Chapter 11 Shadows in the Snow
1834 Words
Seraphel moved swiftly through the snow. Her boots left shallow prints across the frozen ground.
Behind her, Fenrik followed at an unhurried pace. His steps remained light despite the injury that still lingered in his leg.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. Still, Fenrik’s attention had never left the young woman walking ahead of him.
Earlier, when he had questioned her about the villagers and whether she felt any responsibility for what was about to happen, she had answered without hesitation.
“It’s not my fault people want me dead.”
The words themselves had been ordinary. The voice behind them had not.
It wasn't anger nor sadness or even resentment.
It was cold.
A deeper kind of coldness. The kind that settles into a person’s bones after making choices they can never take back.
Fenrik had heard that tone before. It belonged to people who had already accepted bloodshed as part of life.
He remained silent and watched how Seraphel navigated the snowy path ahead. She looked like an ordinary young noblewoman.
Yet every so often, when she thought no one was paying attention, the warmth disappeared from her expression entirely. It was as if another person existed beneath that calm face.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly.
Just who are you?
---
The slope gradually leveled as they reached the bottom of the landslide path.
Seraphel immediately slowed. Something was wrong.
She lifted a hand and silently signaled Fenrik to stop. The two of them crouched behind a cluster of snow-covered pine trees overlooking the village below.
The peaceful mountain village was no longer peaceful.
Dark-robed figures walked openly through the narrow streets. Mercenaries. There were more of them than Seraphel had expected.
Some stood beside homes. Others lingered near crossroads, pretending to admire the scenery while quietly observing every direction.
They weren’t attacking. Not yet.
They were positioning themselves. Like wolves surrounding a flock before the hunt began.
Seraphel’s expression darkened.
“They’re already here…”
Fenrik followed her gaze without speaking.
At the entrance to the village stood the elderly village chief. The old man smiled warmly as several armed men approached him.
“Welcome, honored guests,” the chief said with a respectful bow. “You’ve come a long way through the mountains. Please, allow the village to offer you some hospitality.”
Several villagers nearby smiled as well. One woman even hurried toward her home.
“I’ll prepare tea!”
Another laughed. “We don’t receive visitors very often.”
The mercenaries returned polite smiles. One even bowed in return.
“Thank you for your kindness, Elder.”
Watching the scene unfold, Seraphel slowly clenched her fists.
“They don’t know…”
The villagers had absolutely no idea. They believed they were welcoming travelers.
Instead, they were opening their gates to the people who intended to s*******r them before sunset.
---
Fenrik quietly studied the village layout.
“The main entrance is blocked.”
Seraphel nodded. “They’ve already spread throughout the streets. If we walk in openly… we’ll be surrounded.”
Neither of them needed to finish the sentence.
Fenrik briefly glanced upward. The sun stood high above them. Its brilliant light reflected endlessly off the thick snow, illuminating almost every corner of the village.
“There aren’t enough shadows,” he murmured.
Seraphel understood immediately. Even if Fenrik possessed techniques that allowed him to travel through darkness, there simply wasn’t enough darkness to use right now.
Every rooftop, road and courtyard.
Everything was flooded with light.
Trying to sneak through the village now would be nearly impossible.
For the first time since leaving the cave, Seraphel felt genuinely trapped.
She looked toward the far side of the village. Beyond several rows of houses, hidden near the edge of the forest, she could just make out the roof of the old shed.
Home.
Or rather… the place the Solvaine Clan had abandoned her.
Elara was there. She had to be.
“So close…” she whispered. “So close…”
---
At that very moment, inside the village chief’s residence…
A body lay sprawled across the wooden floor. Blood slowly spread beneath it. The crimson stain crept across the old floorboards, seeping into every c***k.
The dead man’s eyes remained open. Frozen. Empty. One arm stretched toward the doorway as though he had tried to crawl away before death claimed him.
The office door opened. Heavy footsteps echoed inside.
Osric entered. The scar-faced leader casually looked down at the corpse before shifting his attention toward the elderly village chief standing nearby.
A smile crossed his face. “You work fast.”
The old man smiled back. Without saying a word, he reached toward his face. His fingers slipped beneath the skin near his jaw.
Then… he peeled.
The old, wrinkled face slowly came away like a mask. Underneath was an entirely different man. Much younger. Sharp-featured. Cold-eyed.
The false skin hung loosely in his hand, still damp with fresh blood. He admired it with obvious satisfaction.
“Boss,” the mercenary said proudly, “the Skin-Stealing Technique works perfectly.”
Osric nodded once. “It should.”
The younger man chuckled. “The villagers never suspected a thing.” He tossed the lifeless face of the real village chief onto the desk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe I was actually him.”
Osric took a seat behind the desk. “Enough.” His scarred eyes hardened. “Where is the girl?”
The mercenary’s smile disappeared. “We still haven’t located her.”
“No sightings?”
“None.”
“What about the servant?”
