Session 5

Leaving the headless body of the dwarf for the wolves, the party swept the area for the scattered ingots the goblins had dropped. Piece by piece they heaved the cold iron back onto the sled. With trial, error, and no shortage of muttered curses, they worked out a way to shift the load with some efficiency — but even so, the sled was brutally heavy. Before long they were breathless, sweat slicking their backs beneath their winter layers. Stripping down was not an option. The wind would eat them alive.

They reached the road a few hours later. Raine and Miquitzil took stock, squinting north along the packed ice. By their reckoning, they were only a few miles south of Termalaine. The thought of a warm fire and four walls tugged at all of them — but the sled groaned behind, heavy with dwarven iron, and the promise had been made.

“Termalaine can wait,” Raine said, gloved hand resting on the load. “These ingots are owed to Targos.”

So they turned south instead. The packed road took the weight much easier, and soon the runners were scraping over frozen ground in a rough, steady rhythm, the sound of iron and ice marking out the long hours still ahead.

That rhythm broke when Miquitzil pointed toward the Maer.

“Idiots,” he hissed. “That ice is too thin.”

Two children were out on the lake — a girl of maybe twelve and a boy of eight, hunched over a fishing hole hacked into the ice. Even at a distance the surrounding surface looked wrong. Dark. Wet. Too much black water too close beneath.

Felwar cupped his hands to his mouth. “Kids! Stay where you are!” he shouted. “It’s not safe — we’re coming to get you!”

They didn’t get the chance.

The fishing hole frothed. A crack like a breaking bone split the air, and something long and pale erupted from the water, drenching the children in slush.

It hit the ice with a wet slap — a ten‑foot ice lamprey, its mucous‑slick body writhing, skin the colour of old fat. Its circular mouth gaped and flexed, ringed with needle teeth that rasped on the ice as it dragged itself forward.

The girl grabbed the boy on instinct and dragged him back. The move saved him from the first lunge but scattered them. The boy slid backwards on his heels, lost his footing and crashed down hard, bouncing on his backside. The girl shot the other way, palms and knees scraping raw across the slick surface. When they stopped, the lamprey lay between them, turning toward the smaller, easier meal.

The boy scrabbled uselessly at the ice, boots squealing, trying to push himself away. The girl, stranded on the far side, suddenly found herself too far to reach him and too close to turn and run.

Thelonius moved.

He snatched the coiled rope from the sled and shoved one end into Raine’s hands, the line already snaking out behind him. “Hold it,” he snapped. “Do not let go.”

Raine clamped down on the rope, boots digging trenches in the snow.

Thelonius bolted a few strides out onto the Maer, the rope trailing behind. Then his body broke and reknit on the run — bones twisting, muscle swelling, fur tearing through skin. In the space of a breath the Dougan’s Hole farmer was gone, and a wolf hit the ice at a dead sprint, rope clamped in his jaws.

“What in all hells,” Raine muttered, but there was no time for more.

The lamprey was already hauling itself toward the boy when Miquitzil thrust his staff forward, voice cracking with a harsh old Ice Hunter syllable. Lightning crawled from the carved head, skittering over the surface in jagged lines. Frost spidered across the ice beneath the creature, stiffening it, turning its smooth wriggle into an awkward crawl.

Thelonius‑wolf cut wide, claws scrabbling for purchase as he curved in toward the girl first. He skidded to a stop beside her and dropped the rope into her hands. For a heartbeat she stared at him — not at a wild animal, but at something thinking behind its eyes.

“Grab it!” Felwar called from the shore. “Wrap it around you and hold tight!”

That broke the spell. Her fingers moved more by instinct than sense, looping the rope once around herself, knotting it clumsily at her waist, then locking both mittened hands around the line.

“Haul!” Felwar yelled.

Raine leaned back with all his weight. The rope snapped tight, jerking the girl off her knees and sending her skimming across the ice. The lamprey lunged for her as she slid, its maw slamming down where she had been a heartbeat before, teeth screeching against the frozen surface. It reared, blind head questing, then swung away from her and back toward the smaller shape further out. The boy lay there, sprawled and scrambling, with nothing but thin ice and black water beneath him. Nowhere to run. Easy prey.

