I dropped the blade, too frightened of what I might have awakened. That night, I returned the sword to the crawl space and let the curse flood back into me. The pain was preferable to whatever I had stirred.

  Even after I let go of the blade, I could still feel its presence pressing at my thoughts. Its hollow laughter lingered, stretching on until it felt endless. It was not something meant for this world, or any other I could understand.

  It took me a long time to reach my bed. When I finally did, sleep refused to come. I tossed and turned, slick with sweat, my eyes snapping open again and again to stare at the spot where the sword lay hidden beneath the floorboards.

  When I finally slipped into sleep, I felt myself drift somewhere I had not been prepared to go.

  Cold crept in as the world around me thinned and gave way, the room dissolving into something half-remembered. Wind howled, sharp and biting, and snow fell in a steady curtain, smothering the land in uneven white and grey.

  Ahead, shapes moved through the storm. Hundreds of figures clad in red armour advanced in slow formation toward a stone village hunched against the dark. A single torch burned at its edge, wavering, fragile, as though it might be snuffed out at any moment.

  I looked down and found unfamiliar hands wrapped tight around a horse’s reins. The leather creaked beneath my grip, stiff with cold. Thoughts stirred that were not my own, heavy with fear and purpose both. I tried to move, to speak, to pull away from the moment, but nothing answered. This was not my choice. I was not guiding the memory. I was being carried through it, forced to watch, to feel, to endure.

  Understanding seeped in without words. The village stood on a high plateau in the northern reaches of Spiritus Britannia, far from the settled heart of the realm. Beyond these mountains lay lands untouched by the Keep’s reach, where law thinned and faith faltered. Out here, no oath or God offered lasting shelter. Something older clung to the soil and the people alike, grinding them down year by year.

  Snow ruled these lands.

  So did monsters.

  My gaze drifted from the frozen waste ahead to the riders surrounding me. Red cloaks hung heavy over their shoulders, stiff with frost and offering little shelter from the biting cold. Even seasoned legionaries shivered in their saddles. Behind us, the trail carried the unavoidable stench of dirt, leather, and manure, raw and constant after weeks on the road.

  This was a journey few of us would survive.

  Ahead, a young stallion lost its footing on the ice, hooves skidding dangerously close to the cliff’s edge. Its rider hauled back on the reins, swaying wildly before regaining control. Others had not been so fortunate. The road had already taken its share.

  I felt my grip tighten on the reins. The leather was rigid, nearly frozen solid beneath my gloves. With my free hand, I reached down and patted the flank of my brown mare, murmuring softly. I felt her tense beneath me before she steadied.

  She had carried me faithfully for six long weeks, step by careful step, all the way to the edge of nowhere.

  Together, we reached it with what remained of our cohort, a thin line of weary soldiers poised between the mountains and whatever waited beyond them.

  At the head of the column rode Belcus Artorius Greyden.

  Even through snow and darkness, his armour caught what little light there was, polished steel returning the torch glow in faint, steady glimmers. A standard-bearer rode at his side, the white banner of the Keep snapping in the wind, its gold stitching dulled beneath a skin of frost.

  The symbol was known to us all. A pale field. A black, skeletal tree branching outward. Above it, a small golden sun.

  Purity. Corruption. The promise of something better.

  Belcus embodied that promise. The air around him felt warmer, as though the cold itself hesitated in his presence. Whatever power he carried did not blaze or roar. It pressed outward quietly, steady and unquestioned. The kind of strength that did not need to announce itself.

  The man was blessed.

  Yet, my fingers ached inside my gloves, numb despite the layers. I leaned forward and rested a hand against my mare’s neck, drawing comfort from her warmth and the slow, steady rhythm of her breath. She shifted beneath me, tired but patient, and I murmured to her without thinking.

  Soon, I told her. Soon we would stop.

  Whether that was true or not, I did not know.

  “Company, halt,” Belcus commanded. His words were sharp and precise.

  I did not know the language, yet within the memory their meaning settled into me as clearly as if I had always understood it.

  At his side rode Vaulter, the warrior-magus. Thick furs were wrapped over his armour, a polished hammer secured at his hip. He carried himself with quiet authority, the sort earned rather than claimed. This expedition bore the Emperor’s mark, and Vaulter had been chosen for it personally.

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  The column came to a stop as one.

  “Dismount.”

  Boots struck ice almost in unison. Reins were gathered, breath steamed into the air. Servants hurried forward from the wagons, slipping and scrambling as they took hold of the horses. I retrieved my sword from the saddlebag and fastened it at my side.

  A familiar face reached for my mare’s reins. “Got her,” the man said, his voice tight with cold and nerves.

  “Thanks,” I said, passing him the leather.

  I moved on, falling in beside the others as the formation tightened, the village drawing closer with every step. It was no place for horses. The lanes were narrow, the ground slick with ice. In a fight, mounts would only become a burden.

  The legionnaires knew it. No one spoke.

  “Numerus Auxiliaries, ready yourselves,” Belcus ordered.

  I fell into line with the rest of my unit, worn cloaks brushing together as we formed up. The commander’s gaze swept across the ranks, then settled on me.

  “Ones,” he called. “I have a task for you.”

  I saluted and stepped to his side.

