So much time has passed…

  but he doesn’t change.

  Always with that closed-off face.

  Always with his sword ready, as if the world might attack him at any second.

  It’s silly.

  After three whole months, nothing happened.

  No assassins.

  No monsters.

  No ambush.

  I think he’s just afraid.

  He’s strange.

  Very strange.

  Sometimes I watch him while he sharpens his sword. He does it even when it’s already perfect. He wipes it, tests the edge with his finger, puts it away… and then takes it out again.

  As if he doesn’t know what to do when he’s

  standing still.

  He barely talks.

  When he talks, it’s short.

  When he looks… it feels like he isn’t looking at anything.

  "Elaris, Elaris… ELARIS!"

  "Sorry, Mother," I say quickly, shaking my head. "I was just thinking. I’ll eat my stew."

  It smells good, but I take too long to pick up the spoon.

  He’s on the other side of the fire, his back to us, staring into the darkness of the forest as if it might answer him.

  I don’t understand why Mother trusts him so much.

  He doesn’t smile.

  Doesn’t laugh.

  Doesn’t tell stories.

  But… he never sleeps before we do.

  And he always wakes up first.

  Sometimes, when I think no one is watching, he covers the fire so the wind won’t put it out.

  Sometimes, he "accidentally" leaves the bigger piece of bread closer to me.

  He isn’t kind.

  But he isn’t cruel either.

  Maybe he’s just waiting for something bad to happen.

  Or maybe he’s hoping it will.

  I blow on the stew and eat in silence, watching

  him from the corner of my eye.

  Silly.

  If danger wanted to find us, it already would have.

  "Mother… how long do you think this will last?"

  She takes a little too long to answer.

  "How long…"

  a short sigh.

  "I just hope it won’t be too long."

  She’s not usually like this.

  Mother has always been straightforward. She always told me the truth, even when it hurt.

  Even when I cried.

  But today…

  it was dry.

  Too short.

  I don’t know what it is.

  I don’t know what’s happening.

  I just know I didn’t like it.

  I grip the spoon tighter. The stew has already gone cold, but I keep stirring it, pretending to eat.

  Mother avoids looking at me.

  And on the other side of the fire…

  he tightens his hand on the sword.

  As if he already knows the answer she didn’t want to give me.

  Night fell slowly, covering everything with snow and silence.

  And while little Elaris slept curled up inside the wagon, two people did not have that luxury.

  "Bruno… they’re still here."

  The warrior lifted his gaze, unhurried.

  "Yes."

  A brief pause.

  "They’re smart. They’re waiting for me to get tired. When that happens, they’ll attack."

  Isolde took a deep breath.

  "How many?"

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  Bruno didn’t look at her when he answered.

  "Lady Isolde… I know there are more than six of them."

  The wind blew harder, making the fire crackle.

  And for the first time that night, Isolde felt that the cold didn’t come only from the snow.

  "Bastards… not even decent enough to fight with honor."

  Isolde wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold in the cold — or something worse.

  "Do you think you can do something?"

  Bruno didn’t answer right away.

  "I’ll do my best, Queen Isolde."

  He moved away from the wagon, his steps sinking into the deep snow.

  The metal of the sword made a low, controlled sound — almost a warning to himself.

  His face showed no anger.

  No fear.

  But there was something there… an ancient weariness.

  And if that waiting dragged on, it wouldn’t be the cold that would break him.

  Snow fell from a branch.

  Bruno stopped.

  He didn’t turn his body.

  He just shifted his weight.

  Something moved to the left. Too slow to be an animal. Too careful to be the wind.

  A shadow detached itself from the white.

  The enemy advanced low, short blade aimed for

  his blind spot.

  Bruno turned at the last instant.

  The sword didn’t make a wide arc — just a short, precise cut. Steel met flesh before the man could react.

  The body fell without a scream.

  The snow darkened.

  Another movement.

  Two.

  One behind a tree. Another crawling along the slope.

  Bruno released the sword for a second.

  Drew the dagger.

  He went first for the one crawling — a direct strike

  to the neck, too fast for resistance.

  The second charged.

