Come If You’re Brave Enough

❅

Snow crunched beneath their boots, soft and unrelenting. The white landscape stretched endlessly around them, interrupted only by clusters of frost-covered trees and the occasional frozen outcrop of stone. A pale sun hung low in the sky, offering little warmth as a cold wind cut through the open terrain.

Fiora pulled her deep-blue cloak tighter, her gloved hands rubbing together for warmth. Her breath curled visibly in the air, and her cheeks were flushed a soft pink from the chill.

“I can’t feel my nose,” she muttered. “Or my ears. Or my… soul.”

“That’s just the region greeting you. The Grimhelm way.”

“But it’s spring…!” Despite her shivering, Fiora’s eyes sparkled with wonder. “Yet it is also beautiful… All this snow. Back home it only fell once or twice a year. And it never stayed.”

“You’ll grow sick of it by the third village.”

“Let me enjoy it while it lasts.”

They walked in silence for a while longer, the terrain growing steeper. River eventually slowed his pace, glancing her way.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

Fiora blinked, catching the shift in his tone. “What is it?”

“You remember what happened back at the ball?”

Fiora’s smile faded. “Of course I do.”

“I know I said you wouldn’t have to lift a finger while I’m on the job. But…” River paused. “Situations change.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “River—”

“And now it has changed. I know I’m good,” he cut in. “But I’m not invincible. If you keep relying on me in every fight, one day I won’t be fast enough.”

Fiora was quiet, watching the snow swirl around her feet.

“You need to become useful in battle. Not just for yourself. But for both of us.”

She nodded slowly. “I understand…” she took a few moments to process his words although she had already agreed. She was of noble decent, and although she was a firm believer of equality, having to protect herself sounded almost… foreign to her. Was she even capable of that?

“If you’re having second thoughts—“

“I’m not.” Fiora cut in, resolute, “I want to try.”

The thought of protecting herself didn’t sound so bad in the end.

“Should I focus on magic? Or… a weapon?”

“With less than ten months left before the end?” River exhaled. “There’s no time to master something from scratch. You’ll need to play to your strengths.”

Fiora nodded again, eyes thoughtful.

“My strengths eh…?”

With the conversation seemingly concluded, River continued along.

Ahead, nestled in the snow-covered hills, a small village came into view soon. Smoke rose from chimneys, and roofs sagged under blankets of frost. Wooden homes were packed closely together, snow piled along their walls. The paths were barely visible beneath the white.

River pulled a worn map from his coat and glanced at the faded ink.

“That must be Kverneska…” he murmured. “Could be a good place to restock… maybe even ask around.”’

As they neared the village’s edge, a handful of rugged elderly men turned toward them, eyes sharp beneath fur-lined hoods. One stepped forward, his tone immediately wary.

“What business do a couple of foreigners have in our village, ey?”

River’s voice was calm as he replied, “Just passing through. Are visitors not allowed in these parts?”

The man at the forefront narrowed his eyes, “Passing through, huh? You sure that’s all—?”

“Enough.”

The interruption came from behind. A tall young man with a confident stride approached. He had a swept forward short and sharp curtain of blonde hair falling over his forehead, and a thin streak of blue paint beneath one of his dark blue eyes. He looked between the travelers and the locals before offering a short nod.

“My name’s Matko. Son of the village chief.” The young man offered a greeting, politer than expected around these parts, as he regarded River and Fiora. Then he turned to the elders who still glared back.

“Oleg, Thomaz… They’re not swinging blades or shouting curses. Let’s hear ’em out.”

The tension eased.

River’s eyes studied the man for a moment, then gave a small nod. “River. And this is Fiora.”

There was an air about him, that made him easy to talk to.

Matko nodded, “You came for something. Supplies? Shelter? Or is it more than that?”

“We came for supplies and possibly information.”

Matko gestured for them to follow. “Sounds fair. Come. We’ll speak with my father.”

There was a certain air of quiet authority to Matko as he spoke and even the agitated elders seemed content to let him do as he saw fit.

As they walked through the snow-packed village, River and Fiora passed all manner of locals. Children ran between the narrow paths, bundled in thick furs, hurling snowballs at each other. A pair of older women sat by a large cauldron over a fire, stirring what looked like stew, while others repaired nets, stitched cloaks, or tended to the shaggy cattle that snorted clouds of steam into the frigid air.

Despite the life and movement, something was undeniably missing.

There were few men. The absence grew more obvious with every step—too many empty chairs, too many unguarded homes, too many mothers watching the children alone.

As they rounded a bend, a tall wall came into view—weathered, towering, and carved top to bottom with names. Some were ornate, as if etched slowly and with pride. Others were hastily scratched in, crooked and raw. Fiora slowed, eyes tracing the rows.

