Trot and Trek had been old friends for years—long enough that their rivalry had become more ritual than contest.

  Currently, that ritual was an arm-wrestling match in the corner of a smoke-hazed tavern, as Trek strained against Trot’s thick, unyielding arm.

  With a sharp _thud_, Trek’s hand slammed into the table, and Trot’s victorious grin spread beneath the jungle of his beard.

  He raised both arms in triumph, spinning in place with exaggerated flair—his beard whipping around like a banner and smacking a nearby patron full in the face.

  The man, startled and red-cheeked, shot upright and jabbed a finger at Trot.

  **“You! Next match. Let’s go.”**

  He pushed Trek aside to take his place.

  Trek stumbled, caught himself with irritating ease, and grinned as he threw out his arms dramatically.

  **“Bets, anyone? This bold man versus the Bearded Tyrant!”**

  He leaned in toward the surrounding drinkers.

  **“I’ll take ten copper on the tyrant. Don’t be shy, folks—no one’s ever bested this mountain.”**

  Trek knew the man had no chance. Not even with magic bolstering his strength had he managed to budge Trot’s arm. A regular human? Not a prayer.

  They made six silvers before anyone realized the truth—no one was going to win. Trot’s strength was immovable, and Trek’s antics too entertaining to question.

  By the time the tavern caught on, both men had already pocketed their earnings and decided to retire. They had a hunt in the morning.

  The forest around the lumber town had gone wrong.

  People were disappearing—vanishing in pairs or trios, their names whispered over mugs in the dark, their bodies never found. Something was killing them, and everyone felt it but no one could explain it.

  But Trot and Trek knew.

  Oathbreakers.

  The Reaver had already passed through, wiping memories from the minds of the common folk and returning the severed threads to the archives of the Triumvirate.

  But memory loss didn’t erase the danger. Only steel—and blood—could do that.

  They had sworn oaths of retribution. They were licensed to kill. Sixty gold for the heads of the marked.

  And by dawn, they’d be walking into the cold woods to collect.

  As the hours passed and the forest thickened around them, the two men decided they had gone far enough. It was time.

  This clearing would do—remote enough for safety, hopefully far enough from any prying eyes.

  Trek gave a final scan of the tree line before nodding.

  **“Do it here.”**

  Trot stepped forward and disrobed, standing bare in the snow. The cold didn’t seem to bother him—his breath came in slow, measured clouds. Then he clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tight.

  Steam began to rise from his skin.

  The change had begun.

  Trek took position above, crouched on a wide branch, close enough to intervene—far enough not to get mauled. He had seen it before. The delirium wasn’t just rage. It was pain.

  Trot’s body tensed violently as his bones began to bend inward, reshape, melt. He let out a choked grunt as tendons snapped and re-knitted. His skin split in long, wet lines, blood soaking the snow beneath his feet. What remained stretched unnaturally, taut and straining, as something larger forced its way from within.

  The old flesh tore away in strips. Beneath, new fur pushed through—dark, thick, rising like bristles through meat. His hands cracked and twisted into claws. His mouth widened into a muzzle with a sound like a bone being slowly sawed.

  Trek didn’t look away.

  He never did.

  At last, the human was gone.

  The beast stood in his place—taller than Trot had been by three full heads. Massive, hunched, and steaming in the cold air.

  Trek crouched silently in the branches above, tempted to call out—but he didn’t.

  His friend wasn’t back yet.

  The creature lifted its snout, sniffing the air. Then, suddenly, its head snapped upward—locking eyes with Trek through the tangle of branches.

  For a moment, there was a flicker of something—recognition, maybe. A pause. But Trek knew better. If he’d been on the ground, the beast would’ve torn him apart without hesitation.

  **A few more minutes.**

  That’s all it would take. Usually.

  But then the creature shifted. Its nostrils flared again, and its ears twitched sharply. It turned its head, snapping toward something in the distance—its gaze sharp, focused.

  It had caught another scent.

  Trek tensed, hoping—praying—it was just an animal. A deer, a fox. Something safe to chase.

  Then he heard it.

  A yelp. High-pitched. Human.

  A human child—a boy—had fallen out of a bush a few yards away, stumbling from the underbrush in blind fear. He scrambled to his feet and bolted, running full-speed into the forest.

  Trot lunged after him.