  Bruno raised his arm, let the enemy’s blade pass, and drove his fist into the sternum. The impact stole the man’s breath. The dagger finished the job.

  Silence again.

  Only the wind.

  Bruno wiped the blade on the dead man’s cloak.

  Looked into the darkness beyond the snow.

  They weren’t done yet.

  The snow began to fall again.

  But now it wasn’t just the wind.

  A dry crack — a branch giving way under poorly distributed weight.

  They had changed tactics.

  Bruno advanced before the circle could close.

  The first came from the right, a longsword descending in a heavy arc.

  Bruno stepped into the blow. Shoulder into chest. The impact stole the man’s air. The blade fell once — precise.

  Another appeared right behind him, a short axe.

  Bruno turned, let the axe cut empty air. Kicked the knee. The bone gave way. The body fell. The sword finished the work.

  An arrow sliced through the air.

  Bruno felt it before he heard it.

  His body turned on instinct — the arrow grazed his shoulder and vanished into the snow.

  He ran low, zigzagging, toward the origin of the shot.

  The archer tried to draw another arrow.

  Didn’t have time.

  Bruno tackled him down the slope. They rolled. Fists, knees, short breaths. The dagger found the throat.

  Five.

  The last one didn’t attack.

  He waited.

  Smart.

  Bruno stood still for a moment. The cold bit into him. Dark blood steamed against the white snow. He took a deep breath… and then felt it.

  Behind him.

  The blade came low, aiming for the tendon.

  Bruno twisted his foot, the blade cutting only air. He took two steps back and stopped.

  He didn’t raise the sword.

  His hand went down to the snow.

  Fingers touched the frozen ground.

  The water answered.

  The snow trembled, melted in an impossible instant — then hardened again, shaping itself in silence. A spear of pure ice formed in Bruno’s hand, translucent, sharp as intent.

  The enemy hesitated.

  It was a mistake.

  Bruno threw it.

  There was no explosion.

  No light.

  The spear pierced the man’s chest cleanly, directly, as if the body offered no resistance at all. He fell without a sound, eyes still open.

  Silence.

  Again.

  Bruno stood there for a few seconds, feeling the cold return to being just cold.

  Then he erased tracks, dragged the bodies away from the path, and collected whatever might be useful.

  When he returned to the wagon, the sky was still gray.

  But the night…

  Was safe.

  For now.

  The hearth crackled softly.

  Small flames, stubborn, refusing to die — like him.

  Bruno closed the door carefully. The wood creaked just a little, enough to make him stop for a second. Nothing moved.

  Isolde slept sitting up, her body tilted to the side, her cloak pulled up to her neck.

  Elaris was curled up near her, breathing slowly, far too peacefully for someone who should have been fleeing an entire kingdom.

  Bruno relaxed his shoulders for the first time that night.

  The dried blood on his hands began to itch.

  He crouched by the hearth and stretched his

  fingers toward the weak heat.

  "How long did I fight?"

  The voice came from above, spinning in the air as always, too light for the weight of the question.

  "About two hours."

  Bruno let the air out through his nose, slow.

  "Two hours…"

  He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look proud. Just tired.

  "That’s bad."

  Kearlin spun once, as if stretching.

  "You’re getting more efficient. Or more used to it."

  "I don’t like either option."

  Bruno removed his glove and flexed his fingers. A faint tremor passed through his right hand. He clenched his fist until it stopped.

  "Kearlin… I think I just need some rest."

  The spirit went quiet for a rare moment. The mockery faded.

  "Real rest?"

  A pause.

  "Or just pretending it works?"

  Bruno didn’t answer.

  He leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor, the sword resting beside him. His eyes closed for a second — just one.

  The hearth kept burning.

  The cold morning light slipped through the cracks in the cabin, reflecting off the white snow outside and softly burning Elaris’s eyes. She stirred, rubbed her face with small hands, and yawned.

  "Is it morning already?"

  "Yes."

  Bruno’s voice came calm, low, as always. He had his back to her, kneeling by the fire, stirring the stew with a wooden spoon. The smell was simple, but warm — something between boiled roots and salted meat.

