On his fourth day with the old man, Ezril crept on the snow, hunting his prey alone. He had stalked a deer for about a mile before losing it. Now he followed a snow hare.

A few meters into his chase he found himself crouched low behind a tree. This hunt was different from the rest. The old man choosing to remain in the shelter, complaining of wary bones and creaking joints, had not followed him as he always did. Ezril had felt odd at the prospect of hunting alone after a while. Surprisingly, he had grown accustomed to the man’s whistling and sudden claps. The man’s presence had been somehow comforting. Assured by the old man that he would be fine, Ezril took his equipment and headed out with a blank face determined not to show his discomfort at not having the man come along.

Ezril smelled a new scent carried in the wind as he followed the snow hare. It was faint but he knew what it was. The touch of iron in the air was unmistakable. What he was smelling was blood.

His hunt for meat today was a precaution but not a necessity, so he left his chase and changed his path. After all, it could just as easily be one of his brothers as it could be anything else.

He crept in the direction the wind carried the scent from. He followed it, tracking the scent easily. The snow crunched beneath his feet with each step. When he came upon its origin, he came to a stop.

There, he crouched behind a tree and watched as a girl fought off a man. Around them, littering the ground, were two bodies, corpses. They caked the snow in their blood.

Wielding two swords, the child fought her assailant with a rage Ezril had not known a girl could possess. The grace he was prone to seeing in the sword play of the seminary was nowhere to be found in hers. Completely feral in her movements, she parried, and evaded every thrust from her assailant, striking and lashing out with attacks of her own. She was slowly putting her opponent on the back foot.

Her cloak revealed a habit beneath it with each flail of her movement. She was a sister of the convent and, though he didn't know much about them, he knew they had their own warriors. Priestesses who took tests. Like priestess Ellenel.

The fight was quick. The girl parried, spun from a blow and drove her sword through her opponent's neck in a riposte that brought him to his knees. She studied the man for the barest moment then pulled her blade free from his neck. The fight was ended.

The girl stood under the falling snow, unmoving, holding both blades by her side. Their tips pointed downward so that the blood of the dead stained the snow in drops of crimson. Her hair, a blonde so white it was reminiscent of snow, reached into Ezril's memory, calling upon a remembrance. Finding himself wondering what she was waiting for, Ezril stepped out from behind the tree slowly.

Something gnawed at his mind. Something's not right.

The realization propelled him back into his cover. He readied his bow. He took an arrow from his quiver strapped behind him but did not nock it.

"A human who cannot sense the presence of danger has no place on the battle field." Father Zakarid's words came to him.

There was someone else hiding amongst the trees, and Ezril, hoping he had not been seen, watched and waited. But the girl never moved.

Is she baiting him? Ezril wondered, fully aware that there was someone else. There was a part of him that doubted she did not know this, too. She was supposed to be a girl always aware of her surroundings. It had always been an uncanny thing.

Finally, as though tired of waiting, someone stepped out from behind the trees. He made his way to the girl in casual steps, glancing at the corpses around her. Ezril made sure he was not seen. In turn, he could not see who it was. He heard the soft crunch of snow beneath each step and listened until it stopped.

"Three of Venin's promising, and still no luck,” the person said. “And they wondered why Mardin sent them."

Ezril recognized the voice immediately. But it was cold, apathetic. Empty.

He knew who it belonged to and still couldn't accept it. There were many number of things he'd learned in the seminary—a grave number of things he'd been prepared for—but this had in no way factored into any of them.

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

So, risking discovery, he took a peek. The blood drained from his face as he confirmed of his fears.

Alric stood before the girl, knife in hand.

Ezril’s eyes strained for sight, confirming what he already knew. The girl was beautiful. Her blonde hair was oddly white as snow. Her lips he was certain had once been the color of rose, now paled blue from the winter's chill. Her skin was a caramel brown. Her cheeks now stained in tears or, perhaps, melting snow. Though he couldn't see it from where he stood, Ezril knew her eyes were green. Her features were raging contrasts existing in one little girl—raging contrasts existing in his memory.

A rage claimed Ezril immediately. Anger bristled in him, kindled from the recesses of his mind. They grew like emotions long fettered, untouched, bound. Ezril wasn’t entirely sure when he made the decision but he knew why. He stepped out with his bow drawn and arrow nocked. He strode forward, undaunted, and released the arrow.

