A river cut through the North like a scar that refused to heal.
Narrow.
Cold.
Relentless.
And through it—
A ship forced its way forward.
—
It was too large for the Giant Spine stream.
Twenty meters of reinforced oak, ten across at its widest, its hull thick and stubborn, groaning faintly each time the current pressed too hard against its sides. The wood was dark, treated, hardened—built not for elegance, but endurance. Iron bands reinforced its ribs, and along its bow jutted a heavy naval ram, shaped to split through debris—or anything foolish enough to block its passage.
Gold lining traced its edges—not excessive, but deliberate. A reminder.
Of who it served.
Above, its sail caught the cold wind—black fabric stretched taut, bearing the sigil of House Ekkehard:
A black wolf.
Watching.
Claiming.
At the deck's edges sat mounted cannons—short, thick-mouthed, secured in place with rope and iron brackets. Not many.
But enough.
—
Below deck, the cargo filled most of the space.
Crates of timber.
Cut stone.
Iron fittings.
All stacked tightly along one side.
Opposite them—
Food.
Barrels of grain. Dried vegetables. Preserved roots meant to last the long winters. More than necessary for the journey.
Because it was not for the journey.
It was the delivery.
—
The ship was manned well.
A captain of reputation from Lakeside Castle of House Gust.
Twenty crew.
Fourteen Ekkehard knights.
Two Royal Guard.
One maid.
And—
A princess.
—
Inside the main chamber—
Cold.
Unforgiving.
The walls creaked softly as the river pressed against the hull, the air slipping through unseen gaps no matter how they tried to seal it.
At the center of it—
A girl wrapped in four blankets.
Still shivering.
Golden hair unbound, slightly disheveled. Blue eyes sharp—far sharper than her current state would suggest.
Angry.
Very angry.
"I am going to kill the both of you…" she muttered, her voice low but venomous.
Her teeth clicked faintly as another wave of cold passed through her.
She pulled the blankets tighter.
It did nothing.
"…Unbelievable…"
A pause.
Then louder—
"Just wait until I get back, Xiphos—"
Her voice rose.
"I swear—!"
She stopped herself—
Only barely.
Her shoulders trembled again as the cold bit deeper.
"I was supposed to be in Riverside!" she snapped, louder now, frustration breaking clean through. "Warm air! Sun! Not—this frozen river nonsense!"
Her voice echoed through the chamber.
Up the stairs.
Onto the deck.
—
Outside her door—
An old maid stood quietly.
Hands folded.
Eyes closed.
Unmoved.
As if she had heard this all before.
Many times.
—
Above deck—
The wind was sharper.
Cleaner.
Captain Hack Swallows stood at the wheel, one hand steadying it while the other scratched absently at the thick beard that nearly swallowed his face whole. His coat strained slightly at the middle, his posture relaxed in a way that came only from long familiarity with the river.
He chuckled, low and rough.
"Lively one, ain't she?" he said, voice thick with a sailor's drawl. "Whole ship hears her better than the wind."
Leaning against the railing nearby—
A man in lighter armor than expected.
His chestplate bore the sigil of the Royal Guard—a dragon pierced by a sword—but the rest of him looked closer to a sellsword than a court knight. Leather filled the gaps, gambeson beneath chain, movement favored over protection.
At his hips—
A rapier.
And a short sword.
His Cape wave with the breeze of the north
His hat tilted slightly against the wind, brown hair shifting beneath it, thin stubble lining his jaw.
Ser Marco.
He smirked.
"Not my lady," he replied dryly.
The captain barked a laugh.
"Could've fooled me," he said. "You—look at you. If not for that shiny crest, I'd say you're just another blade for hire driftin' river to river."
Marco glanced at him.
"You wound me, Captain."
"Ah, I doubt that," Hack grinned. Then, jerking his thumb across the deck—"Now her—"
A red-haired knight stood further off, armored properly, posture straight, attention forward.
"Never thought I'd see the day," the captain went on, voice dropping into something amused, rougher. "A woman wearin' steel like that. World's gettin' stranger."
Marco followed the gesture.
"She's not," he said simply.
A pause.
Then added—
"We both won a tourney. Old King's time."
The captain raised a brow.
"Oh?"
"Difference is," Marco continued, adjusting his stance, "I'm a hedge knight who got lucky."
A faint smirk.
"Royal Guard doesn't care where you're from. Just how well you fight."
The captain let out a low whistle.
"Well I'll be—"
Then leaned slightly closer, voice lowering just enough—
"So," he said, grin creeping back, "she your type?"