“We questioned several villagers before replacing the chief. The servant is supposedly still staying at the mountain estate. No one has seen Seraphel herself.”
Osric frowned. His fingers tapped slowly against the wooden armrest.
Just as he was about to issue another order—
Bang!
The office door burst open. A mercenary stumbled inside, breathing heavily.
“Sir!”
Osric immediately stood. “What happened?”
The man swallowed. His face had gone completely pale.
“Osric… We have a serious problem.”
---
A short time later, deep within the forest…
Osric stood silently before two bodies. Or rather, two headless bodies.
Several mercenaries formed a circle around the clearing. None dared to speak.
Osric slowly crouched beside one of the corpses. His scarred fingers brushed lightly against the clean cut across the neck. No hesitation. No repeated strikes. One swing. Perfect.
He looked toward the severed head lying nearby. Even in death, terror remained frozen across the man’s face.
Osric narrowed his eyes. “One strike…”
He stood again. “Spread out.” His voice echoed through the forest. “Search every part of these mountains. We have intruders.”
The mercenaries immediately straightened. “Yes, sir!”
One subordinate hesitated. “Commander…”
Osric looked at him. “What?”
The man pointed nervously toward the bodies. “The angle… The smoothness of the cut… I believe… they were killed by someone from the North.”
Silence. Even the wind seemed to stop.
“The North…” Osric repeated quietly. His expression darkened.
Northern cultivators. Among Eastern assassins, those words carried enormous weight. The Northerners were monsters. Their physical strength alone rivaled spiritual techniques. Their swordsmanship was brutal. Their battle instincts terrifying.
If one of them had truly become involved, this mission had just become much more dangerous.
Osric’s jaw tightened. “I don’t care where they’re from.” His voice turned icy. “Find them. Kill them. We have exactly one week to complete this mission. I refuse to fail my employers because of a wandering Northerner.”
“Move!”
The mercenaries scattered immediately. Within moments, the clearing became empty once again.
Only Osric remained. His gaze lingered on the corpses.
What should have been the easiest mission of the year had suddenly become unpredictable.
He hated unpredictable missions.
---
Meanwhile, Seraphel and Fenrik slipped quietly through the narrow spaces between the village buildings.
Instead of using the main roads, they stayed behind abandoned storage sheds, empty courtyards, and frozen alleyways where no one was likely to look. Whenever distant footsteps approached, they stopped completely. Only after the mercenaries moved on did they continue.
Neither spoke. Every sound felt unnaturally loud. The crunch of snow beneath their boots. The distant laughter of villagers who still hadn’t realized death had already entered their home. The quiet whistle of the winter wind.
Eventually, the two reached the edge of the village.
Ahead stood the lonely wooden shed. Its roof sagged beneath the weight of accumulated snow. The broken fence surrounding it leaned at awkward angles. It looked more like an abandoned storage house than a noble residence.
Seraphel’s chest tightened. She stepped behind a broken stone wall and carefully observed the courtyard.
No movement. No voices. Too quiet.
Fenrik looked once. Then nodded.
The two quietly entered the courtyard. Each careful step carried them closer to the front door.
Seraphel’s heartbeat grew louder with every passing second.
*Elara… Please be safe.*
She reached for the wooden door.
The instant her fingertips brushed the handle—
Whoosh!
Several steel throwing knives exploded out from the darkness inside. They came so suddenly that Seraphel’s eyes widened in shock.
Fenrik moved before she could think. One arm wrapped firmly around her waist. He pulled her against him. The world spun. Her feet left the ground as Fenrik twisted sideways with astonishing speed.
The knives sliced harmlessly through empty air.
Thunk!
Thunk!
Thunk!
The blades buried themselves deep into the wooden wall behind them. The handles vibrated violently.
Seraphel stared at the spots where she had been standing only a heartbeat earlier. Cold sweat formed across her back.
Before either of them could regain their footing—
Crash!
The front door exploded outward. A massive figure burst from inside. The masked mercenary landed heavily in the snow, already swinging a huge iron mace dripping with fresh blood.
Without a word, he charged. The mace howled through the air as it descended directly toward Seraphel’s head.
Fenrik pulled her back once more. The weapon narrowly missed her face and smashed into the frozen ground instead. Chunks of ice and snow erupted everywhere.
The mercenary didn’t stop. With practiced efficiency, he twisted the mace around and launched a second attack. This time, he aimed low. Straight toward Fenrik’s wounded leg.
His timing was perfect. His target even better.
Fenrik’s golden eyes lowered toward the incoming weapon. For the first time since entering the village, they narrowed slightly.
Then the corners of his lips slowly curved upward.
He smiled.
Standing only inches away, Seraphel suddenly understood.
Until this very moment, despite the cursed wound in his leg and the blood he had already lost, Fenrik hadn’t been fighting seriously at all.
Now… for the first time… he was finally about to show an Eastern mercenary what it truly meant to face a warrior from the North.
- Writer
