Shadows Before Dusk

The forest closed in around them like a frozen cathedral—tall pine trees creaked under the weight of snow, and the ground crunched with each step they took. A thin fog threaded between the trunks, and every breath left a ghostly wisp behind.

Fiora wrapped her cloak tighter, trying to match the pace of the two men ahead. “So… what kind of creatures do you usually run into out here?”

Matko didn’t stop walking. “Kaldvakt. Skjallvarg. Snjástýr. Maybe an Isvandr if we’re unlucky.”

Fiora blinked. “I—what?”

River answered without missing a beat. “Corpse eaters. Frostgnash wolves. Those creepy frost birds. And the infamous ice wraith warriors that only come out at night.”

Fiora stopped in her tracks. “Corpse eaters?!”

River kept walking. “Yeah. Tall, rotted things. Move like men. Smell worse.”

“You didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

“I figured if you saw one, you’d start running faster. Motivation.”

Fiora muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Matko chuckled lowly. “You’re not wrong to be wary. Kaldvakt like to move in packs. But they don’t usually get this close to the villages unless something’s stirred them.”

They kept walking, snow crunching beneath their boots.

Matko slowed, glancing around. “No birds. No prey. No tracks. That’s not good.”

Then— A scream shattered the quiet. No, not a scream. A roar—fierce, furious, and very human.

Matko let out a long breath, exasperated. “Godsdammit. That’s Mjoll.”

Fiora gawked at him. “That’s your sister?”

Matko was already breaking into a run. “Come on!”

They sprinted through the trees, darting around thick trunks and low-hanging branches until the woods opened into a narrow clearing.

There, in the center of the snow-dusted glade, was chaos.

A short, dark-blonde girl with braided hair stood like a whirlwind of fury, her twin axes slick with blood. Her small frame was deceptive—she moved with speed and ferocity that defied her size, cleaving through the air with brutal precision.

Around her lay the corpses of at least three frostgnash wolves—Skjallvarg—ice-rimed fur matted with red. But one still remained, larger than the others. It prowled low, growling, waiting for its moment.

Mjoll spat blood from her lip and growled right back.

The beast lunged.

“Move!” River barked, and bolted forward, his sword flashing from its sheath.

Mjoll didn’t move in time. But she didn’t have to.

River was faster.

He crashed into the wolf mid-lunge, knocking it off-course. With a swift pivot, he drove his blade into its flank, then twisted and kicked it away before it could react. The wolf yelped, staggered—then dropped.

Snow settled in the sudden quiet.

Mjoll blinked, still breathing hard. Then her gaze snapped to River, her gray blue eyes alight with a burning spark.

“I had that. That was my kill.”

“I assume bleeding out was also part of your strategy.” River turned his attention away from her as he replied, splashing the blood away from his blade. Meanwhile the spark in Mjoll’s eyes burst into a fierce flame.

“You dare insult me?!”

Before anyone could say more, she lunged at him.

River caught her wrist mid-swing, sidestepped her wild second axe, and twisted her off balance. She was strong, sure, but her size was an advantage to the mercenary he didn’t waste a second to exploit. Her feet skidded in the snow as he used her momentum to drop her—gently but firmly—on her back.

Fiora winced. “Oh no.”

“Oh no…” Matko echoed, rushing towards them. Mjoll stared up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed in anger.

River let go and stepped back. “You’re welcome.”

Mjoll sat up, huffing. “Come back here you–”

Matko finally arrived, catching his small storm of a sister, by her arm before she attacked once more, “Mjoll! That’s enough!”

“Brother?! Why are you here?” Her eyes swept to River, and then to Fiora, as if she had just acknowledged them, “What are you doing with… them?”

“Nevermind that, I told you not to go off alone!”

“You were late!” Mjoll huffed defiantly, brushing off the snow. “I handled it.”

Now that the fight was over, her fierce scowl eased slightly. Beneath the war paint and blood, her face was surprisingly youthful—fair, freckled, almost doll-like. Her long braid swung as she huffed, a single short strand sticking up like a rebellious banner. Though small in stature, barely reaching her brother’s chest, she stood with the confidence of someone twice her size.

“You almost got mauled, Mjoll!”

“I’ve been hunting around these parts since I can remember, brother!”

“Then you should’ve known better. The forest’s been uneasy—don’t act like you didn’t feel it.” Matko sighed then gestured to Fiora and River. “Enough of this. We’re bringing you back. They need help. Father agreed to share the archives if they proved themselves.”

Mjoll crossed her arms, but looked River up and down.

“Father said that?”

“He did.”

A slow, grudging scowl spread across her face. “Fine. But you better not be slow.”

❅

They moved through the frost-veiled woods at a steady pace, the snow muffling their footsteps. Mjoll walked just ahead, tossing glances over her shoulder every so often—half curiosity, half suspicion.

For a time, no one spoke. But silence never lasted long around Mjoll.

“So where are you two from, anyway? You don’t talk like Grimhelmians. You don’t walk like us either.”

