Outside, the endless snows of the Month of Withering Frost cloaked the land in deathly white.
It was that grim turning of the year when the northern winds ruled the forests, and even the hardiest beasts burrowed deep against the cold.
Inside the inn, the world was warmer—though not by much.
The fire struggled against the damp chill that seeped through the cracked stone walls.
Sif, after scraping the last sad drops of stew from the bowl, glanced back at the counter.
He gathered his courage—and his seven pathetic copper coins—and approached the barmaid, who was now busy stacking battered plates.
"Say," Sif began, clearing his throat awkwardly, "how much for a room and meals... say, for two days?"
She didn't even look up.
"Ten coppers. No charity here, love."
Sif grinned sheepishly, holding up his handful of coins. "What about seven? And maybe I, uh... help around? Chop wood? Clean tables? Chase rats?"
The barmaid finally looked at him, her sharp eyes flicking over his thin frame and trembling hands.
For a long moment, Sif thought she might toss him right back into the snow.
Instead, she sighed—an exasperated sound—and pointed toward the back stairwell.
"Third floor. First door on the left. The roof leaks, the window's cracked, and the bed might have fleas. You die in your sleep, it's your problem."
Sif bowed clumsily, flashing a tired smile.
"Best offer I've had all week," he said, handing over six of his coins.
"Keep the last one," she muttered. "You'll need it when the stew kills you."
Gratefully, Sif shuffled back to a corner table near the hearth and sank into a rickety chair.
His body ached with exhaustion, but the faint promise of a real bed—even a bad one—was enough to lift his spirits.
As he waited, sipping from a cracked mug of thin ale, his ears caught snippets of conversation from a nearby table, where four rugged men sat nursing mugs of something far stronger.
They were broad-shouldered, bearded, dressed in heavy furs patched with the colors of the Northmarch clans. Their faces were rough-hewn, weathered by the unforgiving winters of the highlands.
One slammed his mug down.
"Bah! That cursed Bloodveil Concord!" he growled, voice thick with scorn.
"Should've chased the bloody Dominion rats all the way back to their damned island and let the sea swallow them whole!"
Another grunted in agreement, wiping foam from his beard.
"Aye. Empire bled for that war. Paid in blood and sons. And for what? A strip of ice and a false peace?"
The third man, younger, shrugged and tossed a handful of cards onto their table.
"Enough pissin' about politics," he said with a grin. "Let's play. Before the drink turns our tongues to knots."
The others laughed, the heavy tension dissolving into rough camaraderie.
Sif leaned back in his chair, feigning disinterest but listening carefully.
The Bloodveil Concord—even in prison, he had heard whispers of it.
A treaty signed in blood and desperation... a peace forged on the edge of a sword.
But here, among the northmen, it was clear: peace was just another kind of wound.
Sif's stomach twisted—not from the stew this time—but from a deeper unease.
He had stepped into a world where old grudges still smoldered... and sooner or later, someone was bound to stoke the fire.
The barmaid plunked another bowl of watery stew before him without a word.
Sif gave her a tired nod, picked up his spoon, and forced himself to eat.
Tomorrow, he'd figure out where to go.
Tonight, he was just another ghost among many, hiding from the cold
upstairs, the room was as miserable as promised: cracked walls, a draft whistling through the lone, grimy window, and a bed that creaked under its own weight.
Sif dropped his few possessions by the door and slumped onto the mattress, boots and all.
The straw-stuffed pillow smelled faintly of mildew, but he was too tired to care.
He stared at the low ceiling, lost in thought.
Who had granted him the royal pardon?
And why had they waited so long to act?
Someone with enough influence to overturn a council decree... but not enough, it seemed, to fetch him out of that frozen pit directly.
It didn't make sense.
If they had the power to free him, why not summon him? Why leave him to rot in Estheria's backwoods, half-starved and alone?
The capital…
Maybe that's where the answers lay.
But the journey would take at least six months by land, cutting through wild forests, storm-lashed coasts, and gods knew how many petty lords' territories.
And worse, he'd need to book passage aboard one of the ships crossing the Sea of Whispers to reach the heart of the Empire.
Money he didn't have.
Time he barely could afford.
Sif sighed and turned onto his side, the bedframe groaning beneath him.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow he would think of something.
For now, sleep was all he could afford.
His eyes fluttered shut, and soon, the chill wind tapping against the window was the only sound left in the room