  Trek reacted instantly. He couldn’t let this happen.

  With a sharp motion, he uncorked a vial of paralytic—a powerful one—and bled from a shallow cut across his wrist, willing his blood into the air. The crimson stream floated upward, twisting into a spiral. Trek mixed in the paralytic mid-air, binding the potion into the living fluid.

  Then he aimed. And fired.

  The first blood-lance shot forward—Trot sensed it coming and twisted, dodging effortlessly.

  Trek was already preparing the second. He expected the first to miss—he knew Trot too well.

  The second lance fired—Trot bent unnaturally, just managing to avoid it.

  But the third hit.

  It slammed into Trot’s flank with a wet, cracking impact, embedding deep and delivering the paralytic into his bloodstream. It wouldn’t act immediately, but it had begun.

  Trot howled in rage and pain, snapping his head toward Trek’s perch in the trees.

  Then he turned back to the chase.

  Trek cursed under his breath. The child was still running—but Trot was gaining ground. Fast.

  Trek launched more blood-lances—this time without paralytic, just pure force and speed. They didn’t need to hit—just distract.

  It worked.

  Trot adjusted his path with each incoming projectile, snarling, growling—but slowing.

  Then something changed.

  Mid-stride, Trot froze. His muscles locked. He looked back—not at the boy, but at Trek.

  And then, slowly, he lifted one arm.

  Gave a shaky thumbs-up.

  And collapsed into the snow.

  The boy skidded to a halt, staring wide-eyed at the beast lying still in the snow.

  "What was that?"

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  The incapacitated body of Trot, Trek's friend, lay crumpled on the ground, the air thick with an eerie calm after the delirium of shapeshifting subsided.

  "That's Trot. You could say he's a werewolf."

  "What?! And what are you?"

  Blood droplets around them defied gravity, floating eerily in place where they'd been spilled.

  "You could call me a mage. A blood mage, of sorts."

  "What happens now? Isn't this all supposed to be secret? I never believed any of this could be real."

  Trek hesitated, glancing at the treeline. The cold wind whispered across the blood-flecked snow.

  "Now, you wait for the Reaver. They should’ve manifested the moment your brain registered Trot's true form."

  He scanned the horizon again.

  "But... nothing."

  The blood around them remained untouched. No presence stirred the world. No mind was severed.

  "Strange," Trek muttered. "It should have come by now."

  Slowly, Trot rose to his legs, sniffing the air. His eyes landed on the boy before he approached Trek.

  Trot raised one of his clawed hands and moved it deliberately—a brief series of motions. He was signing.

  Trek responded with a slight nod, the silent exchange charged with familiarity.

  "Thanks."

  Trek gave a nod toward Trot before turning and gesturing for him to follow. Around them, the floating blood began to glow like burning coals, then disintegrated into dust, swept away by the passing breeze.

  As the continued into the forests.

  The duo stalked slowly through a thick batch of woods toward their targets, located somewhere in their immediate area.

  Trot sniffed the air before throwing up a signal. He had likely caught onto their scent and gestured northeast.

  Trek's thoughts wandered—he recalled how close Trot had come to killing a child earlier, during his transformation. Trek had forced the change, knowing they needed the beast's senses, and Trot endured the delirium—a condition many shapeshifters suffered as their brains deformed to fit the new shape of their skull.

  Trot had once explained it simply: the experience was like a concussion filled with rage, lasting a couple of minutes.

  But the child... that still troubled Trek. The nearest settlement was over three hours from where they had found him. How had he gotten there? Why was he alone? He hoped IT wouldn’t remove that memory.

  He’d need to check on the kid—**after the Oathbreakers were dead.**

  They came upon a small barn, its weathered frame leaning against the treeline like a forgotten relic. The pair within were already outside, waiting for them. They must have smelled Trek.

  The creatures standing in the snow were monsters—**Snowwalkers**—stalkers of the boreal forests of the north. Each stood nearly seven feet tall, their true forms resembling **masticated corpses**, flesh warped and chewed by time and hunger.

  Each bore horns: the **larger male** had jagged antlers that twisted up into the air, while the **smaller female** had elegant spiraling horns that curled like carved ivory.

  These were no ordinary Snowwalkers.

  They were **Oathbreakers**—Snowwalkers who had lost control of their hunger and pierced the Veil.

  The punishment for that was death.

