Viktor's Wrath

Dawn crept into the sky, pale light streaking gold over Branwyke's frost-tipped rooftops. The town breathed slowly in its sleep, unaware of what was happening.

Kaavi and Joren stepped through the door of Renn's house, their cloaks heavy with damp fog and the weight of their meeting with the Baron. The door closed behind them with a soft creak.

Inside, the air was warm from the lingering embers in the hearth. Viktor lay curled near the fire, wrapped in the thick wool cloak. His breathing was steady, but his brow was faintly furrowed, not asleep, just waiting.

Across the room, Gavril sat by the window, sharpening his axe in slow, rhythmic strokes. He didn't look up when they entered, just gave a short nod, flicking his eyes toward them before returning to his axe.

Kaavi moved closer to the hearth, stretching his hands toward the embers.

"We move at sunset," he said quietly.

"If we wait too long, the weather will get worse."

"It already has," said Joren, rubbing his hands together. "The frost is creeping down the walls. Winter's watching."

Kaavi's gaze drifted to Viktor, then settled on Joren. "We leave through the southern gate once the shadows stretch. Quietly."

Joren leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You don't have to come," he said, eyes on Kaavi. There was no accusation in his voice, just honesty.

Kaavi raised an eyebrow slightly.

Joren continued, more gently now. "You've done enough. The Hallow Swords can handle this mission. You have someone to protect and your own path to follow. This isn't your war."

Kaavi moved to sit on a low stool near the fire, fingers curling around the rim of a half-burnt mug left from the night before. He let the silence hang a moment, then spoke with calm certainty.

"If I walk away now, there won't be a path left to follow."

Joren didn't interrupt.

Kaavi's voice stayed even, but the weight behind his words pressed into the room like another body.

"If Whitehold and Branwyke fall, the north opens up to them. There will be nowhere safe. I'm not here to prove I can fight. I just want there to still be a world worth walking through."

Joren watched him for a long second, then gave a slow nod. "Figured you'd say something like that."

By the window, Gavril let out another sigh and dragged the whetstone across his axe with more force than needed.

(Every step we take, the mess gets bigger), he thought, jaw clenched.

(I said I'd guide them. Take them where they needed to go. Not march into a god damned suicide mission.)

But he didn't speak. Didn't argue. He just adjusted his grip, shook the tension from his shoulders, and kept sharpening.

Kaavi glanced toward him, sensing the tightness in his posture, but chose not to comment. Instead, he crouched and tossed another log into the hearth, coaxing the flames back to life.

"You didn't have to come," he said quietly.

Gavril grunted. "Yeah, well. Didn't plan on sticking' around this long either."

Neither of them said more. The fire crackled, filling the silence with its own quiet judgment.

Viktor, though half-drowsing, listened. He watched the stiffness in Gavril's jaw, the stillness in Kaavi's hands, the way Joren folded and unfolded his arms without realizing. These weren't warriors. These were men. Tired men. But they still chose to walk toward danger.

The rest of the day passed in hushed preparation.

Joren dozed lightly on a bench near the hearth, his bag pack already tightened and leaning against his leg. Gavril, after finishing with his axe, spent an hour fixing the stitching on his worn boots, muttering under his breath about the cold seeping through the soles.

Kaavi remained near the window, eyes distant, tracking the sun as it crawled toward the horizon.

Viktor moved quietly, helping where he could, refilling flasks, checking straps, staying out of the way but never out of sight. He didn't ask questions. He only observed.

At one point, he stood beside Kaavi and whispered, "Are you afraid?"

Kaavi looked down at him, surprised but not at the question. Just at the timing.

"Always," he said. "But fear helps you listen."

By the time the sun dipped below the western ridge, the group was ready.

Their packs were light, their weapons hidden beneath cloaks. They left no trace behind, no farewell notes, no lingering glances. Only the warm hearth fire remained, slowly dying in the silence of Renn's house.

Outside, dusk fell like a shroud.

Joren led them through the back alleys first, navigating narrow gaps between sheds and outer walls. The cold mist curled around their legs like smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then went silent again.

Gavril followed next, checking every corner before giving a nod. Kaavi walked behind him, quiet, composed, while Viktor stayed close to Kaavi's side. And the rest of the Hallow swords followed behind.

At the southern gate, a single sleepy guard leaned against the stone post, nursing a cup of something that steamed in the cold.

His eyes flicked up and recognized Joren. He didn't speak. Just gave a small nod and stepped aside.

They passed without a word. No questions. No fanfare.

Beyond the gate, the world opened into darkness, trees looming in the distance, the frozen path waiting beneath their boots.

They walked on, each carrying silence like armour.

Gavril trudged ahead, muttering curses under his breath.

"Damn boots still soggy... whole damn norths made of ice and regret."

Joren smirked. "Want me to carry you?"

"You want me to break your damn teeth?"

Even Kaavi let out a faint exhale that might've been a laugh. Viktor smiled just a little. It didn't last long, but it didn't need to. For a moment, the weight of what lay ahead lifted.

They walked on.

Just a quiet path, stretching into the dark, toward Whitehold and whatever waited there.