fixed on Raine. “You’ve done the Ten‑Towns a great service, Raine. Well done. Come back when you have the cauldron. It could make a difference here.”

Raine met his gaze without flinching. “Count on it. We’ve got one more chore to do first, then we’ll head to Easthaven to find that pot of yours.”

Skath gave a single, satisfied nod, confidence resting squarely on Raine. “Did you find anything there — any magic or treasure?”

Raine shook his head and lied. “Nothing much.” He moved on quickly. “We think he was undead. The place was abandoned, even though he stayed there. No food. Nothing of value.”

Skath nodded once more, turned on his heel, and headed upstairs — no doubt to report to Speaker Naerth. They watched the sack sway as he went.

---

Thelonius did not come to the tavern. He went to see Garret and offer what help he could. Garret was still heartbroken and in shock, though the neighbours were kind and tending him well. He tried to thank Thelonius for checking on him, but Thelonius quietened him with a raised hand.

“It wasn’t just to check on you,” he said gently. “We found him — the one who killed your husband, and a number of others.”

Garret sat up, intent.

“And we killed him,” Thelonius said. “He will not hurt anybody else. Never again.”

Garret sagged into Thelonius’ shoulder and sobbed. It would not bring Keegan back, but it was something.

After a brief, sombre lunch, Garret invited Thelonius to return to his home. “Behind the painting over the mantle is a map. I want you to have it. I promised Felwar.

“Years back, I took a band of big‑game hunters out east of Caer‑Konig. They were after a remorhaz — nasty thing, but folk will pay a fortune for the carapace if you can bring one down.

“Out on the tundra we hit a spire — a hacked‑off bite of an old tower, black as midnight, knifing up from the snow. Big thing. Still near missed it. You do not see it till you are on top of it. From a hundred yards out, nothing — just wind and snow.

“We did not dare mess with it, but I was curious. So I marked its place on my map, thinking maybe one day I would go back, see if there was a nest egg inside for me and Keegan.

“Truth is, you would never find it without that map. It is like the thing hides itself until you are standing right on it. But I have the map at home, and it’s yours. Maybe what is in there will boost your chances in the Dale and your quest to end this curse.”

Thelonius nodded and thanked him. “What will you do now?”

“I will sell the place,” Garret said. “I cannot go back there. I need to pay my debt to Barnsley — the rent for the marvellous dogs that ferried you lot to Kelvin’s Cairn. And then… I do not know. Find a job. Somewhere to live.”

Thelonius pressed a small pouch into his hands — the gold from Sephek’s cabin. “Here. Put this towards the debt.”

Garret tried to refuse, but Thelonius insisted. “Take it. It is the least we can do.”