The wind howled as the gates closed behind him, the heavy groan of iron and wood sealing him away from the only world he had known for months.
Elias did not hesitate.
He pulled the thin cloak tighter around his shoulders and stepped forward. The snow crunched beneath his boots, the path ahead nothing more than a vague impression of dirt beneath the ice.
Dain and the guards remained at the gate for a few moments, watching. He could feel their eyes on his back, waiting, perhaps, for hesitation. For fear.
Elias gave them nothing.
And then, as if losing interest, they turned away. The heavy gates shut, leaving him alone in the vast, empty white.
The air burned in his lungs as he exhaled, his breath curling in the frigid air.
He was alone.
For the first time in a long time.
The road stretched ahead, winding through the frozen landscape, disappearing into the dense treeline beyond. The outpost was north. That was his destination.
The message weighed lightly in his satchel, but the meaning of it sat heavier.
He wasn't a fool.
They did not send him because they trusted him.
They sent him because he was expendable.
If he froze, if he starved, if he never reached the outpost at all—what did it matter? The message could be delivered by another, or perhaps it was never truly important to begin with. Perhaps the journey itself was the punishment. A test. A quiet execution.
But Elias had never relied on their mercy.
He had survived this long without it.
He would survive this, too.
The Hours Stretched On
The sun was nothing more than a pale smudge behind thick clouds, offering no warmth. The landscape remained still, silent, the snow deep enough to make each step an effort.
Elias kept moving.
His fingers ached from the cold, his breath grew shallower with each passing hour. He rationed his provisions carefully, taking only the smallest bites of the dried meat, the occasional sip of water.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the trees had grown thicker, offering some shelter from the wind. He found a hollow beneath the roots of an old tree, clearing enough snow to sit without being entirely buried.
There was no fire.
No warmth.
Only the steady ache of exhaustion curling into his limbs.
And yet—
It was almost peaceful.
No voices sneering at him. No careless cruelty disguised as amusement.
Just the quiet of the frozen wilderness, the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat reminding him: Still alive. Still moving.
His fingers brushed the edge of the parchment inside his satchel.
The message.
He had not opened it.
Would it matter if he did?
Dain had given him no real warning, no specific instruction against it. Perhaps he assumed Elias wouldn't dare.
Or perhaps it was a test.
Elias hesitated, then slowly pulled the parchment free.
The ink was faded in places, smudged from the damp, but the words remained clear enough.
His eyes traced the script, reading the message meant for hands other than his own.
And as he read, the cold in his bones deepened into something else entirely.
A quiet, creeping dread.
Because this—
This was not just a simple command.
This was a death sentence.
Not only for him.
But for someone else.
And suddenly, the emptiness of the world around him did not feel so peaceful anymore.