  They let out an ear-splitting screech as Trot lunged, charging the male with brutal speed and force.

  Trek exhaled, focusing as blood welled from his pores in response to his will. He reached into his pouch, retrieving a pinch of **ground glass**, and began mixing it into the swirling stream of blood floating around him like a living ribbon.

  The blood darkened, shimmered with flecks of glinting crystal, and then surged forward—Trek launched **lances of blood** toward the female.

  She leapt sideways, vanishing into the treeline, trying to **break line of sight**. From the cover of branches and snow-laden underbrush, she began **hurling debris** back toward him—stones, broken planks, whatever she could claw from the forest floor.

  Trot ducked low, dodging the male's attempt to slice at him, and tackled the closest leg, yanking it out from under the Oathbreaker. The creature collapsed face-first into the snow with a heavy thud.

  Without hesitation, Trot whipped around behind him and began **mauling the knee joint**, fangs tearing into tendon and sinew.

  The male let out a guttural scream, pain and rage blending as it pivoted awkwardly and slammed a massive fist into the side of Trot's snout, knocking him sideways.

  Trot stumbled but recovered quickly, backing off with a growl and giving the Oathbreaker just enough space to try and stand again—**baiting him into exposing himself.**

  The female regained focus just in time to duck her head, narrowly avoiding another of Trek's lances. The bloody projectile splattered across the bark of a tree behind her, hissing as it burned into the wood.

  She retaliated with another rock, flung with unerring precision.

  Trek growled in frustration. She wasn’t engaging—just keeping him pinned, denying him the focus to finish the male. Already, one of her earlier missiles had struck true: he'd caught it mid-air with his hand, saving his head but **shattering the bones** in his palm like brittle ice.

  He winced and shifted his stance, blood now dripping, freely joining the ribbon around him from his damaged fingers. He spared a glance toward Trot's fight.

  The male was faltering.

  Trek didn’t know the full relationship between the two Oathbreakers, but if the female didn’t intervene soon, Trot would kill the male.

  If she tried, he had already set the path to him in his favor.

  If she ran, Trek and Trot would hunt her.

  And they would not stop.

  Trot lunged again, aiming to grab the male's arm above his injured leg. He pulled downward while kicking at the shattered knee, forcing the Oathbreaker down onto both knees.

  With predatory precision, Trot surged upward, fangs bared, going for the back of the male's neck.

  But the male Snowwalker, despite his injuries, twisted just in time, **slamming his horned head into Trot's face**. The awkward angle deflected the killing blow, pushing Trot's snapping jaws aside.

  Undeterred, Trot clung to him, wrapping his arms tightly around the Snowwalker's neck and **saddling him like a beast**, preparing for the kill.

  With a brutal twist, Trot violently rotated the creature's head.

  **Crack!**

  The sound echoed across the clearing.

  The Oathbreaker let out a roar and, in a final act of desperation, **threw himself backward**, slamming Trot to the ground.

  The impact knocked the wind from Trot and broke his grip. The male rolled free, gasping and staggering as he tried to escape.

  The female had made her decision. Stopping mid-stride, she banked hard, reversing her direction and sprinting toward her partner—but not before hurling one more rock at Trek.

  She followed the same path she had taken earlier to dodge his lances. Trek moved with her, launching more lances and keeping the pressure on.

  As she neared the original clearing where the barn stood, something stirred. Blood that had splattered from earlier impacts rippled.

  Without warning, the pooled blood lanced upward, reacting to her presence. Some missed as she twisted in mid-stride—but enough struck.

  Two blood lances **impaled her**: one through the thigh, the other through her shoulder. She screamed as the blood magic entered her.

  Trek's control faded as the blood merged with her own. Once inside her body, it became **subject to her unconscious will**.

  But it was too late.

  The blood had delivered its **deadly payload**: shards of glass, now swimming through her veins. Each heartbeat pumped razors through tissue and vessel alike, tearing toward her heart.

  By the time the female entered the clearing, Trot already had his teeth in the male's throat, tearing into it. His hands gripped the Snowwalker's horns as he left the mangled throat behind, pulling at the broken bones of the neck. With a violent twist, **tissue tore**, and the head came **clean off**.

  The female let out a cry as she witnessed this—and charged.

  Trot replied by **hurling the severed head** like a rock, striking her squarely and knocking her onto her back.