Sensing her curiosity, Matko spoke as he walked. “Those are the names of those who left for the Trials. We carve them so they’re never forgotten. They walked into the storm with pride. Some might come back. Most won’t. But none are cowards.”

Fiora’s gaze stayed fixed. “There’s so many…”

“That’s how we face the end here,” Matko said, his voice low but firm. “We don’t beg the gods for mercy. We don’t wait to be saved. If the world’s going to burn, we meet it head-on. Spear in hand.”

He glanced back at her, a flicker of pride in his expression.

“Come if you’re brave enough, God of Endings. We’ll either stop you… or die trying.”

Fiora didn’t reply. But the words settled deep, anchoring in the hollow of her chest like a seed. That explained the reason of male absence in the village.

“That’s Grimhelm for you…” River commented, making Matko glance over his shoulder.

“River was it? Where are you from then?”

“Everywhere and nowhere at the same time.” The mercenary replied, cryptic as always.

“Fair enough.”

They walked on.

Kverneska’s heart was small but alive—crimson banners flapped above doorways, carved wolf totems guarded corners, and iron braziers lined the main path, hissing smoke into the frozen air.

Up ahead, the chieftain’s longhouse loomed tall over the rest. Reinforced with dark wood and thick beams, it stood like a war-hardened sentinel. Two iron torches flanked the entrance, their flames steady despite the biting wind.

River exhaled, eyeing the heavy doors.

“Time to meet the chief.”

❅

The interior of the longhouse was dim and warm, lit by a central hearth that crackled with orange flame. The air smelled of smoke, leather, and pine. Weapons lined the walls—axes, spears, and shields, each worn with use but proudly displayed. Animal pelts covered the floor, and above them, the beams were carved with twisting runes that told stories only locals could read.

At the far end of the hall sat the village chieftain.

A bald towering man with a thick grey beard braided at the end, and eyes like cold steel. His long axe rested beside his chair—more a throne of carved oak than a simple seat—and his cloak was pinned with a brooch bearing the symbol of a wolf framed in ice. He was tall, towering even, but his left leg that was replaced by a wooden prosthetic didn’t make him seem very combat-ready.

His presence however still remained regal and cold.

Matko stepped forward first, voice firm. “Father. These two came seeking supplies and answers.”

The chieftain’s gaze swept over River and Fiora, lingering on her fine cloak, then River’s sword. “Vermillian Foreigners. What sort of information are you looking for to be worth bothering the chief?”

Fiora took a breath and stepped forward with as much poise as she could summon. “My name is Fiora Di Lorenzo. My companion and I are seeking a family artifact hidden somewhere in Grimhelm.”

The chieftain’s brow furrowed. “Di Lorenzo?”

Fiora nodded. “I know we’re far from Vermillia. But any records, cave markers, or family ties—anything could help us.”

“What makes you think you could find something from your family all the way here?”

“We have reason to believe so. We’re just looking for a start.” River added, stepping in sharply.

There was a pause. Then the chieftain leaned forward, resting his head on his palm.

“You want our help. But help comes at a cost.”

River crossed his arms. “What sort of cost?”

“Proving you’re not a burden.”

The chieftain’s tone was calm, but cold. “You wouldn’t be the first outsiders to wander in with questions, only to be found frozen or torn open the next morning. If you can’t handle the cold and the beasts, then your corpses will only draw the Kaldvakt closer to our gates.”

A heavy silence followed.

“Kaldvakt?” Fiora echoed.

“It’s how Grimhelmians call the corpse eating eaters in the region.” River replied, before stepping forward, “Then what do you suggest?”

“My daughter’s been out hunting and hasn’t come back. She can get… fiery. Bring her back to me and I’ll consider your claim to our knowledge.”

Matko glanced at his father, shifting uneasily. “You want them to go out there, father? With no guide?”

The chief raised a brow. “No. You’ll go with them.”

Matko clenched his jaw. He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to not be overheard. “You know how she gets.”

“She’s your sister. And she’s been gone since dawn.”

“And you think sending strangers is the answer?”

“If they die, we lose nothing. If they return with her—maybe they’re worth listening to. In Grimhelm we don’t offer help to those who don’t show they’re worth it.”

Matko stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

He turned to River and Fiora, exhaling through his nose. “Fine. We’re heading north into the forest. We bring Mjoll back in one piece, and then we’ll see what the archives say.”

River smirked faintly. “You’re showing us the archives? Sounds easy enough.”

“It won’t be.” Matko’s tone was serious now. “The woods have been uneasy lately. Something’s stirring.”