The wind hadn't stopped all night.
It clawed at rooftops, shrieked through chimneys, and slammed shutters like angry fists. When morning came, it only quieted out of spite—like something holding its breath. Snow had fallen again, burying the streets in soft drifts that looked clean but felt treacherous.
Maverick stepped into the half-light and pulled his cloak tight. The sky was flat gray. No sun. No birds. Just smoke columns rising from chimneys and the creak of the old well wheel near the lower square.
By the time he reached Brune's inn, the scent of fresh-cut lumber was already thick in the air.
Brune stood in front of his gate with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms bare and red with cold. The gate's lower half lay broken across a bench, its bottom splintered and the iron hinges bent from decades of strain and storm.
"Morning," Brune grunted without looking up. "Gate didn't make it through the wind. I heard it snap before sunrise."
"You should've replaced it last winter," Maverick said, crouching beside the damage.
"I thought I had another season. The wood disagreed."
"At least it fell inward. Outward might've brought half the post with it."
"Outward would've let someone in."
Maverick gave him a look. "Think anyone's coming?"
"Not anyone we'd want," Brune muttered. "Besides, I don't like weak doors."
Maverick nodded and rolled his sleeves. "Let's get to work."
They fell into rhythm without needing words—Brune's hand on the mallet, Maverick aligning hinges and smoothing the warped wood with a drawknife. The gate creaked like an old man trying to stand. Snow gathered on the edges of their boots, but the motion kept the cold at bay.
Maverick appreciated the quiet. It wasn't silence—there was always the wind, always the whisper of snow—but the kind of quiet that let your mind work while your hands did something useful. He'd had enough of frozen stillness and waiting.
Brune finally broke the silence. "You heard anything from the capital?"
"No messages. No riders. Last merchant came through four days ago. Nothing since."
Brune grunted. "That Varek trader never showed either."
"I heard."
"Someone said the pass is clear. So where'd they go?"
Maverick didn't answer.
Brune continued, voice low. "It's not just the snow. People are saying things. Refugees whisper about disappearances—entire patrols, even towns. The kind of rumors you don't want to believe."
Maverick tested the new hinge. "We don't build defenses on rumors."
"We used to," Brune said softly.
Maverick paused, but didn't reply.
By midmorning, the square had grown busier. Not bustling—nothing bustled anymore—but the quiet movements of survivors and workers filled the air. A cart creaked by, its wheel wrapped in rope. Children shoveled snow off steps with broken boards. The baker's apprentice carried buckets of ash down to the gutter.
Then Maverick saw her.
A woman in a dark green cloak knelt beside a child near the baker's porch, winding clean cloth around the girl's brow. Her sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms streaked with old bruises and dried blood. Her movements were practiced. Not rushed. Not gentle, either—precise, like someone used to working through pain.
The villagers kept their distance. Not out of reverence. Out of memory.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to. When the girl stood, the woman stood too, wiped her hands, and moved down the alley without waiting for thanks.
Two old women near the steps muttered to each other as she passed.
"I heard she served during the border fire."
"Those kinds always come back half-cut. Mind, soul, or both."
"She fixed your grandson's hand, didn't she?"
"She fixed it crooked."
The other woman didn't answer.
By the gate, Brune gave a grunt of appreciation as they hammered the last peg into place.
"Gate won't stop a horse charge," he said. "But it'll keep the cold out. And drunks."
"You've had more of those lately?"
"No," Brune said. "They've been quieter too. That's worse."
They gathered their tools. Brune held up a bent nail with a crack running through its center. "Used to throw these into the fire for luck."
"You believe in that?"
"No," he said. "But the ones who did always had steadier hands."
Maverick smiled faintly and pocketed the broken nail.
Across the square, near the well, a tall man stood at the edge of the road—hood low, cloak heavy, bow slung over his shoulder. He didn't speak to anyone. Just watched the tree line. His boots were worn and his beard trimmed with military neatness, though his eyes scanned like a hunter, not a soldier.
"You know him?" Maverick asked Brune quietly.
Brune shook his head. "Arrived two weeks ago. Walked in from the east road with a bundle of pelts and one word answers. Stays near the edge. Never eats at the inn."
"Refugee?"
"Maybe. Not like the rest."
Maverick kept watching the man. He didn't move. Just adjusted the bowstring, tested the wind with two fingers, and squinted toward the trees.
"A few others say he's been tracking something," Brune added.
"Game?"
"If it is, it's quiet. He says the woods are wrong. No tracks. No birds. Even the foxes are gone."
Maverick watched another moment.
The wind pushed a curtain of snow between them.
When it passed, the man was gone.
That afternoon, Maverick helped patch the lower fence near the smithy. Ren and Rune ran between sheds with sleds tied to buckets, yelling something about secret supplies. Elira made stew thick with marrow. Torren stayed in the forge longer than usual, shaping a new set of nails as if the weight of every strike meant something more.
As the light dimmed, a group of townsfolk gathered near the grain house—talking in low tones about how long the barley would last. Some of the refugees had taken to sleeping in the tool sheds and stables. No one complained. But no one liked it either.
A boy had gone missing the day before. His mother said he went looking for firewood. His friends said he followed a dog into the trees.
No one found either.
That evening, Maverick walked alone past Brune's inn. The gate stood firm, newly mended, the fresh wood already grayed by wind.
He passed the alley where the green-cloaked woman had vanished. The snow there had already filled in her prints.
At home, the forge was quiet. His spear stood in the corner, leaning against the wall like an old friend who didn't speak unless asked.
He cleaned it slowly.
Outside, the cold deepened. Somewhere past the hill, the trees shifted. Not from wind.
Just once.
Just enough to make him look.