Reith prowled the wild woods in search of the waft. The pale skin of the trees mingled with the snow. Fingers of moonlight prodded through the dark canopy hanging above him, casting spotlights on the treacherous undergrowth. At first, he had struggled to find purchase in the slick footing, where roots and stones and hidden sinks hid to trip up the careless traveller. He had stumbled and tripped more than he could recall. Now he sped through the forest with ease and swift as a panther.

He advanced through a thicket, then started up the slant to a low, dense hillock. The leaves rustled as he broke through, and Reith grew exasperated as the reaching branches continued to tug on his magnificent sable cloak of linen and fur; he moved fluid like a panther, but not as silent. Atop the crest guarded a giant ghost tree, its low-hanging branches a foot off the ground. Under the thin crust of snow, the earth was damp and muddy. Reith slipped in with a thud underneath, flat on his belly in snow and mud, and glanced over the clearing below.

Skewered over a sizzling fire was a strange creature similar to a hare, the heart of the waft, with two men seated next to it, their gloved hands stretched out in a hunt for warmth. They were donned in thick fur and clattered of chainmail when they shifted on the wooden stubs. A tent of cotton had been erected slightly behind, close to a frozen brook that gleamed in the moonshine. Their horses nested by the treeline, tethered by rope and occasionally nickering.

His eyes darted back and forth between the horses and the men; four horses yet two men, likely two more who rested inside the tent. The stallions were too close to the campfire for one to approach unnoticed. Then he spotted a rack, loaded with swords angled against the tent wall, right next to a convoluted wooden stick crowned with a crimson crystal ball.

This world may be primitive, but Reith knew it would be a mortal blunder to underestimate it. He reckoned a weapon was required to survive, and a sword would surely be a prerequisite in that regard.

He stood and hulked downhill in the shadows, swerving from the light like the plague. Careful on his way to not snap any grounded branches, he arrived on the other side of the frozen waters and paused to eavesdrop the conversation of the two occupied men.

"Heard Lord Kenward's been recruiting adventurers a while now. You know they say he pays aplenty." A loud voice and a robust man should Reith have judged by the sound alone.

"I wouldn't gamble on it. Gods know what the Lord is plotting if he's hiring folk like us. But whatever it is, I don't want a part of it, and neither should you." An older fellow, though wise and untouched by his years. A dangerous opponent.

Reith activated and materialised on the opposite side, a precaution in case the ice didn't run deep as he thought. The shelter turned out smaller than he first anticipated and had to hunch to remain hidden. Faint snoring sounded from the inside. Then he started inching closer to the corner where he last witnessed the rack.

"I reckon it's safer than sauntering these haunted woods prowled by wargs and Frosted. You know damn well as me your daughter's the only who might survive an encounter with one of them."

Reith peered around the corner and spotted the men. Smart as they were, a scabbard dangled on the flank of the younger one, while the older had unsheathed his blade, laid it across his lap, and brushed it with oilcloth until it shone in the moonlight.

"Remind me again, old man," the younger said. "Why did you accept the child's ludicrous request?"

The man sighed and placed down the oilcloth. "My heart is exhausted, Rick. I can't handle losing another girl. The lordling once saved Ilsa's life, so she and I owed him a great deal. When he called upon her, honour bound us to obey."

Rick gave a cynical laugh. "Honour! What good does honour dead men?" Then he scowled and said, "I've decided to leave on the morrow—you and Ilsa are welcome to join me. I've had enough of this cold."

Reith edged around the corner and reached for the closest longsword, eyes glued on the pair, vigilant against any sudden movement.

"Ilsa will be saddened to hear—"

The wooden staff with the crystal crown dropped on to the snow with a soft thud, yet the sound was discernable to anyone with a decent ear. As the men spun around, Reith darted back behind the shelter with the sword in hand, cursing at his carelessness.

"Who goes there!" Rick bellowed, his voice a little too loud in the sudden silence. There was the sound of metal against metal as he drew his blade. Reith clenched his grip on the leather handle of his sword when rustling resounded from within the tent interior.

Swords were something of an anachronism in his era, found only in insignias or on ancient statues. His military education had never touched upon the topic of swords, let alone instruct him on how to wield one properly. Given time, he was confident to learn it, but right now he lacked time and was about to face masters at the craft. Everything Reith knew about medieval combat, derived in the main from the ancient general Sun Tzu, told him violence would only bode ill for him.

Reith gritted his teeth and fastened the stolen sword under his leather belt, then he stepped forth with his hands slightly raised above his head. "I wish no harm," he said as the men halted their slow advance. Rick's eyes widened, while the old man squinted in confusion. Reith noticed how tiny the two were, nearly two feet lower than himself.

