The road to Thern's farm was barely more than a trail now—half-buried beneath weeks of snow, the stones shifting beneath Maverick's boots. Dead grass poked through like bone fingers. The trees stood hunched on either side, silent, their branches stripped of bark in places the wind never reached.
He walked in silence beside Sergeant Alric, who was muttering to himself as they trudged uphill.
"Goats," Alric grumbled. "Three damn goats. Could've sent a scribe, or a broomstick."
"Broomsticks don't ask questions," Maverick said.
"And scribes don't get frostbite," Alric shot back. "We're Night Guard. Not snow-chasing farmhands."
Maverick didn't argue. He just kept walking.
Old Thern's hut sat crouched at the edge of the woods, surrounded by a warped fence held together with frayed rope and rusted nails. The farmhouse itself was sagging under the weight of unshoveled snow. Crows perched on the roof, watching as the two guards approached.
Thern met them at the door with red-rimmed eyes and half-gloved hands. His breath came out in bursts.
"They're gone," he said without greeting. "I told you."
Maverick nodded. "Show us."
The goat pen was behind the barn. Three crude wooden gates, each secured with rope. Fresh snowfall had smoothed everything, but underneath—Maverick could see it—something was off.
He crouched.
No prints.
No broken boards. No signs of forced entry. Just a section of frozen, untouched ground where the goats had supposedly been.
Alric kicked one of the rails. "Doesn't even look like they panicked."
"They didn't," Thern said. "I sleep light. Didn't hear a thing."
Maverick traced the rope where it tied the gate shut. No fraying. No cut. No sign it had been untied.
He stood slowly.
"Do you have dogs?"
Thern shook his head. "Can't feed more mouths."
"Neighbors? Travelers? Strays?"
"Nobody comes up here anymore."
Inside the barn, the hay was undisturbed. The goats' bedding lay flat, slightly matted. One wooden trough had frozen over. There were claw marks along the post, but they looked old—months old.
Maverick reached out to touch one of the slats.
It was warm.
He pulled his hand back.
Alric noticed. "What?"
Maverick touched it again.
Still warm. Despite the air, despite the cold-soaked wood around it, that patch of slat was warm. Almost soft. Like breath had passed over it just seconds ago.
He said nothing. Just stepped back and motioned for Alric.
"You see this?"
Alric pressed his fingers to the spot, then frowned. "Fresh body heat?"
Maverick shook his head. "But nothing's here."
They left the barn an hour later with no answers. Thern refused their offer to post another guard. Said it wouldn't help. Said "whatever it is doesn't come back the same way twice."
Alric snorted at that, but Maverick didn't.
On the way back, they stopped at the lower wall.
Two guards stood watch—one new, barely twenty, with a dull pike and nervous eyes. The other leaned against the parapet, arms crossed, shoulders sagging.
"You're late," the older one said.
"Not on patrol," Alric replied. "Investigation."
"You investigate ghosts now?"
"Goats," Maverick corrected.
The older guard shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Something's eating people."
Alric arched a brow. "People now?"
"Messenger from Verin. Gone three days past. They found the horse. No rider. Saddle wasn't cut."
The young one spoke, nervous. "You think it's... them?"
"No such thing as them," Alric said. "Just men with sharp teeth and no law."
Maverick watched their faces. The young one wasn't convinced. The old one looked like he stopped caring weeks ago.
That was worse.
They returned to the barracks before dusk. The post board was nearly empty—two shifts unfilled, names crossed out, scribes no longer keeping records updated. A few weapons hung in the racks. Fewer boots lined the walls.
No chatter. No plans. Just cold.
Maverick checked the logbook. The next outer patrol was his. Again.
He signed his name.
Alric followed him to the edge of the square.
"Something's wrong out there," he said quietly. "Something that doesn't leave prints and doesn't breathe fog."
Maverick nodded. "Then it's not just the cold."
Alric looked at him for a long time.
Then said: "You've got eyes. Use them."
And he walked off toward the watchtower.
That night, Maverick didn't eat. He sat by the forge and watched his reflection flicker in the coals.
The warmth hadn't left his fingers from the barn.