Far North.
The hills north of Caelhort were cold, big, tall, lumps of land covered in snow and tall trees.
It was the home to wolves and bears and many other predators, the ones living here particularly bigger than others. Some say a full grown wild bear from these lands can tear down 10 trained soldiers with ease.
The wolves were vicious, they were responsible for most of the deaths around these parts, their packs big and strong, they would hunt their prey as long as they stayed within the snowy region, hunting it down, giving them a chance to run, so they could be more and more scared by the end.
They liked to eat scared meat.
Of course, anyone with common sense and a little bit of survival skills could survive.
It made a prime spot for robbers, killers, smugglers, rapists, any criminal who wanted to escape justice or wanted to stash their stolen or unauthorised goods.
And when too much trash piles up in a single place, it needs to be cleaned.
Four iron-clad men were riding on horses, seemingly searching for signs of someone or the person itself.
"Look," the smallest man out of the four called out, paining towards a tree, something behind it, "a dead wolf."
The other three men turned towards the pointed finger of the small man and rode over there.
"Looks like your being useful for once, Rodrick." One of the men called out from behind the small man.
"Shut up, Barry." The small man retorted.
"Shut it you two, the cold is already enough, I don't want to listent to you two bicker like women." The man riding atop the only brown horse called.
"Oh shut up, Lance, we all heard you arguing with your wife and losing to her this morning." The small man, Barry, said.
The men maintained silence for a bit.
Once they reached the tree, it was now visible.
A wolf's body, lying in a pool of its blood, still fresh.
"It's fresh, it was just killed sometimes ago, the killer's not faraway." Lance said.
Rodrick's eyes darted around the scene, accustomed to looking for every single little detail.
Rodrick's eyes stopped at one place, a patch of pressed snow with dirt, in the shape of a shoe, footsteps.
Rodrick cracked a grin and pointed at the footsteps, "Look, footsteps, haven't been completely covered the snow yet."
Lance slid down from his horse with a grunt. He knelt by the tracks, brushing aside the fresh dusting of snow. "Heavy tread. Deep. No drag. He's not wounded."
Barry huffed. "So he's healthy and walking? Grand. Let's chase him through wolf country and freeze our cocks off."
"Shut it," Lance muttered. He rose. "Southwest. Moving fast. But not too fast—he wants us to follow."
Everyone had got off their horses and were now looking at the footsteps
"Look's like a trap." Rodrick said.
Barry and Lance hummed, the fourth man had still not spoken up.
Barry and Lance looked at him, as if waiting for him to stay something.
The man had a sharp and striking face, the most interesting detail being the scar running from below his left eye to his lips, he looked not like a ordinary soldier, but like a highborn, someone of importance and wealth. His face was stoic, void of any traceable emotion.
They waited for him, but he didn't speak.
The small fat man, Barry, grunted in anger and spoke up, "I've had enough of you now. You may be some sort of hotshot or knight, but don't look down upon us like we are some children. Open your fucking mouth, I know you aren't mute."
The young lad, Rodrick, seemed shocked at Barry's outburst.
Lance, was surprised at first, but he got angry quickly and grabbed Barry's shoulder and looked him in the face, "Shut the fuck up! Do you know w-"
Lance was interrupted by a calm voice, not too deep, stoic and void of any emotion, only a hint of annoyance, "I didn't speak because I didn't need to." He looked Barry in his eyes, "You weren't dumb and pieced the things together by yourself, I didnt need to say anything else."
Lance looked at the man and then at Barry one last time, before releasing him and looked down before the man, "I apologize for him, Ser Arthur, it won't happen again."
The man, now known as 'Arthur', nodded at Lance.
Behind Rodrick, a rustle in the snow covered bushes was heard.
The men's attention quickly shifted to the bush, Arthur narrowed his eyes.
Rodrick turned around, and before he could draw his sword, a white beast lunged at him, about 6 feet long and 4 feet tall, a wolf, not any normal wolf, the wolves that resided here.
Before any of the other men could react, a sound was heard, the sound of steel piercing flesh, followed by a low cry of pain from the wolf.
The wolf, a sword in its chest, into its heart, was held up in the air by Arthur, before he lowered his sword and the wolf onto the ground and took his life blade out.
The wolf died a quick death, a sword to the heart, a swift and merciful death.
The snow turned crimson beneath the corpse as Arthur calmly wiped his blade on the creature's fur before sheathing it once more. The sword—long, black-hilted, clean despite the cold—slid back into its scabbard with a soft metallic whisper. Rodrick stared, pale-faced and trembling, not from cold, but from the sheer speed at which death had nearly met him.
"Th-thank you…" the boy mumbled.
Arthur didn't respond. He simply stepped past him, eyes locked on the direction of the trail.
Barry cleared his throat awkwardly. "One beast, alone?" he said, scanning the trees with new caution. "Wolves don't hunt alone. Not here."
"They don't," Arthur replied, still facing ahead. "That one was driven mad. Starving, maybe wounded. Or perhaps left behind."