Out of the tent scrambled a smaller, middle-aged woman, her short hair brown and grimy and dishevelled. Neither side moved a second as the scarred and disfigured female positioned herself at the rear of the party, silent but alert of the invader. A network of thin threads ran within her, coloured in every hue imaginable; likely the female's magyk pool, Reith surmised.

"An undead, out here?" Rick said, baffled but without a whiff of cowardice in him. Arguably a splendid trait in a warrior, but often the single reason behind their demise, or so believed Reith.

"I am Reith Lornhart," he said, but the opposition paid his word no heed.

"I've never seen one like it," the old man said, clinking as he started to encircle him, sword raised and ready. Rick paced around to his other flank, slow and steady. Reith sucked in a mouthful of frigid air through gritted teeth and spoke again, "I am unarmed!"

The old man halted as his blade flashed blue and a mist poured out of the shimmer like their bone-white breath. Despite the bizarre magic the man operated, Reith sensed him devoid of magyk. He snuck a peek at Rick and discovered an identical result.

"If you are a creature of peace, turn around and leave, undead," the old man said. His shoulders were tensed, and Reith spotted the droplets rolling down his face.

"I'm afraid I can't leave just yet," Reith said.

Before he'd managed to elaborate, Rick lunged at his exposed rear, sword pointed for a swift jab. The speed of his dash paled in comparison to the serpent he'd encountered in the cave, yet astonished Reith even so. More fearsome than the blade itself was the sizzling azure mist, which stole Reith's undivided attention.

By the time Rick assailed Reith's position, he'd activated and emerged at the stern of the old man, who'd stirred the moment his companion charged. The teamwork of the pair was remarkable as they gained his initial position at the very same instant.

Then Reith drew his sheathed blade and thrust it at the man's backbone, punched through fur, leather, mail, skin, and bone with unexpected ease. Blood welled around the tear, saturating and darkening the brownish coat. The man produced a noise that sounded like a mix between a gasp and a sigh, almost as if confused on which was appropriate. He fell on to his knees with the now split sword jutting out of his back.

In a kindled fury, Rick slid forward and jabbed at his legs in an attempt to maim. Reith sidestepped the thrust by a slim margin, but the mist stoked his skin and burnt where it touched. Despite the ache, he caught the man's wrist and drove the broken sword handle against his elbow joints. With his arms held out straight, Reith pivoted him and sunk his two fangs into his neck and stilled the man.

When he retracted his teeth in utter repugnance at the vile taste, it occurred to him he'd neglected the female magician, the target he'd designated as the most hazardous at the moment she'd emerged. He found her some feet out of his reach, fingers splayed and moistened eyes shining in the moonlight. She muttered low under her breath and finished preparing whatever magic she worked. "Flaming whip."

Motes of light danced around her fingertips, then an instant later a stream of fire gushed out, scourged at a ludicrous velocity. Without an opportunity to dodge, he took on the impact with his left arm and prayed to the world's deities for its persistence to stand. The whip twirled around his forearm and fizzled against his skin. In the tightness, the string stung like hundreds of bees. Reith made a low grunt as he grabbed the manifested rope of fire and yanked with all the strength he could marshal. The woman plunged face-first on the hard soil, and the fire whip evaporated along with a gust of wind.

Reith caressed his forearm, his sleeved overcoat tattered where the fire had contacted, the skin blackened and hurting at the slightest touch. While it hadn't burnt like the time he was incinerated, it evoked memories he'd rather forget.

He poked the flank of Rick with his foot and, since there were no reactions, crossed over to the magician and crouched. She puffed heavy.

Her skin was soft beneath his fingers as he flipped her round. The bloody mess of her face came into view; shattered teeth, skewed nose, pebbles, mud, and snow created a scene in her left eye. Cuts and bruises covered the rest of her scarred features.

"Your name is Ilsa if I understood rightly. Can you speak?"

Ilsa slightly curled her torn lips, then leaned her head as much as she managed to spit a ball of blood and teeth on his boot. Reith wrinkled his nose but remained composed. He couldn't afford an emotional outbreak over petty games, lest his swelling urges to devour seized control and undermined his purpose here. The dwindled magyk pool of hers made such a restraint far easier.

"I truly wished no harm, you know," he said. "Yet you dishonoured my act of submission. Hurt me, even." He brandished his scorched arm.

Ilsa glowered into his vacant eyes and spoke, her voice hardly more than a rasp. "You're no more than a beast," she said.

Reith ignored her remark and continued, "But I can look past the transgression in exchange for simple information."

The smile disappeared as she weighed his proposal. Reith stood by her side silent until she finally agreed. "I'll answer."

The undead grinned like a fool. "We have much to talk about, Ilsa."