Snow still clung to Raizō’s boots when he and Taren pushed open the door to the inn. Heat washed over them immediately, thick with the scent of smoke and spiced stew. The Lower District was rough, loud, and full of people who looked like they’d seen more winters than mercy, but the inn itself was surprisingly alive. Mercenaries crowded the tables. Traders haggled near the bar. A blacksmith slept face-down on his arms, snoring loud enough to shake the mugs. The innkeeper, a weathered man with a beard like frostbitten moss, looked them over.

  “Room’s upstairs,” he said. “Two beds. Don’t start fights.”

  Taren set coin on the counter. “We don’t start them.”

  The innkeeper snorted. “Everyone says that here.”

  Raizō followed Taren up the stairs, but as he passed a wall mirror, he paused. A tired man stared back at him, long, tangled hair, hollow eyes, travel-stained clothes, a shadow of exhaustion clinging to every line of his face. He looked like someone who hadn’t been himself for a long time. That night, he dreamed of Emi’s voice again.

  Trim your hair, Raizō. You look miserable when you don’t.

  The next morning, he found a quiet corner of the hallway, unsheathed a small knife, and began trimming the stubbles on his face. He washed his face, cut his hair that had gotten too long, brushed dust from his coat, and straightened his posture. He looked like someone who had finally decided to stand up properly. When he walked downstairs, even the innkeeper froze for a moment.

  “…Didn’t recognize you,” the man muttered. “You look like someone from the Upper District.”

  Taren looked up from his bowl, eyes widening. Then he grinned.

  “Well damn. You’re a pretty good-looking guy when you try. Careful, I might just fall for you.”

  Raizō brushed past him. “Eat your breakfast.”

  They finished their meal, stepped back into the cold, and headed toward the Ironbound Outpost to find work. Their first job was a caravan escort delivering refined mana crystals along a ridge road just outside the city. It sounded simple enough. Frostmarch jobs often were — until they weren’t. The wind cut sideways across the cliff path, carrying snow that stung against Raizō’s face. The merchant muttered nervously to himself as the caravan creaked forward. Taren walked calmly at the front, spear balanced loosely over his shoulder. Raizō walked a little behind and to the side, watching the trees that clung to the edge of the ridge. Something about the silence felt wrong. Frostmarch didn’t do quiet unless it was preparing something. He sensed movement before he heard it. Branches snapped. Snow shifted. An arrow whistled past his ear.

  “Ambush!” the merchant yelped, ducking behind his cart.

  Armored bandits burst from the tree line, moving with practiced formation, not reckless raiders, but hardened criminals who knew each other’s timing. They spread out quickly, boots crunching deep into the snow, weapons angled with intent. Their armor was mismatched but heavy, plated over with whatever scraps they’d scavenged. Taren didn’t move. He simply shifted his grip on the spear and watched. Raizō stepped forward out of instinct.

  The first bandit rushed him with a shield bash. Raizō blocked with his forearm; the impact shook his bones and numbed his fingers. Before he could recover, a second bandit swung an axe at his ribs. He barely twisted in time. The blade scraped his coat and bit into the wood of the cart behind him. They pressed him hard. Coordinated. Relentless. His breath formed sharp clouds in the cold. Lightning flickered faintly across his knuckles, useless, uncontrolled, more of a reflex than a tool. He couldn’t rely on it, so he didn’t. When the shield came at him again, Raizō dropped low and swept the man’s legs. The bandit crashed to the snow.

  Raizō hopped to his feet and drove a hook straight into the side of the man’s helmet. Even through metal, the strike rang like a bell. The bandit slumped. Another charged from behind. Raizō didn’t see him, but he felt him, the shift of weight in the snow, the intake of breath. He turned and met the man’s face with a knee, driving the helmet backward with a dull crack. The bandit toppled backward, groaning. A third thrust a spear at his chest. Raizō stepped inside its range, grabbed the shaft, and yanked hard. The bandit stumbled forward. Raizō delivered a sharp elbow to the side of the helmet, denting it and sending the man to the ground. He caught another coming at him from the left. The bandit raised his sword overhead, too wide of a motion, too slow. Raizō slipped under it and slammed a straight punch into the gap beneath the man’s jawline. The blow lifted him for a moment before he collapsed.

