Night had fallen by the time the storm had let up, but travelling was still going to be slow, that is if there would be any travel at all. It all depended on the weather in the morrow.

The kid—now lord—had long been distracted and lured into sleep and was now asleep on Mira's leather sac. The kid had not complained about being fed salted jerky, not that it would have mattered, not if he didn't want to go hungry.

Still, it was not like she enjoyed jerky, heck, she didn't think anyone did. But it was the best for travel; the longevity of it made it preferable. Although she reckoned, she probably could have brought some alcohol or maybe cheese.

Next time, she thought as she scooped up the last of the newly made fireball catalytic bone tablets and slotted them into the boxy pouch hanging off her waist. As she did her hands caught on something she had completely forgotten about, the letter she had stashed in the same pouch and the tablets falling. Though it was irrelevant now, after all, no one was left to read it.

Then a question arose in her mind: why did her father send her here? This was a job for some messenger or squire, not me, not his daughter, not a rune caster.

This didn't make sense. A bad feeling set in her gut, like it always did when things didn't make sense. Pulling the letter out she eyed the seal, a double-headed eagle, a little hesitation rose as her lips turned to a frown. What she was about to do was considered to be in incredibly poor taste. But her gut prevailed and she slid her fingers in under the fold and broke the wax seal—forcing her fingers out from behind it.

It took a moment for her to unfold the leather and straighten it, and then her eyes landed on the ink.

Letter bearer, my daughter, Mira Heylel, your liaison. All truths are to be disclosed to her.

What the fuck?

Her frown depended by miles.

She read it again, maybe it was code…but, nothing in that was code. Nothing she could make out at least. Heck, it was simple, too simple, this was not how lords wrote to each other, it should have been paragraphs of pointless platitudes and flowery language. This was—she didn't know what to make of it.

So, she put it down next to her and leaned back, letting the back of her head sit on the wooden pillars supporting the house.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

All right, think. Think like you have been taught. Think of the issues in pieces. Break it down and build it back up.

What was her objective? Get back to Father. What was the obstruction? The snowstorm. Could something be done about it? No. Move on, what could be done then? Information could be gathered. Gathered from where?

It clicked, her eyes snapped towards the innards of the house, the lord's office. Maybe there.

Yes, letters maybe. If they had been kept.

She pushed herself off the floor and onto her feet.

Her steps were steady as she walked in, the hall was left behind and she quickly cut up the wooden stairs and onto the second floor, where her eyes naturally landed on the lord's room as climbed the last step.

Why was it the lord's room? It had the painted blue eye caved onto a wooden plank stuck atop the door frame, the symbol of Seawatch.

Shame only that was remaining, the door had been broken into, by an axe—the cleaves of the blade were still there on the door with whole chunks missing from it. Not that any of that held weight—the door was on the floor, probably ripped off from the frame during the sack.

Still, she stepped forward. Her boots clicked against the wooden remains of the door as she entered the gutted room and her gaze washed over the remains. Anything that could have been taken had been, the decoration, the wooden chairs, even the gold leafing had been scraped off the desk in the middle and to the right, the bookshelves had…a rune pulsated blue on the shelf. Like the heart of an animal it palpitated, the lines of bone paste bloomed and contracted with each beat.

Her feet stopped still, refusing to move a muscle. A rune in a keep with no official caster.

Face frozen she tried to discern what was written, but she couldn't. It was not the runic she knew. It was not the Empire's runic.

Foreign.

"Fuck my life," A breath of words escaped her as a lump hitched in her throat.

It had a supply of lifeblood from—somewhere. No one was here in this building, no one but her and the kid. And a kid knowing rune casting? Just ridiculous.

But the kid, whatever his name was, how come he had no clue what barbarism happened here? How come he didn't know? And even if he didn't …why not mention the destruction?

She had not asked him, letting it be. After all, survivors are not uncommon. But children are curious things and while she wasn't well…studied in regards to children, she knew manchildren—her legitimate brothers—and they asked about anything and everything.

He didn't.

Why?

Her gut felt a slight churn, what the fuck is this all about?

And then her lips moved on her own, "Father never mentioned a kid, did he?" And her father was a thorough man. A very thorough man.

Her hand went to the blade hanging off her side as she turned to walk down the steps.

Still, she had to know if she was right, so she stopped and united her bun-styled hair, pulling the long rope that held it in place. It was long, it was tenacious, and it was her emergency rope.

Maybe she was wrong but did that matter? No. She would rather be safe than right. And even if she was wrong—what difference does one more body make?