“I’m from Vermillia,” Fiora said.

Mjoll gave a mock gasp. “No! Really? I thought the lace on your boots gave it away.”

River smirked.

“Gods,” Mjoll muttered. “Soft nobles… chasing ancient secrets in the woods with bounty thieves. This is how ghost stories start.”

“Bounty thief?” River raised a brow.

“That is what you are, and don’t you dare deny it.” Mjoll snarled at him, “You stole my last kill!”

“This again…” Matko sighed. For someone calm and collected, his sister wore him thin far too easily.

“What kind of artifact’s worth dragging your noble boots this far north, anyway?”

Mjoll continued.

“We don’t know yet… We just know it’s tied to my family somehow.”

“Your family? The Dilo– what was it? Armadillos?”

“Di Lorenzo.” Matko added.

“And what do you even need that overpriced old relic for?”

“It’s just a means to an end.” River replied flatly, causing Mjoll to glare at him.

“Is that it? In Grimhelm, we don’t trust people who talk in half-truths.”

“We didn’t ask for your trust.”

Before Mjoll could bite back at him, Fiora cut in, hands raised between them, “We asked for your cooperation, is all! That’s what River meant.”

Matko smiled at the attempt at peace, grabbing his sister, “Don’t be so quick to bite. Where’s your bone?”

“I’m not a canine!”

They were still bickering when the forest began to shift.

The wind died. No birds. No rustle. Just snow and silence.

Matko’s expression turned grim. “Stay sharp… something’s off.”

Then—

Steel on frost. Figures stepped from the mist like wraiths born of the storm.

Ice wraiths.

They emerged in a half-circle—tall, pale specters clad in tattered armor and robes of hoarfrost. Their eyes glowed faint blue beneath horned helms, and in their hands, they carried weapons of enchanted ice in the shapes of blades and axes.

“Isvandr… They only come out at night,” Matko whispered. “And never this close to a village…”

The Isvandr moved without words. The fog curled around them like a second skin.

Then they attacked.

River was first to meet them— He deflected a downward swing, stepped inside the guard, and slashed in a tight arc that cut through the wraith’s midsection. The Isvandr shuddered—not with pain, but as though the magic holding it together fractured. Then it dissolved into frost, vanishing without a trace.

Another came from behind.

River dropped low, swept its legs, then drove his sword straight through its chest before it could rise. The body cracked, mist spilling from the wound—and then it crumbled.

Fiora cried out—an Isvandr had slipped past and was already mid-swing.

She raised her hand, and a golden shimmer sparked to life, forming a fragile barrier of light. The sword crashed down. The shield held—barely—but the impact sent her stumbling.

Before the creature could strike again—River slammed into it from the side, twisting its sword arm and kicking it backward in one fluid motion. He spun, caught the Isvandr mid-recovery, and drove his blade clean through its chest.

The wraith let out a faint, cold sigh as it disintegrated into mist.

River turned to Fiora. “Good job.” Fiora blinked, startled—but a small, shaky smile tugged at her lips.

Matko was a storm of shield and steel. He blocked a strike, then bashed forward with his shield to stagger the creature, following up with a swing of his blade that cleaved clean through the Isvandr’s torso. Another came from his side—he pivoted, dropped his sword, and in one fluid motion pulled the axe from his belt, buried it into the creature’s neck, and kicked it down.

Mjoll fought like a demon. Her twin axes blurred in the frost, slashing low and fast. One Isvandr struck, and she rolled beneath the blade, then popped up and sank both axes into its chest in a cross-slash. She yanked them free, spun, and tore into another with brutal precision, cracking its icy limbs until it fell apart.

“Two down!” she barked, breathless but grinning.

“Don’t count in the middle of the fight!” Matko barked back.

At the same time, another wraith warrior came for River.

He waited—just long enough.

As the blade came down, he twisted its blade to the ground. The heavily armored Isvandr retaliated, their fight a blur of parries and swings. Then when the mercenary found the opening, he kicked his opponent’s boney knee, and as it leaned forward cleaved its head in one clean sweep.

The Isvandr let out a faint hiss as it broke apart into snow.

Silence. Only the soft wind returned, and the sound of their heavy breaths.

Mjoll turned, axes dripping frost. “Alright… you’re not bad.”

River sheathed his sword, “Appreciate the flattery.”

Matko was catching his breath, sword planted in the snow. “If it was only me and my sister I doubt we could have handled them all…” He smiled, “You fight like a northern-born.”

River smirked. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

Mjoll huffed, sheathing her weapons. “Well. I suppose you’ve earned your walk through our woods.”

Fiora exhaled slowly, steadying her nerves. “I think I preferred the frostgnash wolves…”

River glanced at her with a sideways smile. “You did well.”

She looked at him—surprised, but pleased.

When the tension settled and the taking stopped, Matko looked around the clearing.

“Isvandr during daylight… something’s not right here. I need to report this to my father.”

They pressed on back to Kverneska, the mist swallowing the clearing behind them.