  Elaris sat slowly near the hearth, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. She watched him in silence for a few seconds. The way he moved. Precise. Alert. As if even cooking were a form of vigilance.

  Then she asked:

  "Who are you?"

  Bruno didn’t answer right away. He stirred the stew once more, scraping the bottom of the pot.

  "Who are you really?"

  The spoon stopped.

  The fire crackled.

  Bruno sighed softly, almost imperceptibly, and only then spoke:

  "I’m someone who knows how to fight."

  "I already know that," Elaris said, without provocation. Just curiosity.

  "You fight even when everything is quiet."

  He turned his head slightly, just enough to see her from the corner of his eye.

  "And that’s already a problem."

  She frowned.

  "My mother says you’re just a bodyguard."

  "That’s what I do."

  "No."

  Elaris shook her head. "That’s how you act. It’s not what you are."

  Bruno finally turned. Not fully — just enough to face her. His eyes weren’t fierce like people said.

  They were deep. Tired. Empty of explanation.

  "I’m someone who shouldn’t matter," he said. "Someone who stands in front when danger comes… and behind when everything is fine."

  Elaris fell silent, thinking.

  "You seem lonely," she said at last.

  Bruno turned back to the stew.

  "That’s as close to the truth as you’ll get."

  He served two bowls.

  Handed one to her.

  "Eat. The cold doesn’t care who we are."

  Elaris held the warm bowl with both hands.

  But she didn’t take her eyes off him.

  Elaris pouted irritably, clutching the bowl.

  "You’re boring."

  She stopped, thought better of it, and corrected herself with all the seriousness a child could muster:

  "No… unbearable."

  Bruno didn’t turn around. He just kept tending the fire, adjusting a piece of wood with the tip of his boot.

  "I wasn’t made for this. I was made to defend."

  His voice came out neutral, almost mechanical.

  "Sorry, princess, if I’m not on your level."

  Elaris narrowed her eyes.

  "That’s what I’m saying," she said, stamping her foot on the dirt floor.

  "You always say the coldest thing that comes into your head."

  He finally sighed.

  "Cold is safer."

  "It’s not!" she shot back immediately. "Cold hurts."

  Bruno went silent. The fire crackled again, as if disagreeing with him.

  "If I say what comes after the cold," he said at last, not looking at her,

  "people start expecting things from me. And I don’t stay very long."

  Elaris tilted her head, confused.

  "Are you going away?"

  "One day."

  She tightened her grip on the bowl.

  "Then say warm things while you’re still here," she said more softly.

  "My mother says warm things even when she’s afraid."

  Bruno stopped completely.

  The fire crackled, too loud for the silence that formed.

  "I’m not your mother. I’m not your father," he said, without harshness — but without care either.

  "I’m someone made to defend you. That’s all."

  The words hit before Elaris could fully understand them.

  She froze for a moment, as if the cold had risen from the floor to her chest. Her face, however, turned red — a strange contrast with her pale,

  almost bluish skin since birth.

  "Idiot," she spat, her voice trembling.

  "Don’t talk about my father. You don’t even know what he went through."

  Before Bruno could say anything, she turned and ran. Small steps sinking into the snow, too fast for someone so fragile.

  Bruno closed his eyes for a second.

  Kearlin appeared beside him, floating low, his voice more restrained than usual.

  "Do you think she knows what you went through?"

  "Quiet, Kearlin."

  The answer came immediate, dry.

  "I don’t want to know that. Not what I went through, and not what her father went through."

  He opened his eyes and was already walking.

  "Now let’s keep her safe. Fleeing to a place like this

  is dangerous."

  Kearlin followed him in silence for a few steps, then murmured:

  "You always do this."

  "Do what?"

  "Put other people’s pain in front of your own. As if yours didn’t weigh anything."

  Bruno didn’t answer.

  He just quickened his pace, following the small footprints in the snow — not like a guard obeying orders, but like someone who knew, even while denying it, that leaving that child alone would be a worse mistake than any old wound.

  Ahead, Elaris ran without looking back.

  And behind her, without saying another word, Bruno followed.