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  Raizō’s breath grew heavier. His hands throbbed from bone and metal impact. His forearms burned from blocking blades and shields. None of it felt easy, he was fighting past pain, past cold, past the raw scrape of winter air in his lungs. But they were human. Humans made mistakes. Every shift of their shoulders, every tightening of their grip, every slight flare in their nostrils told him what would come next. He read their patterns and punished them with ruthless precision. By the time the last bandit crawled away through the snow, Raizō stood alone among the fallen. Taren still hadn’t moved.

  “Well,” Taren said, lowering his spear, “were you always this ruthless? That almost looks worse than death.”

  Raizō flexed his aching hand. “At least they’re still breathing.”

  “Barely.”

  The merchant peeked from behind the cart, staring at Raizō with a mixture of awe and cautious respect. In Frostmarch, people didn’t frighten easily, but a man who dismantled armored criminals with nothing, but his hands earned a look or two. They walked back to the city in silence, snow crunching beneath them. Taren finally laughed.

  “You know,” he said, “I didn’t even have to do anything.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Please keep doing that.”

  The jobs continued. More caravans. More border escorts. Clearing out bandit caches. Guarding crystal transports. Frostmarch criminals were tough, smart, and relentless. Raizō struggled often, every fight pushed him harder than the last. His lightning flickered more frequently now, but it never came when he wanted it to. It was instinct, not power. Still, he adapted each time. He read opponents. Predicted attacks. Knocked heads back with knees, hooks, or kicks. Broke armor by striking joints at angles that seemed unnatural. Fought through pain with cold resolve. After enough of these encounters, people began to notice.

  “He doesn’t use a weapon,” some said.

  “He breaks men with his hands,” others whispered.

  “He reads opponents like he’s seen their fights before.”

  The rumors weren’t fearful, but Frostmarch didn’t fear things it could stab. But there was recognition now. A quiet, cautious respect. Taren didn’t help.

  “You’re becoming a phenomenon,” he teased. “You’re like a snowstorm with manners.”

  Raizō ignored him. When they finally saved enough coin, they went to a smith for gear. Taren bought heavier armor and a cloak built for blizzards. Raizō refused gauntlets, he needed his fingers free, so he settled on open-finger gloves reinforced across the knuckles.

  “You really fight barehanded?” the smith asked, curious rather than intimidated.

  Raizō didn’t answer. As they left the shop, a messenger approached, cheeks red from the cold.

  “For Raizō and Taren,” she said, handing over a sealed letter.

  The crest was unmistakable, a crimson serpent around a sun. Taren broke the seal and read aloud:

  Meet me at dawn beyond the eastern gate.

  You two are among eight selected for the escort.

  The pay matches the silence I expect.

  —Velrin D’Arc

  Taren stared at the message for a long moment.

  “This mission,” he said finally, “is either going to be a cakewalk… or something completely beyond our capabilities.”

  Raizō looked at him. “Why the extremes?”

  “Because this is Frostmarch,” Taren replied. “It doesn’t do ‘in-between.’ When it’s bad…” He exhaled. “…it’s always extremely bad.”

  “We’re still taking it,” Raizō said quietly.

  Taren grunted. “Yeah. We are.”

  High above the drifting lantern smoke of the Upper District, a single figure perched on a rooftop, cloak blending into the snow. A scroll sealed in black wax lay in their hand:

  Eliminate Velrin D’Arc before he arrives to Driftmoor.

  No witnesses.

  Double payment.

  Below, eight mercenaries gathered near a carriage preparing to leave the eastern gate. The figure watched them all with equal disinterest. Their faces didn’t matter. Their names didn’t matter. They were simply obstacles between a mark and a reward. Snow swirled, and the assassin vanished into it.

  Raizō stood on the inn balcony that night, arms resting on the railing as snow drifted through the lanternlight. The city hummed below — rough, cold, unruly, but alive. He felt the storm in him again, faint and restless. Taren joined him, spear resting against his shoulder.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  Raizō didn’t look away from the snow. “Ready enough.”

  Taren leaned on the railing. “Let’s hope this is the cakewalk version.”

  Raizō finally turned.

  “Then we make sure we don’t join whatever’s waiting for us.”

  Taren snorted. “Fair enough.”

  Snow drifted around them as dawn waited somewhere beyond the frost.