  Trek emerged from the treeline, **a phalanx of lances overhead**, preparing to finish her off.

  But then a voice rang out.

  **Witness**: "Mom! Dad!"

  A child ran into the clearing. His clothes and skin shimmered, the illusion unraveling. Before their eyes stood a **young, hornless Snowwalker**, his skin the texture of plaster.

  A revelation.

  The child was theirs.

  The woman froze, eyes wide, the decapitated head of her mate still in her lap. Trot hesitated, turning slowly to face the boy.

  She let out a cry: "STOP! Wait!"

  The boy froze in fear for the second time that night—Trot had nearly killed him once before. But this time, he overcame it, running to his parents' side.

  Trek and Trot stood frozen. They had no idea their targets had a child. Nowhere in the brief had it been mentioned. Their oath had been clear: **kill the two and return to civilization.**

  But what now?

  They still needed to kill the woman. There was no arguing the fact—**preying on humans and breaking the Veil was punishable by death.**

  But the child… he looked no older than six. He would’ve been a newborn when his parents were first reported to the Triumvirate. He had grown up with them—in hiding, maybe—but what had he learned? Had he already tasted human flesh?

  **If they left him alive, he might become an Oathbreaker.**

  **Killing him now might save lives later.**

  The boy clung to his mother, sobbing into her chest, as the cold silence of the clearing swallowed the echoes of grief.

  Trek lowered his stance. Two blood lances hovered at his flanks—**readied**, in case the mother tried to use her last strength to strike.

  Trot gestured, his hands quick and uncertain.

  **What now?**

  Trek replied with a curt motion.

  **Hold. Prepare.**

  Then, after a pause, he spoke aloud, voice low but hard.

  **"What would you have us do—leave him here? He wouldn’t survive the night."**

  His eyes narrowed.

  **"He just watched us kill you both. What would that make him?"**

  The mother stilled. Her breaths came shallow, and the bruising beneath her skin darkened as blood laced with glass crept toward her heart.

  Then, gently, she lifted her hand and touched her son’s cheek, drawing his tear-streaked face to hers. Their foreheads met.

  Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  **"I could have him swear an oath."**

  Trek nodded once.

  **"He must swear an oath of pacifism. He can never seek revenge, never raise his hand in violence. Not if you don't want Corso to follow him."**

  The mother loosened her hold and turned the boy toward her, cupping his face in both hands.

  **"Akrid,"** she breathed, **"you must listen—and you must obey."**

  The boy nodded, trembling through his tears.

  Then the mother began to chant—in a language older than frost, older than thaw. Words known only to those who walk the boundaries between seasons and silence. Akrid joined her, voice shaking but clear.

  The temperature dropped. Frost crept out from beneath their bodies, webbing through the snow. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Then came the black and gold threads, descending like strands of light and shadow—woven by the **Seamstress**, third of the Triumvirate, as she inscribed the oath into their blood and spirit.

  The threads wrapped around Akrid’s heart. Marked him.

  When the last thread vanished, the ritual complete, the mother fell silent.

  She was gone.

  And Akrid was alone.

  Both men gave Akrid time to grieve.

  They watched him from a distance, measuring his stillness. Grief could shatter a mind—especially a child’s—and oaths made in agony sometimes cracked under the weight of sorrow.

  But as the sun began to crest the horizon, casting long golden rays across the snow, the boy had not moved. He still knelt beside his mother, head bowed, silent and unmoving.

  Trot had returned to his human form somewhere along the trail back to the treeline. Trek had handed him fresh clothes from their packs.

  Now clothed, Trot ran a hand through his thick, frost-stiffened beard. It was the first time he spoke that day.

  **“What do we do with the boy?”** he asked. **“Raise him proper?”**

  Trek shrugged, staring toward Akrid.

  **“I wouldn’t know. Never had a kid. You’d have a better idea raising… whatever he is.”**

  Trot grunted, then added, **“We should take him to Dournneth.”**

  Trek said nothing at first.

  But they both knew they couldn’t just leave the boy in the snow—not here, not after what they’d seen, and what had been witnessed.

  So, with quiet words and steady hands, they roused the boy from his vigil. He resisted only slightly, weak from grief and frost.

  Together, they turned back toward the trail—three figures now, walking into the waking forest.

  Back toward civilization.