Alric turned in time to see him but not in time to avoid the arrow. It struck him in the thigh and Alric staggered but did not fall. Ezril mind was blind with rage as he pulled a second arrow and let it fly. It struck Alric’s hand that held the blade, running it through the wrist.

Alric howled in pain. No doubt a nerve had been severed.

Ezril wanted to know why Alric was here, what he meant by what he had said. But he found himself consumed more by a want to see him suffer—to punish him.

He put another arrow in Alric’s leg without thought and his brother fell.

"No... please... they made me do it, brother," Alric pleaded as Ezril drew nearer. "They threatened my family."

"WE ARE YOUR FAMILY!" Ezril roared.

His voice echoed through the forest. It was filled with rage and the faintest touch of pain. The girl flinched at the sound, reminding Ezril of her presence.

Ezril nocked another arrow, drew, and took aim.

"You have to believe me, brother,” Alric continued with a face contorted from both pain and guile. “I had no choice, I had to protect my family."

Ezril refused to understand the logic behind the words. Perhaps if it was someone else standing amidst the corpses he would’ve understood it. He looked at the girl. She stood where she was, still as the dead. Perhaps if she was someone else…

But she wasn't someone else. And Alric was Alric. Ezril didn’t know why, but his brother had done what he did.

Finally, Ezril spoke again. He addressed his brother of two years. His voice was austere, cold as the winter around him. "You have no family."

One corner of Alric's lips twitched.

Ezril had known Alaric for two years. They had not necessarily been close but they had shared a room, meals, living quarters. They had been around each other for two years and knew each other’s mannerisms. Alric’s lips tended to twitch when he was about to take a risk. It was most often a deadly risk taken when he felt he had nothing else to lose. Instinct guided Ezril and he released two arrows in immediate succession. They buried themselves in Alric's chest.

Alric's hand, fell open, arm outstretched by his side. A glass ball rolled from its grip. It was the smallest thing, so small it had been contained in the boy’s fist. Inside it a darkness swirled, like the fire in the sun, if fire was black. Ezril’s back chilled. Old wounds were prodded and he bit back on his discomfort. How in the name of Truth had Alric gotten his hand on shadow fire?

With blood escaping his lips, Alric smiled, and a secret passed from his lips. "You cannot save her from what is to come,” he said. “And soon this world will be His.”

Ezril had heard stories of people's first kill in the seminary. Some of the older boys who felt compassionate towards the younger ones told tales of how it changed a person, how its effects worked. They spoke of how it troubled the mind to take a life, how the sight churned the stomach, how some even threw up at it.

Ezril felt none of it as Alric fell silent and unmoving. Like the bodies around them, his blood stained the snow red. All Ezril felt was calm. He found himself hoping Alric never found peace on the other side. That Truth would reject him.

He hoped Vayla would reject him, too.

Ezril walked up to the girl in the wake of Alric’s death. Her eyes were fixed on Alric's body, yet they were empty. Ezril dropped his bow to the snow and took her by both hands. In them she gripped the hilts of her swords, her hands trembling. How she had not only survived, but also bested three grown men, he did not know. But it was clear it had taken a toll on her. Her grip was tight, her knuckles taut. It was the worst way to hold a sword.

Still, it seemed it was her way.

Ezril ignored the blood that wetted her fists and now stained his. Gently, he massaged her knuckles, standing in front of her.

Finally removing her gaze from Alric's body, she looked at him and he saw the fear and pain in her eyes. Red streaks of blood splashed across her face and stained the white of her hair. It said it all; she had fought, and she had won.

No one could take that away from her.

Ezril leaned in, touched his forehead to hers in an odd yet familiar move.

"It's over," he whispered.

"Is... is it?" she stuttered, unsure.

The words were barely audible but he heard them.

"Yes," he assured her. "By the way," he forced himself to smile, "you're all red. And I don't very much like this smell of iron."

"I-it's the blood," she said, attempting to convince him she was fine as she always had.

"Yes." He smiled. “Or maybe it's what you're holding so tightly.” He applied pressure as he massaged her shaking knuckles. By the life of him, he'd never thought he'd ever get to say anything akin to his next words. And yet, even amidst the sorrow he felt as he said them, there was joy. Joy that he got to see her again.

“You should let them go, Lenaria."