Night hung heavy over Snownorth, starless and oppressive. A wind blowing down from the northern glaciers drove ice pellets through the streets, rasping against the walls like thousands of tiny claws. Even the guard dogs had crawled into their kennels, noses tucked under their tails.

  Three silhouettes slipped out of the darkness at the settlement’s southern gate. They moved with the easy grace of predators used to hunting at night—nothing like prospectors. Behind them, wide sleds glided almost soundlessly, their cargo hidden beneath thick fabric.

  The sentry on duty, an old one-eyed mercenary known as Nail, stepped out of his booth, adjusting his rifle. The beam of a crystal lantern caught a woman’s face wrapped in a scarf, leaving only brown eyes visible.

  “Out overnight again, Rohanna?” Nail croaked. He didn’t raise the barrel, but his finger rested on the trigger guard.

  “No,” the woman said. Her voice was muffled by cloth, but firm. “Just a couple of hours. We’re heading to the settlement elder.”

  The guard glanced at her companions. Two solid men stood a little back, arms loose at their sides. Nail knew better—one sudden move, and those hands would draw weapons faster than he could blink.

  “What is it this time?” He nodded toward the sleds.

  “We’ll deliver it to the elder. You can ask him yourself,” Rohanna snapped, eyes flashing.

  The guard hesitated, then grunted. He spat at his feet and kicked the gate lever. The heavy leaf creaked open just wide enough for the sleds to pass.

  “Go on through. You know the way?”

  “As if it’s my first time, Nail.” Rohanna passed him, and a silvery coin slipped unnoticed into his palm.

  Nail nodded approvingly and returned to his post.

  The sleds slid along the packed snow of the main street. The settlement slept. Only the tavern still glowed with light, drunken shouts drifting out—but the trio went the other way, toward a two-story log house ringed by a high palisade.

  Heat stifled the office of settlement elder Hart Morwen. Logs crackled in the fireplace; the air smelled of expensive tobacco and old leather. Morwen himself—a heavyset man with a puffy face and darting eyes—paced from window to desk, rubbing his hands.

  When the door opened without a knock, he flinched.

  The three entered in a swirl of icy vapor. Gale and Kyle grunted as they hauled in a heavy crate and set it down right on the rug, shoving a chair aside.

  “Delivery, Hart.” Rohanna pulled down her scarf, revealing a weather-beaten face with sharp cheekbones. “First-rate goods. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Morwen approached the crate. Kyle yanked off the cover.

  Beneath stood a strange device: a metal cube with a round glass hatch and a control panel covered in unfamiliar symbols. The casing was scratched, a bullet dent marred one side, but overall it looked intact.

  “A washing machine…” Morwen breathed reverently. “Mechanical?”

  “Better. Our contacts refitted the power unit for small crystals,” Kyle explained, patting the side. “Heats the water, spins, wrings. Loud as a dying scroot, sure—but your wife will love it. No more laundresses and icy water. Real plastic hose included.”

  “Plastic? Really? It works?” the elder asked suspiciously.

  “You wound me. Tested it on my jacket. Look.” He jabbed a finger at his sleeve. “Bloodstain there—three years I couldn’t get it out. This thing did it in one go.”

  Morwen circled the machine, stroking the cold metal. In the Wildlands, comfort like this was worth more than crystals.

  “Fine,” he said, returning to the desk and pulling out a hefty pouch. “Five hundred talers. As agreed.”

  Rohanna weighed the bag, loosened the cord, glanced at the dull gleam of coins inside, and nodded.

  “Pleasure doing business, Hart. What about supplies?”

  “They’re loading them now. I’d have prepared earlier, but you never know when you’ll show up.”

  Morwen stepped into the hall to bark instructions, then returned.

  “Care for a drink?” he offered. “Got excellent spirits—brought from the city. You won’t find this here. And we’ll be waiting anyway while they finish loading.”

  The smugglers exchanged looks. Alcohol was a rare treat in the Wildlands.

  “Pour,” Rohanna nodded, settling into a chair.

  Morwen fetched a squat bottle of reddish liquid and filled thick glasses. Gale and Kyle tossed theirs back without ceremony.