She hit the shore in a tangle of limbs and snow. Raine was on her in an instant, hauling her up by the shoulders. “Run,” he barked. “To the sled. Stay there. Do not move unless I say.”

She staggered away, half falling, half running, boots sliding as she fled, crying for her brother.

Out on the Maer, Thelonius‑wolf had no breath to waste on shouting. He loped wide around the lamprey, claws skittering for purchase, then cut back in toward the boy. He clamped his jaws into the thick fold of the child’s winter jacket, careful of skin, and pulled. The boy slid after him like a sack on a line, legs trailing uselessly, boots bumping and squealing over the groaning ice. Up close, the wolf could smell the terror rolling off him, sharp and sour — but the boy did not kick, did not claw or thrash. He just clung to his little fishing spear like it was a charm against drowning and let himself be dragged.

Behind them, the first lamprey, still slowed by rime from Miquitzil’s magic, made one last clumsy lunge toward the retreating pair, then slithered back into the hole in a froth of black water. Meal lost. Easier prey elsewhere.

Closer to shore, the ice groaned again.

The surface split barely an arm’s length from Raine, and a second lamprey punched through, showering him in shards. It hit almost before he registered it, circular mouth clamping around his thigh with a wet, sucking crunch.

White pain flared. Something colder flooded in behind it. The poison rode the bite, numbing his leg in seconds, chewing up through his gut, eating the strength out of his muscles.

Raine snarled and swung anyway, greatsword carving a deep groove through slick flesh more from habit than precision.

Felwar and Miquitzil charged to meet it. The wizard’s voice sank into a low, tremulous throat‑song — the old Ice Hunter cadence his people used on the sea. Lightning crawled over the carved head of his staff, hissing for release, and still he held, teeth clenched, waiting for one clean opening.

The lamprey writhed, teeth grinding deeper into Raine’s leg with every twitch, trying to haul him off his feet and down toward the water. Felwar darted in at the flank, thrusting with his blade, forcing the creature to turn and expose the joint of its jaw.

Miquitzil stepped in, ignoring the fresh tear of meat as the mouth shifted on Raine’s thigh. The carved head of his staff bloomed with pale blue fire as he swung it down in a brutal arc.

The blow landed with a sick, meaty thud, followed by the crunch of cartilage giving way beneath layers of blubber. The lamprey spasmed once, twice, then slumped — dead weight still locked around Raine’s leg like a sprung trap.

Raine went over with it, his body stiffening into a frozen board as the venom finished its work.

Out on the thinning ice, Thelonius‑wolf took slow, careful steps backward, dragging the boy by the jacket toward shore. The child had gone almost limp now, eyes wide and glassy, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts against the wolf’s muzzle.

Raine was flat on his back, breathing hard through his teeth, the dead lamprey’s jaws buried in his thigh and the surrounding flesh already purpling with a green‑grey sheen of venom.

Felwar skidded to a stop beside him. “Hold still,” he said, out of habit more than hope, and reached for the fanged ring of the creature’s mouth.

He planted a boot on the creature’s head and gripped the ring of its mouth with both hands. Even dead, the thing clung like a curse. He heaved. Several fangs tore free at once, bringing a ragged chunk of Raine’s thick trousers — and a strip of meat beneath — with them. Blood welled hot and dark, hissing as it hit the cold air.

Felwar winced. “Shit. Sorry about that.”

Raine’s glare could have frozen the lake. Feeling crept back into his arms first, then his chest, then slowly down into his ravaged leg. When he finally pushed himself upright, the scowl stayed put.

With one lamprey lying still on the ice and the other gone back to the depths, the party bundled the children onto the dwarven ingot sled, tucking them in among blankets and cold bars of iron. The two of them huddled together, eyes too wide, too bright.

Raine crouched beside the sled. “Where’s home?” he asked, voice rough but steady. “What town?”

The girl swallowed and pointed north along the lakeshore. “Termalaine.”

That settled it. Whatever muttered talk there had been of pushing on to Targos, of deadlines and dwarven payments, died on the air. The lake groaned behind them. Two shivering children stared up at them from the sled.