"Left behind?" Rodrick asked.
Arthur turned his head slightly. "As bait."
The word hung in the frozen air like a curse.
"Why would a Caelyn be h-" Barry spoke up but was cut by Arthur.
"No, not a Caelyn. Most probably one of their bastards." Arthur said, mounting his horse, looking in the direction of the footprints.
"Get up, we'll have to leave our horses once we reach the hill, we'll have to climb it, be prepared for combat." Arthur said as he kicked his horse lightly to make it start walking.
---
The four riders pressed forward, hooves crunching over frost-hardened snow, the trees above whispering under the weight of ice. Silence reigned now—no more arguments, no snide remarks. Only the wind and the occasional groan of ancient pines bearing the cold.
Rodrick rode at the rear, still shaken. Barry and Lance rode to Arthur's flanks, speaking only in glances. Arthur led with a quiet certainty, following the faint trail through the thinning woodline toward the looming hill ahead.
It wasn't just any hill.
The locals called it The Bastard's Tooth—a jagged, ice-clad rise that jutted from the forest like a broken fang. No one settled near it. Even the animals avoided it. Stories said ghosts walked its paths, that ancient blood soaked the rocks. But Arthur didn't care for stories.
He followed facts. Tracks. Signs.
As the trees began to thin, Arthur raised a hand. They stopped. Snow fell softly around them, but ahead, the wind picked up—whistling through the gully at the base of the hill.
"Time to walk," he said, dismounting.
The others followed. Barry grunted and muttered curses under his breath as he tugged at his boots, Lance helped Rodrick tighten his cloak. Arthur stood still, scanning the slope.
The trail curved along the left side of the hill, hugging its edge. A narrow path—barely wide enough for one man at a time. The snow was disturbed. Not just footprints. Blood. Drips. Smears. A scattering of fur.
Rodrick pointed. "Another wolf?"
Arthur shook his head. "No. Too small. Hare, maybe. Or fox. Something scared it into running."
"Something like us?" Barry said grimly.
Arthur looked back at them. "No. Something that knew we were coming."
They ascended in silence.
The climb was steep, the path treacherous. More than once, Rodrick slipped, saved only by Lance's grip or his own desperate scrambling. The forest fell away behind them, and the wind howled louder now, as if trying to warn them away.
Halfway up the path, they found another body.
Human.
Face-down, half-covered in snow. Fresh. Less than an hour dead.
Arthur turned the corpse over. Male. Young. No older than twenty. A dagger still clutched in his frozen hand.
"Throat slit," Lance observed. "Fast and clean."
Barry scowled. "Looks like one of those hill-walkers from the eastern valleys. Maybe Caelyn kin."
Arthur said nothing. His fingers brushed over the man's tunic—gray wool, damp with blood. His hand found something beneath the collar. A pendant. A small iron token, crudely made, shaped like a black hound's head.
Rodrick leaned closer. "What's that?"
Arthur held it up. The iron glinted faintly, blood drying along its edge.
"A mark," he said. "One I've seen before."
Barry spat into the snow. "Black Hounds. Caelyn's bastard scouts."
Lance nodded grimly. "If they're here, then he's close. The Wild Son."
Rodrick frowned. "You think it's really him? The bastard prince?"
Arthur's expression did not change. "Doesn't matter what I think. The evidence says it's him, and we are getting paid for this mission as well as his bounty."
He rose and looked up the slope.
They were near the summit now. The path leveled off ahead into a flat ridge, a sort of natural shelf carved into the rock. Beyond that, a line of low stone ruins, half-swallowed by snow, marked the remnants of an ancient outpost.
Smoke curled faintly into the sky from beyond the stones.
"Campfire," Rodrick whispered.
Arthur drew his sword.
The others followed suit.
They moved forward slowly, blades drawn, steps careful, wind biting at exposed skin. Snow crunched beneath their feet. The ruins loomed larger with every step, and the smoke grew thicker, more pungent—mixed now with the scent of burning meat.
Arthur raised a hand. Halt.
He peered through a gap in the stones.
There he was.
A man sat by the fire. Cloaked in furs, hair long and wild, streaked with white and ice. A sword lay across his knees—black-bladed, cruel. He was cooking something on a spit. A hare, maybe. Behind him, three more men—silent, watchful, armed.
They hadn't been caught off guard.
They were waiting.
Arthur exhaled slowly. "Four men. Possibly more hidden. We'll flank left and right. Rodrick, stay back until I call."
Lance gave a nod. "We go quiet?"
"No," Arthur said, stepping out from the stone cover. "We go loud."
Before the others could ask why, he advanced alone—straight into the firelight.
The wild man by the flames stood slowly. His men flinched but didn't attack. Arthur stopped a dozen paces away.
The two stared at each other.
"You're far from your cradle, prince," Arthur called.
The man grinned, all teeth and shadow. "And you've come far to die, knight."
Arthur raised his blade.