  “Damn. That kicks!” Gale croaked, wiping his mouth.

  “Idiots. You don’t swill this. You savor it,” Rohanna scolded.

  She drank slowly, watching the elder. His fingers tightened around the glass, then relaxed. Finally, he asked:

  “How’s the trade road?”

  “Quiet. Nothing unusual.”

  “That’s good…” Morwen studied the liquid. “It’s not quiet here, though. I lost a unit. Eleven men. New mercenaries—cost me a fortune.”

  Rohanna’s expression didn’t change. She looked at him calmly over the rim of her glass.

  “Wasn’t us. We don’t touch your people, Hart. You pay on time.”

  “Thought so.” Morwen sighed. “And it’d be too big a bite for you anyway—no offense. There was a combat mage with them. From South Pekin. Davis.”

  Silence fell.

  “Davis?” Rohanna repeated, narrowing her eyes. “The one who went merc after graduation instead of pushing papers? What was he doing here?”

  “Surprised you’ve heard of him. Though… names like his stick.”

  “So what happened?” Kyle cut in.

  “Vanished. Gone. No bodies. No traces.” Morwen drained his glass in one gulp and set it down hard. “I sent them to… look into something. An old man. Needed to bring him into the open.”

  “An old man?” Kyle snorted. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel now?”

  “Internal business,” the elder waved it off. “What matters is this: Garret—the old man—came back. Alone. Said he argued with his partner, the kid went to the city, and he returned home. Not a scratch on him, just missing a finger. And my men are gone. Disappeared. Ten armed professionals plus a mage. That math doesn’t work for me.”

  Rohanna leaned forward, eyes glinting.

  “And the partner?”

  “There was a young guy with him. Drifter. Showed up quietly the day before. No distinguishing marks. Young, that’s all.”

  Rohanna slowly turned to her companions. Gale and Kyle exchanged a look, their smiles fading.

  “What did he look like exactly? Was he carrying a plant? Any kind?” she asked quickly.

  Morwen frowned.

  “A plant? Don’t be stupid. Who’d need that here? The kid… ordinary enough. Like half the men around here. Tall, dark-haired, bearded. Always wore a hood.”

  “And was his name, by any chance, Patrick?” she pressed.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Yon!” Morwen barked toward the door.

  It cracked open, a frightened servant’s head poking in.

  “Yes, Elder?”

  “What was the name of that skinny kid who left with Garret?”

  “Let me think. Something starting with an R. Roem? Ronem? Something like that. Strange name.”

  “Good. That’s all.”

  The door closed.

  Rohanna leaned back, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

  “Don’t know him. Maybe not who I thought. Though… if it was him, he could’ve dropped more than a squad.”

  Morwen pursed his lips.

  “So you do know him?” He leaned forward.

  “Not by that name,” she replied evasively. “We ran into a suspicious type recently. Armed to the teeth—and a mage. Beasts had already mauled us, so we didn’t press our luck. Odds are low it’s the same person, and it was far from here.”

  “Still, ten men don’t disappear to one man, do they?” the elder objected.

  Rohanna didn’t answer, sipping thoughtfully.

  An awkward silence settled, broken by a sharp knock.

  “Come in,” Morwen said, startled.

  Yon appeared again.

  “Everything’s ready, sir. The sleds can be taken.”

  “Good.” Morwen nodded to Rohanna.

  She stood, fastening her jacket.

  “I’ve been here almost ten years, Hart. And it seems to me now that anything is possible in the Wildlands. If it was the one I’m thinking of, I wouldn’t recommend crossing him.”

  She gestured to her men.

  “We’re leaving.”

  When the door closed behind the smugglers, the elder sat in silence, staring at his empty glass. The washing machine gleamed in the corner, but it brought him no joy. A chill ran through him. He tossed another log onto the fire.

  ?

  They say even walls have ears. Two days later, the rumors were alive on their own. Someone from Morwen’s people had said too much in the tavern—and the story took off.

  At the bar, several prospectors, already well drunk, argued themselves hoarse.

