Chapter 13: The Messenger

  A sharp caw cut through the cold air.

  Kaavi halted mid-step, his sharp eyes darting toward the sky. His raven, its dark feathers stark against the dull grey clouds, circled ahead before diving lower, wings beating urgently. A warning.

  Something lay ahead.

  Kaavi raised a hand, signalling Viktor to stop. The boy, though silent as ever, tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel and stayed close. Snow crunched beneath Kaavi’s boots as he crouched low, scanning the white expanse beyond the ridge. His breath misted in the frigid air as he narrowed his eyes.

  And then he saw it.

  A man lay half-buried in the snow, motionless against the lifeless body of a horse. The beast had fallen first, its legs twisted, its once-proud form now frozen in place. The rider, however, still clung to life—barely.

  The man’s fingers curled around the horse’s mane as if desperate for warmth, his breathing shallow and laboured. His Armor, though dented and stained with blood, bore an insignia—a silver wolf’s head on a navy-blue field. A noble house’s crest.

  A soldier.

  More importantly, a messenger.

  Kaavi remained still, watching. The man had left behind a trail of red in the snow, evidence of a long and arduous journey. His wounds were grave, yet he had pressed on, driven by purpose. Whatever message he carried, it had been worth dying for.

  Kaavi’s raven circled once more before landing on a frost-coated branch, watching with beady eyes.

  This wasn’t a coincidence.

  Kaavi’s fingers twitched toward his dagger as he scanned the area. Ambushes were not uncommon, and dying soldiers were often bait. He studied the surroundings—bare trees, thick snowdrifts, distant jagged peaks—but there was nothing out of place. Only the merciless cold and the whispering wind.

  Safe enough.

  Kaavi rose from his crouch and stepped forward; his movements cautious but assured. Viktor hesitated before following, his boots sinking into the snow with each step.

  As Kaavi drew closer, the soldier stirred, his body trembling with fever. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing clouded eyes that struggled to focus. His breath came in uneven gasps, misting in the freezing air.

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  Kaavi knelt beside him, his gaze sweeping over the man’s injuries. A deep gash ran across his side, hastily wrapped in bloodied cloth. His gauntlets were cracked, his fingers bruised and stiff with frostbite. This man had fought to get this far.

  The soldier’s lips parted, a voice escaping in a rasping whisper.

  “You’re… not one of ours…”

  Kaavi met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “No.”

  The soldier tried to move, but the effort only sent a fresh wave of pain through his body. His hand, shaking from exhaustion, reached for his belt, where a satchel hung securely. Even on the brink of death, he refused to let it go.

  His voice was barely audible now. “I must… get back…”

  Kaavi’s eyes flickered to the satchel.

  A message. Orders. A request for aid.

  He had seen this before—soldiers dying with duty still gripping their hearts. This man had fought to survive not for himself, but for the contents of that bag.

  Kaavi exhaled, the warmth of his breath vanishing instantly in the winter chill.

  This was no ordinary soldier.

  His Armor, though damaged, was finely crafted—not that of a common footman. The insignia on his chest plate marked him as someone of standing. A knight? A trusted retainer?

  His horse had carried him far, but even a strong steed could not outrun death forever. The deep gash on its flank suggested it had taken a fatal wound long before collapsing. And yet, it had pushed forward until the very end, just like its master.

  Viktor, who had remained silent, shifted uncomfortably beside Kaavi. He looked at the dying man, but Kaavi knew what he was thinking.

  They could leave.

  This wasn’t their war.

  But Kaavi wasn’t one to ignore fate when it placed something directly in his path.

  Slowly, he reached for the satchel, but the soldier’s grip tightened. His breathing was shallow, his body barely functioning, yet his fingers refused to let go. His will remained, even as his flesh failed him.

  Kaavi didn’t pry the bag away. Instead, he met the soldier’s weary gaze.

  “I can deliver it,” he said evenly. “But only if you tell me why it matters.”

  The soldier swallowed hard; his throat too dry to form words immediately. His eyes flickered with something—relief, desperation, or perhaps a mixture of both.

  His cracked lips moved again, barely forming the words.

  “…Help… us…”

  Then, his body sagged against the frozen earth, his strength finally giving way.

  Kaavi placed a hand on the soldier’s chest. His heartbeat was weak but still present. He wasn’t dead—yet.

  Viktor hesitated. “Kaavi…?”

  Kaavi didn’t answer immediately. His mind was already working, piecing together possibilities.

  If this soldier was a messenger from the northern town, then the situation there was worse than he had assumed. The border dispute had escalated to open skirmishes. Reinforcements were needed. And yet, if he was the one sent for aid, that meant something had gone terribly wrong.

  The town was in trouble.

  Kaavi exhaled. He had planned to pass through unnoticed, using the traders as cover. But with a wounded messenger and a satchel filled with urgent orders, things had just become complicated.

  He pressed his fingers against the soldier’s throat, feeling for the pulse. Still alive. But not for long.

  He had a choice to make.

  For now, though, he had to keep the man breathing.

  Kaavi turned to Viktor. “Get the firestones from my pack.”

  The boy nodded, quickly rummaging through the supplies. Kaavi pulled his cloak tighter around himself before beginning his work.

  This night was far from over.