Thelonius stayed in his wolf form, padding over to check on the children before the journey. The boy, still trembling from cold and fright, reached out with a small mittened hand and buried it in the thick fur of his rescuer’s neck. Only when the child’s breathing had slowed did the wolf turn away. It lowered its shoulder to the sled and shoved. For the next hour he pushed it along at remarkable speed, claws scraping against the frozen road, the sled gliding behind him.

Once they were safely off the lake and the worst of the panic had drained from their faces, the girl finally found her voice. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, glanced at the strangers who had saved her life, and spoke with the stiff bravery of someone trying very hard not to cry.

“I’m Jenra,” she mumbled. “Jenra Korrun. And this is my brother.”

The boy straightened a little, still clutching his fishing spear. “Spat,” he said. “Spat Korrun.”

Miquitzil crouched in front of them, his expression stern but not unkind.

“You should not have been on that ice,” he said. “Too thin, even for small ones like you. You were lucky we were passing.”

Jenra swallowed hard. Spat nodded, eyes wide.

Raine softened his voice. “Well met, Jenna, Spat,” he said, looking at each child. “Let’s get you two back home again.”

The two children huddled closer together on the sled, still shaking, still staring at the wolf who had dragged them from death. As the party began the slow walk toward Termalaine, the siblings spoke in small, halting pieces — enough for the Brave Hearts to understand who they were, where they lived, and just how close the Maer had come to swallowing them whole.

At the Korrun home — little more than a one‑room shelter on the fringe of Termalaine — they were met by Darrul Korrun, an out‑of‑work miner. His relief at seeing his children alive came tangled with anger at their recklessness. His wife, Helka, fussed over the children first, then the party, ushering them toward the freshly stoked fire and pressing hot porridge into their hands. It was plain they were being generous beyond their means.

Over the meal, Darrul told them the mine in Termalaine had been closed for months, abandoned after monsters took it over. Too dangerous to reclaim, the town leaders said. The party pledged to return and help — though Raine privately weighed that promise against his word to Captain Skath to stay clear of Termalaine’s problems.

The Korruns insisted they stay the night. With darkness already folding in over the lake, and little chance of making it back to Targos at a sensible hour, the party accepted.

While Helka busied herself over the fire, Felwar quietly placed a small bundle of dried flowers into one of her plain clay vases. With a murmured word and a subtle gesture, the brittle stems flushed with green, petals unfurling into a riot of fresh colour. Both children clapped with delight, their eyes wide.

Helka turned to him, her voice full of wonder.

“Auril preserve us — you are full of surprises, aren’t you? What colours! Darrul, look here.”

Felwar smiled faintly, but a shudder ran through him at the invocation of the Frostmaiden’s name. Helka did not notice — she was too busy calling her husband over to admire the magic — but the moment lingered in his chest. Darrul came to stand beside her, one arm slipping around her waist as they gazed at the vase. It had been a long time since such colour and beauty had filled their little home.

For his part, Thelonius had warmed to Helka at once — her fussing over the children, her quiet gratitude, the way the small family seemed to hold together against the cold. The love between them dwarfed anything he had known growing up, and he was both warmed by it and quietly shamed for the jealousy it stirred.

---

That morning, while the others readied the sled, he quietly slipped five gold pieces beneath each child’s pillow.

As they set off south toward Targos, a melancholy settled over the former Dougan’s Hole potato farmer. The sight of that modest home lingered in his thoughts long after it had vanished behind the snow. Noticing Thelonius’ reluctance to leave, Raine gave a sly grin and called over the creak of the sled runners, “We could always leave you here, you know.”

The first hour of travel to Targos was mercifully uneventful. The sled, now better balanced, glided beautifully over the packed road. No snow, but overcast, and the fierce wind off the tundra was at their backs — a blessing.

About halfway to Targos, the sound of deep, booming voices carrying on the cold air broke the quiet. Moments later, four goliaths — youths to Raine’s eyes — rounded a snowdrift, their bare arms and necks steaming in the chill.

Miquitzil, Felwar, and Thelonius instinctively scattered, seeking cover. Thelonius, however, lost his footing, sliding down a short rise in an ungainly tumble, coughing and spitting snow. The goliaths either did not notice or did not care, greeting Raine with wide grins and explaining that they were searching for a companion who had foolishly wandered off.