  “I’m telling you, twenty men!” a red-haired brute slammed his fist down. “Twenty of Smith’s best cutthroats! And that mage—Ronem—just snapped his fingers and turned them into ice statues!”

  “Bullshit!” his opponent shot back. “Not Ronem—Romen. And not statues. He summoned an avalanche! Old Pete saw it—the mountain just slid down and buried them all. They say he commands the mountains themselves!”

  “I heard he rode off on a monster!” a third chimed in, pulling up a chair. “Huge scroot, tusks like sabers. Tamed it with his mind!”

  Garret nearly choked on his beer but held it in. He drained the mug, tossed a few ents on the counter, and left.

  Without contradiction, the rumors snowballed.

  By evening, people were saying the mage had raised a storm and made the Field itself burn his enemies to ash.

  A month later, the tale—bloated with new details—reached the central colonial settlements.

  ?

  Rector Artis Vallor’s office occupied the tower's peak, overlooking the vast, glittering city. Behind thick glass, there was no wind, no noise—only the quiet hum of ventilation and the rustle of papers.

  The rector drank his morning coffee, reviewed documents, and listened to the day’s briefing from his assistant.

  “Oh. This one’s interesting. You’ll like this, Sir Artis,” the assistant said, then continued. “Some mage in the northern Wildlands, near Snownorth, dropped between twenty and thirty mercenaries with a single spell just because one of them looked at him. Then he wiped out an entire caravan of mercenaries and rode off into the Wildlands on a monster. This incredible hero is called either Ronem or Romen.”

  Artis Vallor was ready to laugh aloud at the nonsense—but at the name, he froze, cup halfway to his lips.

  “Repeat that.”

  “A mage in the northern Wildlands—”

  “No. The name.”

  “Ronem or Romen.”

  “Could it be… ‘Roen’?” the rector asked slowly. “Northern Wildlands. Snownorth area. Isn’t Re’s postal district somewhere near there?”

  “I… hadn’t thought of that,” the assistant began.

  Artis set down his coffee and went to the window.

  “The story is fiction, clearly,” he said at last. “But it seems that boy has surfaced. Have our expeditions watch the region even more closely. If even a tenth of this is true—we need a mage like that. Sponsors love a hero.”

  He frowned.

  “Find out more. Go.”

  “Yes, Rector.”

  Artis stood at the window a long while, watching students hurry across the courtyard below.

  ?

  A few days later, every member of a scientific group from the Central Academy of the Field heading into a new expedition received written orders.

  Among other instructions was a requirement to report any information about independent mages in the region—or any men named Roen.

  Elis sat on her cot in a temporary room, surrounded by scattered gear. Concentrators, analyzers, warm clothes—everything needed packing, checking, rechecking.

  A concentrator slipped from her hands and rolled under the cot. She cursed under her breath and reached for it.

  The Wildlands again. Frostbitten fingers, stinking tents, and men who looked at her like meat.

  She turned the orders over, then pulled out another letter—or rather, a short note delivered with the last caravan. One line in particular caught her eye again.

  *Possibly interesting. Prospector Garret left on an expedition with a young man and returned alone. Lost a finger. Says they parted ways. Around the same time, the settlement elder’s mercenaries disappeared. No bodies found. Possibly coincidence. Possibly rumors.*

  Elis scowled.

  “Damn murderer…” she hissed.

  She remembered Harlan—the boy with naive eyes who’d wanted to ask her out. Maybe nothing would’ve come of it, but he’d been kind and awkward. And then he’d simply died, under strange circumstances.

  And now another victim.

  “How many people have you killed for a share, Garret? And others like you?” she whispered.

  She reached into the far drawer of her personal chest. At the bottom, wrapped in oiled cloth, lay a long, narrow stiletto of black steel—a decorative piece, gifted long ago for her sixteenth birthday.

  She weighed it in her hand.

  “Decorative or not,” she murmured, “you can land a few strikes with it. Can’t rely on magic alone.”

  Elis slid the stiletto into her pack, snapped the clasps, and left the room. In the corridor, the assembly signal sounded. The expedition was heading north once more.