Behind him, Barry and Lance emerged from the ruin's edge, steel in hand. Rodrick crouched low behind the stones, eyes wide.
The wind howled again—sharp and shrill—and then the snow exploded with movement.
From the sides. From above. Hidden men, cloaked and silent, burst from the drifts like phantoms.
An ambush.
"DOWN!" Arthur roared, blade flashing as the world dissolved into blood and steel.
A knife was thrown at Arthur, he stepped aside and dodged it.
One of the men who ambushed then, rushed to Arthur with his sword, swinging it at his side.
Arthur, with his absolute strength, deflected the sword and In one swift motion, cut the man's head off, before turning around and avoiding one of the big men's fist.
The man was big and burly, bigger than Arthur, he growled and brought his hand down on the still moving Arthur.
No normal swordsman could attack in such a position.
Arthur wasn't a normal swordsman.
In one swift motion, the man's arm was seperated from the rest of itself.
Arthur moved his face to the side as the cut off hand fell where his face.
The man roared in pain, looking at the remaining stump of his right hand.
His screams were cut short, a sword straight to the heart, the man gurgled blood before he fell down.
Arthur moved out of the body's trajectory of moment and sprinted to Barry's side who was engaged in combat with one of the ambushers.
The ambusher was already having trouble dealing with the small man, when Arthur charged at him with an unfathomable speed, there was nothing he could do.
In one strike, the man's head was now removed from his body, and Arthur was already charging at the "Prince".
The "Prince" scowled and threw a knife.
Arthur didn't dodge it, because it wasn't aimed at him.
He thought that perhaps he had missed him completely, being scared, but he was proved wrong.
Amongst the sound of clashing swords and grungs, the sound of metal piercing flesh was heard, followed by a gurgling sound and a heavy object falling on the ground.
Arthur didn't look back.
"RODRICK!" Barry screamed in horror.
He didn't need to.
The knife had struck true—lodged deep in Rodrick's throat. The boy crumpled to his knees, hands clawing at the blade, blood bubbling between his fingers. His eyes were wide, terrified, locked onto Arthur's back as if begging for help that wouldn't come.
Barry roared, charging past Arthur toward the bastard prince, but Arthur didn't turn. His focus remained fixed on the Wild Son, who now stood with his black blade raised, grinning like a wolf who'd cornered prey.
"Should've brought more men, knight," the prince taunted.
Arthur didn't answer. He moved.
Their swords met in a shower of sparks, steel screaming against steel. The bastard prince was fast—faster than expected—but Arthur was something else entirely. His blade moved with lethal precision, each strike calculated, each step measured. The prince's grin faltered as he was forced back, parrying desperately.
Behind them, Barry and Lance fought the remaining ambushers, their movements frantic, fueled by rage and grief. But Arthur didn't spare them a glance. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him.
The prince feinted left, then swung low—a dirty trick meant to hamstring. Arthur sidestepped, twisted his wrist, and drove his sword straight through the man's gut.
The prince gasped, blood spilling from his lips. His black blade slipped from his fingers, embedding itself in the snow.
Arthur leaned in close. "You were never a prince," he murmured. "Just another corpse waiting to happen."
He yanked his sword free, letting the bastard crumple.
Silence fell, broken only by the wind and Barry's ragged sobs.
Rodrick lay still, eyes glassy, the snow around him stained crimson.
Lance staggered over, clutching a bleeding arm. "We... we need to get the boy back. Bury him proper."
Arthur wiped his blade clean on the dead bastard's cloak. "No."
Barry whirled on him, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "What do you mean no?! He was just a boy!"
Arthur sheathed his sword. "He was a soldier. Soldiers die." He turned away. "Burn the bodies. All of them."
Barry looked ready to argue, but Lance gripped his shoulder, shaking his head.
"Burn Rodrick somewhere else, gather his ashes into this pouch," Arthur tore off a pouch from the bastard's body and emptied the coins and put them into his before handing it to Barry, "we will give them to his family."
Arthur walked out of the cave and looked out into the snowy horizon.
He wasn't relaxed for long.
A growl.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, unsheathing his sword and immediately towards the source of the sound.
A big white wolf, it's fur stained in blood, it was so tall, that it could reach Arthur's shoulder from the looks of it.
But that wasn't the most disturbing or strange thing about it.
It were it's eyes.
Black, void eyes, nothing but black.
The wolf lunged, it was fast.
Arthur moved out of the way, ready to attack, he swung his sword, ready to cut the beast's head off.
The wolf spun it's head around and caught the sword in its mouth. It growled at Arthur.
Arthur narrowed his eyes and pulled the sword back and moved back.
The beast was fast.
The wolf lunged again.
But not as fast as Arthur, nor intelligent.
Arthur had raised his sword, the sword into the beast's brain through its eyes.
The beast stopped moving and slumped off from Arthur's sword, falling down on the ground, dead.
Arthur looked down at the beast, and what he saw made his eyes shoot wide.
It was the same wolf he killed before, the wound was still there, in it's chest, fresh.