Sif awoke to the dull gray light of a northern morning filtering through the cracked window.
The room was bitterly cold, and the thin blanket did little to fight it.
He dressed quickly, fastening his sword to his belt and slinging the worn crossbow over his shoulder.
With a final glance around the small, bare room, he made his way downstairs.
The common room was nearly empty, save for the red-haired innkeeper — the same woman from the night before — cleaning behind the counter.
Sif approached quietly, his boots making soft thuds against the wooden floor.
"I need to find a post house," he said, his voice rough from the cold air.
The woman glanced up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"You won't find one here," she said simply. "This is barely a village. If you want a post house, you'll have to head to Frostmoor. A proper town, day's journey west."
Sif nodded, absorbing the information without complaint.
She pulled out a small pouch and dropped five copper royals onto the counter.
"Room and food came to five," she said. "Here's two back."
Sif reached for the coins silently, but the woman hesitated a moment longer.
Her eyes softened slightly — a rare kindness in a harsh land.
From beneath the counter, she slid over two additional coins and a folded, hand-drawn map.
"Take these," she said. "You'll need every scrap you can get if you're heading into the woods alone. We don't get many visitors these days... not unless they're guards from Devil's Pit."
There was a teasing lilt to her voice as she added, "And you don't look like the sort that needs to get thrown into a hole."
For a moment, she smiled — a flash of something mischievous and warm.
Sif, unaccustomed to such open gestures — especially from women — felt heat rising to his cheeks.
He muttered a quiet thanks, pocketing the coins and carefully folding the map.
She leaned in slightly over the counter, voice dropping to a mock whisper.
"Careful out there, stranger. Would be a shame if we lost someone with eyes like yours to the wolves."
Sif coughed lightly, looking away, unsure how to respond.
He gathered his few belongings and made for the door with quiet determination.
The cold hit him immediately, sharp and bracing.
He adjusted the strap on his pack and glanced west, toward the faint suggestion of a trail leading into the snowbound woods.
As he stepped into the drifting frost, he muttered under his breath with the faintest trace of dry humor,
"Would be nice to have a horse right about now."
And with that, Sif set off, the lonely road stretching ahead into the whiteness
The morning sun was little more than a pale smudge behind heavy clouds as Sif started his journey west.
The air was sharp and biting, and even though it was still early, he moved quickly, wary of being caught in the forest after nightfall.
He was no northerner, no hardened son of Esthyria, able to shrug off the deadly cold of night.
The path narrowed into a trail between dense pines, their branches heavy with old snow.
For a long while, Sif walked alone, the only sound the crunch of his boots on frozen ground and the occasional whisper of the wind.
Then, faintly, he heard the creaking of wheels behind him.
He turned to see a small wooden cart approaching, drawn by a stocky brown horse.
The man at the reins, bundled thickly against the cold, raised a hand in greeting as he drew nearer.
"Morning, traveler!" the man called out, pulling the horse to a slower trot.
"Where you headed?"
Sif slowed his pace, studying the man briefly — plain clothes, rough hands, no obvious weapons.
"Frostmoor," Sif answered curtly.
The driver grinned.
"Same as me! Hop on if you like. Not wise walking alone in these woods — wolves and worse, they say."
Sif hesitated for a heartbeat, but practicality won over pride.
With a nod, he climbed onto the back of the cart, settling quietly among sacks of supplies.
They traveled for a few minutes in companionable silence before the driver spoke again, trying to pierce the stillness.
"Word is, the Velkan Trade Union's lookin' to open new branches up north," the man said, glancing over his shoulder. "Must be the times, eh?"
Sif, staring ahead down the snow-dusted trail, answered dryly,
"You a merchant?"
The man chuckled.
"Something close. I run supplies between Frostmoor and the outposts near Devil's Pit. Not much glory, but it pays."
Sif smirked faintly.
"I wouldn't be surprised if the union tried. They already stretch their claws across the south — into Norwood, Marven... even the capital, though no one says it aloud."
The driver laughed at that, the sound puffing white in the cold air.
"True enough."
Sif leaned back slightly, a rare glimmer of humor in his voice.
"I once heard a saying about the Velkan Trade Union — 'They could sell sand to a man dying of thirst, and still charge him for the jug.'"
The driver roared with laughter, slapping the reins lightly as the horse plodded on.
"Sounds about right!" he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "Sounds exactly right."
For the first time in days, Sif allowed himself a small, genuine smile, hidden beneath his cloak as the cart rolled deeper into the forest toward Frostmoor