Their mood was boisterous, their camaraderie infectious, and soon the rest of the party emerged from hiding to meet them properly. The leader — a broad‑shouldered youth named Aangrod — slapped Raine on the back and proposed a challenge: a tug‑of‑war. If the party could best them, they would win a thigh bone etched with runes and capped with scrimshaw.

The heroes pooled together twenty‑five gold pieces for their stake, none of them truly believing they could out-pull four strapping goliath teens. Thelonius, however, had other ideas. With a low growl, his form rippled and expanded into that of a massive brown bear. Taking his place at the end of the chain, he dug in and became an immovable anchor.

The struggle was fierce, snow spraying as boots dug trenches in the ice, but one by one the goliaths lost their footing — first Ch’Chogg, then B’laadrii — until the rope was yanked fully across the line.

The goliaths roared with laughter, not a hint of anger at their loss. They clapped the party on the shoulders and tousled the bear’s fur as if greeting an old friend. True to their word, they handed over the prize — the Spiritbone of Suraaq. Miquitzil later determined it was a magical relic. If broken, it would call forth the spirit of the goliath Suraaq, who could drag a recently departed soul back from the brink, restoring them to life.

---

In Targos, Raine negotiated the return of the ingots to the grateful dwarves. They pressed fifty gold pieces’ worth of gemstones into his palm, shaking his hand with the sort of warmth that comes from recognising genuine courage.

Then they asked about their comrade, Oobok.

Raine paused. Truth was, he had not given the headless dwarf a second thought. But the truth was not worth telling. After a long breath, he shook his head. “Lost to the wilds, he was. If we could have brought him back for you, we would have.”

The dwarves nodded solemnly, none the wiser. A twinge of guilt tugged at him as he watched their joy over the returned ingots sour, robbed of the chance to lay their friend to rest among his kin.

The next morning, as they were finishing breakfast, a guard approached the table.

“Captain Skath wants a word.”

Felwar smiled faintly and took his time, making the guard stand there while he finished his meal. Then, with deliberate insolence, he circled back for another morsel before finally rising.

They were led to a nondescript building near the docks. Inside the doorway, a guard gestured toward a large crate.

“Weapons. All of them.”

The party hesitated, Felwar most of all, one hand lingering on his weapon. The air thickened until a senior guard stepped forward, eyes flat and voice clipped.

“I have zero tolerance today, lad.”

After a heartbeat, Felwar surrendered his arms.

The interior was colder still — a butcher’s room, the air heavy with the smell of blood and raw meat. Carcasses hung on hooks, shadows swaying across the floor. At the far end, a heavy curtain divided the space. Captain Skath stood behind it, his expression harder than their last meeting.

On the table before him lay a body, draped in a tarpaulin. His voice was low and pointed.

“Where were you two nights ago?”

“In town,” Raine answered without hesitation. “The Luskan Arms.”

Skath pulled back the tarp. Another victim. An ice blade jutted from the chest, its translucent handle gleaming in the dim light — the same killing stroke that had taken the poor bastard in Bremen.

The implication was clear enough: Skath was asking whether they were the ones behind the ice‑blade murders.

The party protested at once. They had neither the magic nor the reason for that sort of work.

Felwar, perhaps not choosing his moment wisely, lifted a hand in emphasis — and with a flick of his wrist his own summoned blade snapped into being. Steel flashed in the cold room. Several guards recoiled instinctively, blades coming up in readiness.

Miquitzil followed suit, murmuring an incantation to call forth a blade wrought from pure shadowstuff — a long, wicked edge with wisps of darkness falling lazily from its form like drifting smoke. Though it looked hungry for violence, he held it upright, the point toward the rafters, making no move to advance.

The tension in the room went knife‑sharp. Raine and Thelonius stood taut as bowstrings while the guards shifted their grips on already drawn steel, boots creaking on the bloody floor. Eyes flicked between the summoned weapons and Captain Skath, every man waiting for the smallest nod to turn suspicion into blood.

Skath did not move. If anything, he looked more at ease. A thin, considering smile crept across his lips, as though he were weighing them against some private measure and finding the answer he expected. At last, he lifted two fingers in a small, lazy gesture, and the guards grudgingly let their blades dip.

