The sun barely broke through by midday.
It sat behind a veil of cloud like a candle behind a cracked window—present but impotent. The frost didn't recede. It simply reshaped itself, moving like breath across the stone paths of Eldenhold.
Maverick stood just inside the outer gate, facing the main road. The heavy double doors remained closed behind him, secured with thick iron bars and a pair of cross-hinged locks.
Above him, the wall curved slightly inward, forming an arch that cut the wind but echoed every sound back twice as loud. The kind of space where silence became a crowd.
He'd been posted here three hours.
No movement.
Only the snow falling sideways, blown in slow, drifting sheets.
A small cluster of people had gathered near the entry fence, just past the outer gate's lip.
Refugees.
Some were familiar now—faces seen too many times to forget. Others were new.
Today's count: seven.
Three adults. Four children.
They wore layers—wrong ones. Travel-worn cloth, stitched furs, and whatever they could grab before fleeing. One woman had a broken boot tied together with twine. The youngest child wore a sleeve pinned around his head like a makeshift hood.
Maverick didn't move.
His orders were simple: Watch. Record. Report. Do not open.
To his right, the post hut door opened.
Sergeant Alric emerged, armor half-laced, hands red from washing.
He approached silently, boots crunching just once on the frozen gravel before falling still.
"Third day this week," Alric muttered, watching the group near the fence.
Maverick didn't look away. "They'll keep coming."
"They shouldn't."
"They have nowhere else to go."
Alric glanced at him. "That's not your call."
"I didn't say it was."
The older man exhaled sharply. "Any of them familiar?"
"One. Girl in the back. She was here last week."
"The one from Valden's Edge?"
Maverick nodded.
"Didn't she leave with her family?"
"Guess she didn't keep them."
Alric took out a short stick of chalk and made a mark on the inside of the stone wall—one of several dozen now scratched near the post.
"Another tally," he muttered. "Nothing else to do."
"You're not turning them away?"
Alric gave a tight shrug. "They're not asking to come in. Just to be seen. For now."
"Then?"
"We let Brune decide."
Brune arrived minutes later.
Wool cloak, heavy gloves, long scarf over one shoulder. His walk had the calm assurance of someone who'd already lost too much to fear more.
He carried a ledger in one hand and a small bag of bread in the other.
"Morning," he said, too lightly.
Maverick nodded. "For some."
Brune ignored the cold like it offended him personally. He walked to the gate, looked through the slats, and tapped the iron once.
The people gathered moved forward—slowly, cautiously.
He spoke through the bars. "Same rules. Name. Origin. Number traveling. Purpose."
The first woman stepped forward. Her voice cracked with cold. "Anila. Brenton's Hollow. Two sons. Looking for shelter."
Brune looked at her for a long moment, then turned to Alric. "That one's clear."
Alric gave a shallow nod.
Brune continued.
The second man hesitated before giving his name. "Karel. No home now. From Lower Raugh."
"Purpose?"
"Just a place to stop."
Brune didn't write that one down.
He handed a single half-loaf through the gate and moved on.
Maverick watched silently as Brune processed them one by one. The line was smaller today, but the tension was not. Eyes darted. Hands twitched.
The boy with the sleeve-hood didn't speak. Just stared at Maverick like he recognized him from somewhere impossible.
Brune finished. Gave one more nod.
"They'll shelter near the second perimeter. Not inside."
Alric grunted. "Too many disappearances close to the east fence. They go west or not at all."
Brune looked up at the sky. "We're going to need more space. Soon."
"We need more people first," Alric replied.
Maverick didn't say anything.
But he agreed.
Later that evening, Maverick patrolled the mid-lane stretch behind the granary. The wind was stronger here—funneled through the storage buildings like a breath between gritted teeth.
The snow was fresh, but something about it felt reused. The same flakes, recycled from one corner of the kingdom to another.
He paused near the second watch bell and stared across the rooftops.
A bird sat on the chimney of the healer's hut.
Still. Dark. Unmoving.
Not a crow. Not a hawk. Something unfamiliar.
Its head was slightly too long. Beak narrow. Its feathers… wet?
Maverick narrowed his eyes.
The bird turned its head slowly.
Its eyes were black. Entirely black.
No glint. No reflection.
Then it was gone.
No wingbeat. No sound. Just gone.
Back at the forge, the warmth was a wall.
Elira stood at the table, arranging roots into labeled jars.
Torren was asleep in his chair, arms crossed, brow furrowed even in rest.
Ren and Rune were trying to figure out if the wood shavings in the forge bin could be converted into paper swords.
Maverick didn't speak. Just stood at the edge of the room until the cold let go of him.
Selene arrived just before supper.
She brought tea and said it was for Elira.
But she looked at Maverick when she handed it over.
After the twins were scolded for turning the fireplace into a "training ground," and Elira finally managed to send them upstairs, the silence returned.
Selene lingered.
"You heard about the boy from the north fields?" she asked.
Maverick nodded. "Went out looking for his dog. Didn't come back."
"No prints."
"Snow covered them?"
"Too fast," she said. "And too clean."
He looked at her.
She wasn't exaggerating.
"They're saying it's wolves," she added.
"It's not wolves."
"I know."
The wind rattled the shutters once. Then stopped.
Maverick stood at the window and looked out.
No movement.
But he could feel it.
The watching.
The cold had become something more.
And soon, it wouldn't wait at the gates anymore.