The sky hung like lead above Eldenhold, thick with cloud that refused to break. Snow fell in small, drifting flakes—lazy and quiet. It didn't bury the world. It just rested on it. The kind of snow that made sound feel unnecessary.
Maverick stood near the south tower with his back to the stone, eyes on the tree line beyond the field. His breath misted in short, calm puffs. Every few minutes, he'd shift his grip on the spear just to feel something through his gloves.
The patrol should've been back by dawn.
They'd taken a cart out along the eastern route—Darnel, Yorrik, and Flint. Standard escort for a supply run to the outer farmstead. Four hours there. Four back. No threats reported.
But the road was empty.
Still.
The tracks that had led them out were already fading under new snow. The kind that didn't fall hard, but never stopped falling either. Just enough to slowly erase things.
Footsteps approached behind him. He didn't turn until the familiar rasp of breath hit the air beside him.
Alric stood there, arms crossed against the cold. He glanced out over the same road.
"They're late," he said.
"Very," Maverick replied.
"You think they're just slow?"
"I think they're not coming back."
They walked the perimeter in silence, just long enough to give themselves the illusion of control. Alric scratched at his beard.
"No word from the crossroads post either. And no flag from the forest watch." He looked back toward the village. "I'd like to think that's a good thing."
Maverick didn't answer. He just kept watching the horizon.
The sky had a particular kind of dullness today—no light, but also no darkness. Just... weight. It made every sound feel smaller. Even the wind, which usually howled over the wall, now drifted quiet and cold, like it didn't want to disturb something.
"Let's go check it," Alric said. "If they made camp or ditched the cart, we'll see it."
They packed light and took the southern path—narrow, half-cleared, and winding through the pale-dusted trees. Maverick led at first, his eyes darting between boot marks and wagon ruts. But the further they went, the less there was.
By the second mile, the snow had filled in almost everything.
Alric crouched once, brushing snow from a shallow print. "Cart came through here. Maybe two mornings ago."
Maverick nodded. "But not back."
They kept moving. Trees pressed tighter on either side. A bird cried once, then went silent again.
A half hour passed. The forest got quieter.
No sound of wheels.
No call of animals.
Even the trees stood too still, like they were waiting for something.
Then they found it.
A single line of prints—boot-shaped, human—heading back the way they'd come.
Alric bent low. "One man. Looks like Yorrik. Long stride."
Maverick followed the trail with his eyes.
The prints moved steady for maybe thirty meters.
And then—they stopped.
No sign of turn, stumble, or struggle.
No drag.
Just... nothing.
Maverick crouched. "Mid-step."
Alric scratched his jaw. "Like he was lifted off the ground."
"Or erased."
They searched the area carefully. Circled a few times. Not a scrap of clothing. No scent. No blood. No broken twigs. Just smooth snow where a man should've walked.
They pushed further east for another mile but found no wagon, no tracks, no animals. It was like the road had swallowed its own story.
They turned back before the sun touched the treetops.
By the time they reached the village gates again, the snow had thickened into a steady fall. Maverick brushed frost from his collar as they passed Brune's inn, the shuttered windows glowing faint behind frost-stained glass.
He slowed as they approached the old fencepost near the corner.
Half-buried in the snow was a boot. Small, thin leather, worn through at the toe.
Maverick picked it up and turned it over. Rune's. From last winter.
He didn't know why it was here. It didn't matter.
He brought it home anyway.
The forge was warmer than outside, but only just.
Torren sat near the grinding wheel, slowly sharpening a curved axe. Sparks occasionally hissed from the edge. Elira sat on the low bench near the fire, darning a thick wool scarf.
The twins had built a mess from kindling, rope, and chairs. Rune perched on a barrel. Ren swung a broken broom like a sword.
"You're supposed to be dead!" Rune shouted.
"You didn't even hit me!" Ren argued.
"You tripped on purpose!"
"I tripped because this floor is cursed!"
Maverick stepped in just as Rune pointed the broom toward him.
"Tell him he's cursed!"
"You both are," Maverick said flatly, pulling off his gloves.
"That's not an answer," Rune muttered.
Elira looked up. "Anything?"
Maverick shook his head. "No sign. No cart. Just snow and silence."
She nodded, her lips pressing tight.
Torren didn't ask. Just kept grinding.
Later, they ate a simple stew. Maverick barely touched his.
The boys argued about what they'd name a pet bear. Elira scolded them for calling it "Muncher." Maverick stared at the fire. Not in fear—just in calculation. Like he was trying to guess how many more nights would pass before something forced their hand.
When the fire burned down, he made his rounds again. Checked the doors. Listened to the wind.
Before bed, he pulled out Selene's letter again—creased and softened by use. He didn't read it.
He didn't need to.
He folded it back into his coat, and sat on the edge of his cot, staring into the dark.
He thought about Yorrik's last step.
He thought about footprints that ended mid-stride.
He thought about silence. Not as an absence—but as a presence.
And he realized he didn't want to pretend tonight.
Not that they'd show up tomorrow.
Not that things would turn back.
Not that the cold wasn't creeping into places it had no right to be.
He lay down and closed his eyes.
But sleep didn't come quickly.