Miquitzil let the shadowblade unravel into mist.

“This,” the Ice Hunter said evenly, “is the best I can do. That ice magic is beyond me.”

Just like that, it was over — the power gone, the blades vanished — and the only sound was the slow, pendulous creak of meat hooks swaying in the cold. Captain Skath’s shoulders lowered a fraction, not in relief so much as decision. Whatever else they were, he had seen enough to know they were not his ice‑killer.

After a moment, the captain let out a slow breath. The murder remained unsolved, the pattern unchanged. When Felwar mentioned they would soon leave for Bryn Shander, Skath replied that Speaker Naerth had already ordered this corpse sent there — to join the Bremen body already on its way.

“The last thing the people need,” Skath said grimly, “is to know there is a gods‑damned serial killer on the loose.”

Raine tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. “What about Torg’s travelling merchant outfit? They were in Bremen when the first killing happened, and now they’re here.”

Skath’s eyes flicked up at that, the faintest crease at the corner of his brow. “Torg’s left Targos at first light. Bound for Bryn Shander, far as I know.”

He weighed the notion for half a heartbeat, then gave a short, final nod — conversation over. “Appreciate you coming so promptly.”

One guard stepped forward and drew the tarp back over the corpse, taking care not to jostle the ice blade jutting from the dead man’s chest.

“As thanks,” Skath went on, his tone still carrying that immovable weight, “be the guests of Speaker Naerth’s hospitality for one more night.”

As the others filed out to reclaim their weapons, Skath’s hand closed on Raine’s arm.

“Walk with me a moment.”

He let the others go ahead before speaking, voice low but direct. “What have you been up to?”

Raine laid it out plainly — Bremen, the goblins, the goliaths, the rescue on the Maer. Skath listened, nodding at intervals. But when Termalaine came up, his brows drew together, and the temperature in his gaze dropped.

“Remember our arrangement. Leave Termalaine to its own devices. If it needs help, it knows where to find it — and it is not with you or your friends.”

Raine inclined his head. “Understood.”

“Good.” Skath’s tone softened by a hair. “And do not forget the cauldron business. Come to me if you need anything — anything at all.” His hand squeezed Raine’s shoulder with an overt familiarity before letting him go.

Outside, the cold air hit them like a slap. They reclaimed their weapons from the guard at the door. The weight of steel felt familiar and reassuring. None said it aloud, but each knew that meeting in the cold store could have gone another way entirely.

Felwar, grinning as he slid his blade back into its scabbard, broke the quiet. “Another free night’s food and lodging. I swear, we’re making a profession of this.”

The laughter came easily. Even Thelonius joined in, the sound warm against the frost. The camaraderie was real — and growing.

---

Later, Miquitzil coaxed Thelonius beyond Targos’s walls, away from the watchful eyes of the guard.

“Let us try something new,” Miquitzil said, a sly grin tugging at his mouth.

Thelonius obliged — just not in the way Miquitzil expected. His body rippled and twisted, bones grinding, muscles swelling under his coat until the man was gone and a great brown bear stood in his place, steaming breath curling in the frigid air.

Miquitzil’s brows climbed. “All right then,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, already wondering if the spell would take hold on that much fur and muscle. He stepped back a pace, lifted his staff, and smiled. “Stand still.”

With a murmured incantation and a gesture that seemed to pluck fire from the ether, Miquitzil’s magic took hold. Heat bloomed in Thelonius‑bear’s chest, and then — with a startled, delighted roar — he belched a column of searing dragonfire into the snow. The two of them soon fell into a rhythm, laughing and shouting over the roar of flames as they tested range, sweep, and sheer destructive heat. Stunted, leafless bushes hissed and spat where the fire touched; scorched snow collapsed into steaming craters.

Then, between one breath and the next, Thelonius froze.

A whisper had slipped through the crackle of cooling snow — soft, sibilant, meant for him alone.

Come to me.

The bear’s keen senses caught movement — or was it scent? — in the distance. A woman, half‑shadow, stood with one hand raised in silent beckoning. The night pressed in around her.

