Thornhaven announced itself first by smell - woodsmoke and human waste, the distinctive odor of too many people crowded into too small a space for too long. Then came the sounds: the low murmur of tired voices, the creak of old wood, the occasional bark of a hungry dog. Finally, as they crested the last rise, the village came into view, a wounded animal squatting behind its wooden walls.

  The palisade had seen better days. Fresh-cut logs, their ends still weeping sap, stood next to the weathered timbers that had held their place since the village's founding. The patches told a story of repeated attacks, hasty repairs, and dwindling resources. Dark stains on some of the older wood looked suspiciously like blood, frozen into the grain and impossible to wash cleany.

  A group of men stood at the gate, huddled in their patched furs, leaning on spears that had more rust than iron on their heads. They could hardly count as guards. They looked more like regular civilians taking their turn at a task none of them wanted to do. When they spotted the approaching trio, they straightened with the guilty haste of men caught sleeping on duty. One of them, barely old enough to grow a beard, gripped his spear with white knuckles and called out in a voice that cracked halfway through.

  "Halt! State your business in Thornhaven!"

  Kaelen didn't slow his pace. "Supplies. Trade. Move aside."

  The guards exchanged frozen glances torn between their duty and the obvious fact that these were not the sort of people you wanted to antagonize. The older guard, his face a map of scars and hard winters, made the decision for them and stepped aside, pulling the younger man with him.

  "Welcome then," he said, though his tone suggested they were anything but. "Don't cause trouble."

  Seraphine’s laugh was sharp and twinkling as breaking glass. "We're not the ones you need to worry about."

  Inside the walls, the village's desperation was laid bare. The main street was rutted and frozen, with buildings pressing close on either side as if huddling together for warmth. Most were in poor repair, their thatch roofs patched with whatever materials could be scavenged. Windows were covered with oiled cloth instead of glass, and more than a few buildings showed the blackened timbers of recent fires.

  But it was the people that told the true story. They moved through the streets like ghosts, hollow-eyed and gaunt, their clothes more patches than original fabric. Children with the swollen bellies of malnutrition watched from doorways, too tired to play. Women old before their time haggled over shriveled turnips in what passed for a market. Men who should have been in their prime walked with the careful steps of the elderly, weakened by hunger and hard labor.

  The granaries stood empty, their doors hanging open as if there was a chance supplies would arrive any moment.. Whatever grain had been stored there was long gone, leaving only the smell of dust and mouse droppings. The village well was surrounded by armed guards, a sure sign that even water was becoming scarce.

  "This place is dying," Seraphine observed with a somber look.

  They had made it halfway to the village's main hall when a man emerged from the largest building, moving toward them. He carried himself differently than the other villagers - his back was straight, his stride confident despite the worn state of his clothes. Here was someone who had once commanded men, though whatever force he had led was long gone.

  He had the look of an exasperated man resolved to continue working an impossible job. The lines in his weathered face revealed years of hard decisions and lasting consequences. Gray touched his temples and threaded through a beard that had been recently trimmed in a futile attempt at maintaining any sense of formality. "Warriors?" The word burst from him like a prayer, his eyes taking in their weapons, their stance, the casual readiness that marked professional killers. "Thank the gods. I'm Magnus Frankheart, headman of Thornhaven."

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  Kaelen cut him off, his tone as cold as the wind. "We're here for supplies, nothing more."

  Magnus's face processed hope, disappointment, desperation in quick succession before finally settling on determination.

  "Come to my home,” He said, trying hard to sound authoritative. “Please. What I have to say affects your supplies as much as ours."

  Kaelen gave the twins a look and before turning on his heel and walking away. Lyraleth sighed and started to follow him, giving her sister’s arm a tug to come along. Mangus scurried after them.

  "You must help us!” “He pleaded. “Three days ago, Bloodfang scouts found our root cellars - our entire winter food supply. They killed the guards, took enough to confirm what we had, then left. They'll be back with their whole tribe to take it all!"

  The trio kept walking. Kaelen kept his gaze straight ahead, trying his best to ignore the old man. Lyraleth followed dutifully behind him but Seraphine was walking considerably slower, her teeth chewing her bottom lip as she listened to Mangus.

  "The Bloodfang are fleeing the killing cold up north," Magnus continued, his words coming faster now, desperate to make them understand. "The frost is worse this year than any in memory. Whole tribes are moving south, and we're directly in their path. They've already hit three villages north of here. No survivors. Not one!"

  From somewhere in the back of the house came the sound of quiet sobbing, quickly muffled. Magnus's jaw tightened, but he didn't acknowledge it.

  There was a pause. Kaelen still didn’t acknowledge the man. But Lyraleth made the mistake of looking back at her sister and was met with a subtle look of pleading that only sisters could read.

  "How many fighting men do you have?" Seraphine asked, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer would be inadequate.

  Magnus's shoulders slumped. "Twenty. Maybe half have seen real combat, and that was years ago. The rest are farmers, craftsmen. Husbands."

  Lyraleth finished. "You have twenty sheep waiting for slaughter."

  "So you need sellswords. What can you pay?" Kaelen's question cut through the growing despair like a blade. Fine, he would bite. Curiosity got the better of him. Everything came down to resources, to the cold arithmetic of survival.

  “Everything,” Magnus spread his hands, the gesture encompassing the whole of Thornhaven's poverty. "All we have. Our coins, what little remains. Our remaining food stores after the battle - you can take your pick. Our forge still works; we can repair your weapons, your armor. Anything. Just... please."

  The desperation in his voice was naked now, all pretense of dignity abandoned. Here was a man watching his people die in slow motion, grasping at any chance, no matter how slim.

  Kaelen turned subtly to the twins, reading their assessment in the secret language of gesture and expression they had developed over three years of shared survival. Lyraleth was intrigued while her sister looked at Magnus like he was a wounded cub. Thornhaven was doomed - that much was obvious. But their winter supplies were running low, and the promise of food stores, even depleted ones, was hard to ignore.

  "How long before they attack?" he asked.

  "A week, maybe less,” Mangus replied. “Their main force is camped two days north, gathering strength. The scouts will have reported back by now."

  A week to prepare twenty farmers to face hardened raiders. Impossible.

  "We'll need more fighters," Kaelen said finally.

  “You’ll help?” Hope bloomed in Magnus's eyes like the first flower of spring. "You'll stay?"

  Kaelen clarified. "Payment in advance for supplies. The rest after the battle."

  “You can’t be serious,” said Lyraleth. Seraphine had the ghost of a smile on her face.

  "There are sellswords in the tavern at the crossroads,” Said Mangus. "A few wanderers. Maybe they'll fight for coin“You have no coin,” said Lyraleth.

  But Kaelen was already turning to leave, his mind shifting to tactics and formations as the sisters followed. Twenty villagers, maybe a handful of additional swords if they were lucky. Against the Bloodfang tribe's warriors, it would be a massacre. Magnus called after them. "Thank you. Thank you!"

  As they walked, Kaelen took stock of the village with the detached interest of a man studying pieces on a game board. The layout offered some defensive advantages - built on a rise, with clear fields of fire in most directions. The wooden palisade was weak but could be reinforced. The root cellars Magnus had mentioned would be the key - the Bloodfang would concentrate their attack there.

  “What’s your angle?” asked Lyraleth.

  “To help them.” Seraphine said.

  “Tons of money to be made on this. Lots more than the old man realizes." Kaelen answered louder. “We play this right, we can be warlords here.”