  I never understood why he trusted me. I was a slave in all but name, yet for months I had been singled out as reliable. Fearless, they said. Diligent. Honest.

  I believed none of it.

  But I obeyed.

  Their praise was only noise.

  From a young age, I had been taught how the world worked. First by my parents, then reinforced by my masters, until the lesson was carved so deep it no longer needed repeating.

  The one who obeys is rewarded.

  When told to jump, do not ask how high. Jump until they are satisfied.

  Do not hesitate. Do not question.

  So, I learned to keep my thoughts to myself. I followed orders because there was nothing else. Choice was a luxury reserved for others.

  Belcus had first taken notice of me on a previous expedition. Barbarians had set a villa ablaze during a night raid. I was ordered to retrieve a noble’s child from inside.

  I ran into the fire without thinking.

  I obeyed.

  I brought the girl out alive and earned nothing but burns along my legs. The pain lasted weeks. The rumours lasted longer. They spoke of courage. Of fearlessness. They said I was immune to fire.

  Clearly, they hadn’t seen the scars.

  Whatever part of me might have taken pride in the act was buried deep, sealed away like something trapped beneath ice.

  After that, Belcus gave me a name.

  My slave number, MCXI, was burned into my shoulder as a child, and from then on, I was simply Ones.

  “Ones,” the Centurion said now, his voice cutting through the cold. “I have a task for you.”

  I stepped forward at once.

  “We’ve tracked the heretic to this place. And we need eyes inside the village. The scouts haven’t reported back. We’ll establish the anti-magic perimeter while you search for the target.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, saluting without hesitation.

  Obedience came easily.

  It always had.

  The Centurion smiled. “I knew I could count on you.”

  I nodded and stepped away without hesitation. I did not look at the others. I did not need to. Their expressions were always the same, admiration tangled with unease, as though they were watching something they did not quite understand.

  They thought I was fearless. The truth was simpler. I did not know how to show fear.

  The wind strengthened as I moved ahead of the formation. To my left, the land fell away into darkness, the cliff swallowed by drifting snow. Each step crunched beneath my boots, the path narrowing as the village drew closer.

  The moment I crossed the threshold; the smell struck me.

  Blood.

  Not the sharp tang of battle, but something heavier. Older. It clung to the air, thick enough to taste, metallic and wrong. My hand tightened at my side as I scanned the streets.

  I did not have to walk far.

  The first body lay beneath the eaves of a nearby building, half-buried by the storm. The snow had not yet been kind enough to hide what had been done.

  This had not been a fight.

  It had been a slaughter.

  A small child lay curled against their mother, the two locked together in death. Fear had frozen their faces long before the cold claimed them.

  I forced myself to look away and pressed on. The street narrowed between leaning stone houses, their eaves heavy with icicles. Some walls were stained dark, the colour unmistakable even beneath the snow.

  The centre of the village lay only a few buildings ahead. We had studied the layout that morning, memorised the landmarks. Find the hall. Assess the damage. Report back.

  If I lived long enough to do so.

  The closer I came, the worse it became. Bodies lay scattered without pattern, dropped where panic had taken them. Many were incomplete, limbs torn free and discarded as though they no longer mattered. I kept moving, eyes forward, until something familiar stopped me cold.

  White cloth. Gold thread.

  A scout lay half-buried near the square, the Keep’s symbol clenched in his frozen grip. His eyes stared past me, fixed on something he had not escaped.

  They had been sent days ahead of us. This village, Kvierth, was only the first mark on the map. Beyond it lay rumours, half-whispered reports of a figure no one wanted to name aloud.

  The Immortal.

  Not a soldier. Not a beast. A story. A warning wrapped in myth and passed down until it felt older than truth itself. The thing parents named to keep children close to the fire. The shape said to walk where light failed.

  Standing there among the dead, I wondered how many of those stories had begun exactly like this.

  They had never held much weight with me. Truth was colder, simpler, and far less dramatic.

  I pushed the thought aside and forced my stiff legs onward. When the town hall finally came into view, my breath caught despite myself. I steadied it quickly and focused on what lay before me.

  Bodies. Too many.

  The missing detachment lay scattered across the square, frozen where they had fallen. There was no sign of a struggle that had gone both ways. Only an ending.

  I scanned the surrounding streets, the rooftops, the windows. Nothing but drifting snow and shuttered doors. For the moment, I was alone.

  Then I saw it. A faint flicker of light behind a window, unsteady but real.

  With numb fingers, I freed a small cylindrical talisman from my belt and tugged its cord. A red spark leapt skyward, briefly staining the snowfall above before fading. I turned away from the glare and went still.

  Something moved along the roofline.

  I blinked, and it was gone, leaving only shadow and drifting snow. I let out a slow breath, telling myself it had been nothing.

  Keeping low, I moved toward the house with the light, drawn by the promise of warmth and the faint hope that at least one soul here had survived the night.

  I reached the door and wrapped my hand around the handle.

  A scream tore out from inside the house.

  Before I could move, a sharp knock slammed through the world.

  I was wrenched awake.

  Daylight flooded the room. My skin still felt cold, as if snow clung to it, even though I was drenched in sweat. I sucked in a breath and shivered, my heart hammering.

  “What the fuck was that…”