He turned to Miquitzil and rumbled low, gesturing with a massive paw. “There is a woman calling for me to come to her.”

Miquitzil’s expression sharpened. “Best we go back,” he advised. “Could be our serial killer.”

Thelonius turned from the figure, pushing the call from his mind. The warmth in his chest faded to a memory, and by the time the lights of Targos’s gates came into view, he had remembered to shift back. The transformation came smoother now — almost without effort — and, though he would not admit it, perhaps more welcome than he had ever thought it could be.

Back at the inn, Thelonius quietly arranged for some private time with the most matronly of the working girls. He paid her simply to sit with him, running her fingers gently through his hair and murmuring soothing words as if to a child. For the first time in days, Thelonius let himself relax, eyes half‑lidded, the weight of the cold and the road easing from his shoulders.

Downstairs, Felwar paused mid‑step, certain he had heard voices singing. He crossed quickly to a nearby table, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

“Which of you lot was singing just now?” he asked.

The fishers — half into their cups already — chuckled among themselves. One shook his head. “Not us, friend… but if it’s a song you want—”

Before Felwar could protest, a broad‑chested man slapped the table for rhythm and bellowed the opening:

“Haul the nets and haul ’em fast,

The Maer will take more than it casts,

Cold wind’s teeth and ice that bites,

Pray we see the dawn’s first light.”

The rest joined in, voices rolling like the lake itself. Felwar’s cheeks warmed as he realised his mistake. With a muttered excuse and a small, embarrassed grin, he turned on his heel and returned to the party’s table — the shanty still swelling behind him.

Later, as Thelonius rejoined them, Felwar idly turned one of the dwarves’ payment gems between his fingers.

“I wonder if these came from the Termalaine mine,” he mused aloud.

Raine’s eyes flicked up sharply. “Doubt it,” he said, the words quick and final — and then he was already steering the talk elsewhere. The others did not seem to notice, or perhaps simply chose not to press him.

The party left the Luskan Arms. They would travel together to Bryn Shander and deliver the letter to Speaker Duvessa Shane, as Speaker Dorbulgruf had requested of them.

---

On the way out, still a short walk from the gates, the noise hit them first — a tangle of shrill laughter, mock growls, and high‑pitched yelps cutting through the morning air.

In the churned snow between two crooked houses, a pale‑furred sled dog twisted and lunged, his harness straps stretched taut between the small hands of two bundled‑up children. One clung to each end, boots sliding helplessly over the ice as they squealed and laughed, tugging him back and forth like a rope in a game.

The dog wasn’t snapping or baring teeth — just throwing his weight toward the street ahead, shoulders straining, claws carving deep furrows in the frost. His ears were flat, tail rigid, eyes wide and fixed on something far beyond the children. A sharp, rising whimper escaped his throat — not playful, but urgent, almost pleading — followed by a bark that dragged both children a step forward. Again, he lunged, muscles bunching, paws scrabbling, another cry spilling into the cold.

It was no game. The sound in his throat was fast, breathless, rising in pitch — the sound of a creature desperate to go but unwilling to hurt the ones holding him back.

Felwar stepped forward, words of power tumbling from his lips, and the dog’s eyes snapped to his.

Please, the animal barked, the meaning suddenly clear in Felwar’s mind. Free me. My best Two‑Legs is in danger.

Felwar raised his voice to the boys. “Let him go. Now.”

They only laughed and dug their heels in, still playing tug‑of‑war with the harness.

Raine closed the distance in two strides, hand settling on the hilt of his greatsword. “Let. Him. Go.”

The tone — and the man behind it — did what Felwar’s reason had not. The boys dropped the reins as if they had burned them. Torn leather snapped as the dog shook himself free. The children bolted, boots skidding, vanishing down a side street.

“Show us,” Felwar told the dog.

The dog spun on the spot, claws scrabbling on the packed snow, then bolted. They ran after him, shouldering through Targos’s crooked lanes, past shuttered windows and sagging lines of frozen washing.

The trail ended at a house so brightly painted it looked like it had been dropped there by mistake — all blues and reds and chipped, hopeful colour in a town that had forgotten what that was for. The dog bounded up the steps and threw himself at the door, paws thudding, bark sharp and insistent. Not scared. Summoning.

