Oswald Weinberg was a man who genuinely preferred comfort. It was for this very reason that, for the past two days, he had tirelessly occupied himself with searching for any decent lodging in this God-forsaken place.

“Buy a house?” a local old man in the tavern looked skeptically at the merchant in his expensive fur coat. “I don't think you can buy any house fit for living in the dead of winter here, sir. You'll have to wait until summer and build it yourself.”

He scratched the back of his neck, tilting his cap to the side.

“Didn't Helena mention that the house next door to them is empty?” his wife chimed in, busily wiping a wooden plate. “Where did Clara and the children head off to?”

“Right! I completely forgot,” a good-natured smile played across the old man's face, revealing uneven, partially missing teeth. “The house hasn't been heated for a long time, but it's sturdy and good in itself. Speak with the new outpost commander; he'll give it to you cheap as abandoned property.”

Taking leave of the tavern keepers, Weinberg immediately set off toward the local administration building. Passing by an outpost guard who was merrily flirting with a young girl near a wagon, the merchant merely let out a disgruntled click of his tongue.

“Cursed little bastard... He got so much money out of me for that fight last night that he can afford to get married now,” Oswald spat, still a bit sore at Grant over the extra expenses.

Hard snow crunched beneath his heavy boots, while grey, heavy clouds gradually blanketed the horizon - a sure sign of an impending storm.

“Where is Grant?” the merchant barked at the guard on duty at the administration entrance.

“In the cell,” the guard replied laconically.

“Did he do something again?!” thoughts of further financial losses instantly raced through Oswald’s head.

“Nah... Just sleeping.”

Isaac Grant turned heavily on the mattress stuffed with stiff straw. It pricked his cheek painfully, but he obstinately ignored the discomfort. Last night, Grant had volunteered to stand watch on the walls to test how prepared the local guards were for a surprise attack.

“Why the hell are you sleeping in this kennel when I paid for a proper room in the tavern for you?!” the merchant barked, opening the heavy door of the cell, which smelled of dampness and stale straw.

Grant shifted on the cot, lazily opened one eye, but didn't even think of getting up.

“It's comfortable here. Has everything I need. And close to the outpost,” the knight replied with a yawn. He turned onto his other side and adjusted his worn pillow with a practiced motion. “Besides, I'm so used to confinements by now that I sleep much better in places like this.”

“Let's go. I bought us lodging, since you've decided to linger here.”

“There's no need. You can live there yourself,” Grant grumbled.

Oswald sighed heavily. He knew full well that Isaac would answer in precisely this manner. Over the years of their acquaintance, this man had completely stopped caring about his own comfort. He merely drowned his grief - which he shared with no soul alive - at the very bottom of a wine glass. And on the days he didn't drink, he became excessively gloomy and taciturn.

Yet right now, everything was different. Isaac Grant had voluntarily agreed to enter service. On his own. Over the past fifteen years, even when royal messengers tracked them down, Isaac had never replied to letters from the King himself. And when Sir Warren Graystorm personally invited them to the capital, Isaac preferred to get as far away from that place as possible - just to escape the past that relentlessly hunted him in his dreams.

“Pity...” Oswald sighed as if in passing, turning toward the exit. “The new neighbors turned out to be quite lovely folk. They even said we could turn to them if we needed anything. Well, I suppose I'll inform Mrs. Fornweir that we won't be moving in, and they'll have to keep an eye on it a while longer...”

Before Oswald could take a single step toward the door, Grant was already standing silently right behind his back, gripping his shoulder with a heavy, steel grip.

Isaac Grant was not nervous. Of course not. He simply decided that he would move into the new house only after it had been properly cleaned. And that right now, he needed to focus on his service. Who knew what that outpost commander Allen would pull if Isaac started shirking his duties, as he had originally planned? Besides... the Fornweirs were unlikely to appreciate the news of their involuntary neighborhood in the first place.

He was heading toward the commander's office when he ran straight into Adelissa and Adrian in the corridor, returning home.

“Sir Grant!” the girl politely lifted her skirt and bowed, beaming with a genuine, warm smile.

Adrian, however, limited himself to a barely perceptible nod.

“Mother said you will be living next door to us now!” Adelissa continued animatedly. “Be sure to drop by if you need anything. We don't have many supplies, but we'll gladly share.”

“Stop by when you have time,” Adrian added dryly and evenly. “I'll share firewood and coal from our reserves. The winters are growing colder, and dry firewood is the key to a warm house.”

Isaac was genuinely surprised by his words. He had been convinced that Fornweir would prefer never to speak to him again for the rest of his life.

“Thank you...” Grant replied softly.

“Think nothing of it. We are in the north,” Adrian cut in. “It is customary here to help one another in the cold.”

Isaac watched the retreating father and daughter for a long time.

I'll be damned... Just like a spitting image... rushed through his mind once more.

Brushing away these ghost-like thoughts, Grant made his way toward the outer gates of the outpost. The evening guard shift was scheduled to take place there, and he needed to personally inspect the combat readiness of the post.

“Wasn't Greg supposed to step on duty today?” he asked the guards, scanning the line. “I don't see him here.”

“He asked to trade shifts, Sir Grant,” one of the privates answered with a silly grin. “Went on a date with a girl and got poisoned by something.”

“Yeah, most likely poisoned because of his own greed,” another chimed in. “Took her to Burt's for cheap grub instead of going to a proper tavern!”

The guards laughed together carelessly.

Isaac leaned silently against the log wall, gazing into the night sky with a heavy feeling as everyone dispersed to their posts.

It was pitch-black. Not a single star, not a single glimmer of the moon - thick clouds had sealed the canopy shut. In this solid darkness, the image of Adelissa rose vividly before Grant's eyes again. But not that young girl from the chancery, but the former one... The late queen. Her almost empty eyes that night.

What on earth... Isaac suddenly frowned.

High above the outpost, right amid the impenetrable clouds, tiny, barely noticeable lights flickered unexpectedly.

“Oh, looks like the clouds are clearing up!” one of the guards said, cheering up as he warmed his freezing hands over a brazier.

Grant lunged forward sharply, holding his breath, his eyes widening.

“No... Those are arrows! Sound the alarm!” he roared at the top of his lungs, but it was already too late.

Decades of flaming arrows rained down from the black sky with a wild whistle, biting with a screech into the timber of the walls, into the packed earth, and into the bodies of the stunned men. The frozen wood of the fence stakes immediately caught fire ravenously.

In the very next second, the deafening roar of a heavy bronze bell shattered the silence of the night!

“Red arrows!” one of the guards screamed with horror in his voice, frantically grabbing for a heavy shield, but he was too late.

Following the incendiary projectiles, a cloud of regular war arrows flew forth. One of them pierced his lung straight through, pinning the unfortunate man to the wooden decking with a sudden thud.

From all sides out of the forest gloom, a wild, blood-chilling war cry tore free.