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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: The village of Bellshade, dusk
The village of Bellshade was built in a valley that should have been fertile. Once, perhaps, it was. But now it stank faintly of sulfur. Crops around the edge had withered, and the river tasted strange. Locals claimed it was "bad soil," but the smell was wrong for that.
Arthur smelled it as they came over the ridge. Garron muttered about bogwater. Sarra said nothing but kept her eyes on the buildings.
Bellshade had no wall. Just fences and faith. Arthur didn't trust either.
They reached the main square just as shouting erupted near the well.
A boy had collapsed, convulsing. Foaming at the mouth.
Villagers swarmed around—screaming, useless. One man shouted about "curses" and "witchfire."
Arthur stepped forward, but Thom was already moving. He knelt beside the boy, checked his throat, his tongue.
Then: "It's chemical. Not plague."
The villagers shouted louder.
Then a new voice cut through the crowd—sharp, nasal, furious.
"Oh, for the love of the forgotten gods, get back! You'll only make him worse!"
A man in a tattered robe pushed through, clutching a half-smashed leather satchel. His hands were stained with charcoal and yellowing paste, his eyes wide with rage and frustration.
"Let me through, or I'll let the boy die and be done with it!"
The crowd hesitated.
Thom looked up. "Vaeren?"
The man stopped short. "Thom Gorse?"
Thom nodded. "You still poisoning people by accident?"
Vaeren snorted. "It wasn't poison. It was a compound."
He shoved past and opened his bag with one hand. From inside, he pulled a slender phial of greenish liquid and a pinch of black root. He mixed them in the air, using the boy's own spit to dissolve the blend. Then poured it under the boy's tongue.
Ten seconds passed.
The boy stopped shaking.
The silence was louder than the panic had been.
Arthur watched closely—not just what Vaeren had done, but how he moved. There was precision, yes. But also a quiet rage underneath it. Like a man brilliant enough to cure but bitter enough to hate the world he was curing.
The villagers didn't thank him.
One old man muttered, "Damn madman'll blow us all up next time."
Vaeren didn't respond.
He just turned and walked toward the edge of the square, where a crumbling outbuilding held what must have been his makeshift lab.
Arthur followed.
The lab was a shack barely standing. Inside, stacked books, jars, powders, scrolls, and failed attempts at structure filled every corner. It smelled like burnt mint and copper.
Vaeren sat at the desk and stared at the boy's emptied cup.
"You came at the right time," he muttered.
Thom crossed his arms. "You always work like that?"
"Like what?"
"Alone. Angry. Brilliant."
"I don't take flattery from dropouts."
Thom smiled faintly. "You haven't changed."
Arthur remained silent.
Vaeren finally looked up at him. "And who are you?"
"Arthur Snow."
Vaeren squinted. "The North's new fascination."
Arthur didn't react.
Vaeren stood. "I know your name. People are whispering. Fighting without banners. Moving with no sponsors. Doing the work without asking first. It's disruptive."
Arthur said, "You were trying to make something new. What was it?"
Vaeren tilted his head. "Why?"
"Because I'd like to know."
Vaeren studied him. No mockery. No laughter. Just curiosity.
He moved to a small bench and lifted a clay jar, carefully pulling out a lattice of pale threads soaked in resin.
"It's a memory-catcher," he said. "Laced resin that locks scent and heat changes. I was trying to build an alchemical tracker. A trail-follower. But the villagers said it was cursed."
"And you?"
"I said they were fools."
Arthur nodded. "They are."
Vaeren narrowed his eyes. "You believe me?"
"I don't need to believe. I saw the boy. You acted. You were right."
Thom stepped forward. "You still want to finish it?"
Vaeren laughed dryly. "Always. But no one funds men like me."
"I will," Arthur said.
Vaeren blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm building something," Arthur said. "And I need more than brute strength. I need thought. You have it."
Vaeren hesitated.
"I'm not loyal," he said.
"You don't need to be. Just be useful."
The room went still.
Then Vaeren said, "You'll give me coin. Materials. No restrictions?"
"You get results, you get respect," Arthur replied. "You fail without blowing us up, you still walk with us."
"And if I blow someone up?"
Arthur answered, "Make it count."
Vaeren laughed—genuinely this time. "Alright. I'll walk."
That night, outside the shack, Garron leaned near the doorway.
"You just added a madman to our camp."
Arthur didn't look back. "No. I added a mind the world discarded."
Sarra smirked. "Better pray he doesn't set fire to the cookpot."
Thom simply said, "He's brilliant. But lonely. If we give him direction, he'll move mountains."
Garren nodded. "Or melt them."
They settled near the edge of the village for the night, not inside it. People here still feared what they didn't understand—and Arthur didn't need a mob throwing fire over some rumor.
As Garron pulled his blanket closer and Sarra checked the camp's perimeter, Arthur spoke low to the others.
"We head north at first light," he said. "There's a place called Rimehall—half-ruins, half-fort. Been abandoned since the last frost war. Word says a few Free Folk crossed back over the Wall near there. And some deserters might be playing lord in the chaos."
Redna, who had returned just before sundown, added, "Rimehall's isolated. But I might have someone there. A smuggler who trades for quiet. Might know something."
Arthur simply nodded. "Good. We go in quiet."
Above them, in the dark clouds that drifted beyond moonlight, a single hawk circled once.
Its wings didn't flap.
It glided.
Smooth. Still. Watching.
And somewhere far away, through a glass bowl rimmed with salt and moss, a man exhaled slowly. His fingers hovered above the surface as if pressing the air through the bird's eyes.
He saw them. The whole camp.
And
Arthur Snow.
The hawk tilted its head.
Then flew.
North. Fast.
Out of sight.