The door jerked open. A thin, well‑kept man blinked out into the cold.

“Boy!” he breathed, all the air leaving him at once. He dropped to his knees, hands buried in the dog’s ruff, forehead pressed to the shaggy fur. Relief lit his face — until he looked past the animal and saw only strangers on the doorstep.

The colour drained out of him. He straightened slowly, one hand still on the dog.

“If Boy’s here…” His eyes flicked over their shoulders, hunting for someone who wasn’t there. “Where’s Garret? Did you find a man with him? Anyone at all?”

Felwar shook his head. “No, sir. Just the dog.”

For a heartbeat the man just stood there, jaw working, eyes gone glassy. Then something in him snapped tight.

“Then Garret’s in trouble,” he said, more to himself than to them.

He stepped back without another question, waving them inside. “Keegan,” he threw over his shoulder, already moving. “Garret took a job. Escorting an adventuring party out of Easthaven, up to Kelvin’s Cairn. If Boy’s come back alone, something’s gone wrong up there. Terribly wrong.”

He crossed to a low chest in the corner, flipped the lid, and bent at the waist — rear in the air — rummaging with frantic, practised hands. Coils of rope, pitons, crampons, bedrolls, and battered winter gear thumped onto the floor in a growing heap at the party’s feet.

“Take what you need,” Keegan said, not looking up. “All of it, if it gets you there faster.”

Thelonius’s gaze drifted to the wall above the fireplace — a small, slightly crooked portrait of Keegan, another man, and the same dog as a pup. All three of them squinting into the sun, cheeks full, eyes bright. Even here, he thought. A happy family.

Raine and Miquitzil crouched beside the pile, hands moving with practised efficiency as they picked out what they needed for the ice — metal spikes, proper boots, the least‑mouldy bedrolls. Keegan hesitated only once, fingers tightening around a stoppered vial before he set it down with the rest.

None of the Brave Hearts had said we will help you. No plan, no vote, no argument. They were already packing.

“Garret was saving this for a rainy day,” Keegan murmured, thumb running over the glass vial. “Well… my love, it is pouring now.”

Meanwhile, Felwar knelt beside Boy, murmuring in the tongue of beasts. The dog’s tail twitched anxiously as he relayed what he knew — something had happened on Kelvin’s Cairn. Felwar rose, expression hardening.

“We go north to the mountain. This Garret and his charges made it that far, at least.”

Raine glanced at the door. “We’re already a full day behind — twelve hours from here, assuming we have dogs.”

Keegan barely paused for breath, begging them to help even as Boy whined and shoved at Felwar with his head, urgent for them to move.

Miquitzil was whisked along as Keegan hurried them through the streets, muttering “Barnsley” over and over like a mantra. He couldn’t help but wonder when he — when they — had actually agreed to help. It seemed simply assumed by Keegan, as if their aid were a given. The thought made him smile, proud despite himself. Being accepted was one thing. Being needed… that was something else entirely, and something he was not used to.

Keegan led them to a narrow street on the edge of town, where a large barn stood with several tied‑off sleds arranged neatly in the yard beside it. The wind rattled the doors, the smell of dogs and leather hanging faint in the cold air.

A boy of fourteen or fifteen emerged from between the kennels — Barnsley, wiry and quick, running the sled business alone. Keegan arranged the lease without hesitation, his voice tight with worry. Five dogs were brought out, harnesses fitted, sled runners scraped free of frost.

“Boy will lead,” Keegan said, but Raine shook his head.

“Not today. He needs rest — he won’t be pulling anything until he’s had it.”

Keegan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once, putting up his home as collateral for the team.

One by one Barnsley tied each dog in its place — Peter, Tony, Steve, Thor, T’Challa — and finally the alpha bitch, Natasha, who fixed the newcomers with a level, appraising stare.

The last harness was buckled, the dogs stamping and tossing their heads against the cold.

Raine, who was most familiar with dogs and sleds, took the driving position. Felwar held Boy atop the sled, murmuring soft reassurances as the desperate whimpers continued unabated.

They turned their backs on Targos and drove out into the white, toward Kelvin’s Cairn and whatever waited for Garret there.