Marco didn't answer.
The captain chuckled to himself.
"'Cause I'll tell you this—red hair like that…" he muttered, voice crude but amused, "rare kind of indulgence. Wouldn't mind—"
Marco laughed.
Openly.
Easily.
Not offended.
Not bothered.
"Captain," he said, shaking his head, "you'll get yourself thrown overboard one day."
"Aye," Hack grinned. "But not today."
Marco leaned back against the railing again, eyes drifting toward the river ahead.
Cold wind brushing past.
Ship creaking beneath him.
"…Not today," he echoed lightly.
And somewhere below—
The princess shouted again.
——
The forest thickened near the bend of the river.
Dark trunks. Low branches. Snow clinging where the sun could not reach.
And within it—
Men.
Too many to be hunters.
Too poorly arranged to be soldiers.
Bandits.
—
They crouched along the slope overlooking the river, half-hidden behind brush and broken stone. Leather, fur, scraps of iron—whatever could pass for armor wrapped around them in uneven layers. Weapons varied just as wildly—axes, spears, clubs, a few proper blades stolen or taken long ago.
Below—
The ship pushed through the narrow stream, its hull grinding faintly as it edged closer to the bank to avoid a jagged line of rocks.
Too close.
Too slow.
Too tempting.
—
"Look at that, boss-man…" one of them muttered, an axe resting on his shoulder. "Ain't that… big?"
He squinted.
"…Like… real big?"
A thinner man beside him leaned forward, gripping his spear too tightly.
"Big means rich, yeah?" he said, voice eager. "That's a heavy fetch. Gotta be. Look at it—gold bits and all…"
A third snorted—a thick, broad man with a hammer resting against his knee.
"You two blind?" he grumbled. "That there's a wolf. See it? On the sail. Wolverines. Frozen Veil lot."
"…Wolverines?" the skinny one frowned. "They got wolves?"
"…They got something," the hammer-wielder muttered.
A fourth man scratched his head.
"…So… wolves or wolverines?"
"…You ever seen either?" someone else muttered.
"…No."
"…Then shut it."
—
A sigh cut through them.
Slow.
Tired.
The kind of sigh that came from long familiarity with stupidity.
Their leader stepped forward.
He was taller than most of them, broad-shouldered, built like a man who had seen real battle—not just scraps and ambushes. A greatsword rested across his back, nearly as tall as one of the men behind him.
An eyepatch covered his left eye.
The other—
Sharp.
Annoyed.
And frustratingly clear.
His face did not match the rest of him.
Too well-formed. Too composed. The kind of face that, cleaned and dressed properly, would have fit among nobles instead of thieves.
A man in his thirties.
Handsome in a way that made the dirt and scars seem almost misplaced.
"…It's a royal ship," he said flatly.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Oh."
"…Oh."
"…Wait—royal royal?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"The Ekkehard," he clarified. "Black wolf. You've seen it before."
A pause.
"…Have we?"
Another sigh.
"Twenty years ago," he said, slower now, as if speaking to children. "We worked for them. Big war. Firehearth. Ringing any bells?"
The skinny one blinked.
"…Was that the one with the fire?"
"…Yes," the boss said, voice dry.
"…And the hearth?"
"…Yes."
"…Right," the man nodded. "I remember nothing."
The hammer-wielder frowned.
"Wait—ain't Firehearth the royals?"
"No."
"…They sound royal."
"They lost."
"…Oh."
Another pause.
"…So we attack?" the hammer-wielder asked again.
The boss stared at him.
Long.
Unblinking.
"I am surrounded," he said quietly, "by idiots."
A few of them shifted awkwardly.
"…But you're our boss," one offered.
"…That does not help your case."
—
Below—
The ship edged closer to the riverbank, the current pushing it slightly off-center as the crew adjusted to avoid the rocks.
Closer.
Exposed.
The boss's gaze sharpened.
Opportunity.
Clear as day.
He straightened, rolling his shoulder once as he reached back and gripped the hilt of his greatsword.
"…Now we attack," he said.
A beat.
Then—
"CHARGE!"
—
"RAID—!"
"RAID—!"
"WAIT—DO WE—?"
"JUST RUN!"
—
"Quiet, you fools!" he snapped, already moving. "We're raiding—not announcing it!"
Too late.
They were already yelling.
—
And with that—
Fifty poorly coordinated, poorly disciplined, very loud bandits burst from the treeline—
Straight toward a royal ship.