The air bit sharply at Stick’s exposed fingers as he stood at the edge of the slave camp, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a vain attempt to stay warm. Frost clung stubbornly to the withered grass beneath his boots, glittering like shattered glass under the faint moonlight. Each breath hung in the air for a moment before vanishing into the relentless winter night. Stick shivered, pulling his patched cloak tighter around himself, but it did little to keep out the cold. Behind him, the campfire crackled weakly, its thin smoke snaking into the dark sky. The murmurs of the other slaves—soft, weary—barely carried over the sound of the wind. Ahead, three figures approached, their movements slow but purposeful. Smith, Titor, and Michael—grizzled Goblin Hunters all—trudged across the frozen ground, a burlap sack swinging from Smith’s hand. Their breath came in short, visible puffs as they reached Stick, their worn faces illuminated by the flicker of firelight.

  “Dinner time,” Smith announced, his voice as rough as sandpaper but tinged with warmth. He dropped the sack at Stick’s feet, the weight of it hitting the frozen ground with a dull thud.

  The sack spilled open slightly, revealing a sorry pile of beetroots, cabbages, and other pale, shriveled vegetables. Stick stared at the meager offering, his stomach knotting with disappointment.

  “No one’s gonna eat anything?” he asked, his tone skeptical as his fingers hovered over the sack.

  “Of course not!” Titor barked. “That’s for the Lords. They’ll need it for the journey.”

  Stick frowned, glancing from the vegetables to the Hunters. Their faces were gaunt, shadows pooling beneath their eyes. He could feel the sharp edges of hunger in the way Smith rubbed his hands together, the way Titor shifted uncomfortably, like his body was conserving every last ounce of energy.

  “Yeah, but you guys need your strength too,” Stick said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

  “We’ve been through worse,” Smith said, waving a hand dismissively. “Back at Spearhead, when the goblins cut off our supply lines, we’d have killed for this.”

  Stick gave him a sidelong glance. “You know they’re bringing us a holiday feast soon, right?”

  “Sure, Recruit,” Michael interjected, his tone light but firm. “Now, put it in that Inventory thing of yours. Just to be safe.”

  “And don’t even think about eating any of it while we’re not looking,” Titor growled.

  “Uh, yeah… okay,” Stick muttered.

  He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at his fingers, stiff and numb from the cold, before swiping his hand through the air. The vegetables vanished instantly, reappearing as small icons in the glowing window only Stick could see. The Goblin Hunters, oblivious to the interface of his Inventory, stared at the now-empty ground with wide eyes, their expressions alight with childlike wonder.

  “Ooh!” Titor gasped, his tough demeanor momentarily slipping.

  “Aah!” Smith echoed, grinning like a fool.

  Stick raised an eyebrow. “You’re really fired up about the Lords’ escape, huh?”

  “Of course we are, you little goblinshit!” Titor retorted, though his grin betrayed his embarrassment.

  Stick chuckled. “How awfully noble of you.”

  Michael’s face grew serious. “Don’t say stuff like that. We’re not noble.”

  “Yeah,” Titor agreed. “We’re street rats.”

  Smith nodded, his voice softer. “Nobility’s not something you decide, like the Adventurers do. It’s something you are.”

  “I thought Adventurers were noble.”

  “They don’t know the first thing about it,” Smith replied firmly.

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  Stick opened his mouth to respond but stopped short, remembering the way Bonatelli had devoured food like the world belonged to him just a few days prior.

  Titor’s voice softened. “You know what’s noble?”

  “What?” Stick asked.

  “Smiling through the hard times.”

  Stick blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

  The wind picked up suddenly, cutting through Stick’s cloak and chilling him to the bone. He shifted his stance, glancing at the Goblin Hunters. For a moment, their faces betrayed something raw—a mix of pride, pain, and something else Stick couldn’t quite name.

  “You want to know what makes someone noble, Stick?” Titor began.

  “Not like those fake Adventurers,” Smith added, his voice gruff but tinged with emotion. “Someone truly noble.”

  Michael nodded. “Let us tell you about Lord Varyan. In the spring of 2013—he was just twelve.”

  Titor leaned forward, his voice soft but clear. “Lord Varyan was set up for a political marriage. A noble girl from Cavon, four years older than him. I forget her name.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Smith muttered.

  Titor ignored him. “She’d been in a mess—a teenage Adventurer swept her up when the Adventurers first arrived in 2012. You know how it is. It brought shame to her house. The marriage was supposed to fix all that and send her off to the countryside to clear her name.”

  “She didn’t want it,” Michael said, shaking his head. “And honestly, neither did Lord Varyan. But you know him—he’s got that patience, that understanding. He delayed the wedding preparations as much as he could. Never imposed, even when he started growing feelings for her.”

  “And eventually she started feeling something for him, too,” Michael said, his voice warm. “But she was still torn, confused. I mean, who wouldn’t be?”

  Stick frowned. “So, what happened?”

  “A week before the ceremony,” Smith picked up, his tone grimmer now, “the Adventurer showed up at the Blitz Estate. Came to collect some reward from Lord Thomas Blitz.”

  Titor snorted. “The bastard didn’t just come for a reward. He found her. Talked to her. Told her he’d made a little fortune, enough to move to Cavon’s countryside, and proposed to her right there.”

  Stick’s eyes widened. “What did she do?”

  “She was torn apart,” Smith said, shaking his head. “Confused all over again. Varyan saw it. He could’ve been angry, could’ve demanded she stay. But what did he do?”

  “Gave her space,” Michael said simply, his voice almost reverent. “Told her to meet the Adventurer again. To sort out her feelings. Said he wouldn’t marry her unless she was sure she could leave all her doubts behind.”

  “That’s Lord Varyan for you, even at twelve years old,” Smith said, a faint smile on his lips. “She wasn’t his possession. He wanted her to be free. And to love him fully, if she chose to stay.”

  Titor sighed. “She went to see the Adventurer. Told Varyan she was grateful, that she had to give it her best shot with the other guy. Varyan told her that was the only way he’d forgive her—if she gave it everything she had. And if it didn’t work, he’d welcome her back with open arms.”

  Stick felt a lump rise in his throat. “And then?”

  “On the day of the wedding,” Michael said, his voice heavy, “Varyan stood alone at the altar. No bride. Just him. And you know what?”

  Stick shook his head, barely breathing.

  “He smiled,” Titor said softly. “A big, radiant smile. Didn’t falter, didn’t show a crack.”

  “And he’s been smiling ever since,” Smith added. “Even when the Baron took everything from him, when the Blitz Estate fell. Still smiling for us. For everyone.”

  Michael broke the silence. “Who knows how much pain that smile hides?”

  The story hung between them like a fragile thread, its weight sinking into the winter night. Stick’s gaze drifted to the stars, his chest tight. Varyan’s patience. His understanding. His refusal to treat anyone—even someone promised to him—as a possession. The weight of the story pressed on his chest like a stone. When they reached the end—the image of Varyan standing alone at the altar, smiling through the worst kind of heartbreak—Stick felt something shift in him. The air seemed colder, heavier, the night pressing down on him with a new kind of urgency. Damn, Varyan. You’re so cool.

  Titor let out a snort, though his voice was thick with emotion. “If it were me, I’d have smashed that Adventurer’s head in.”

  “That’s the difference,” Michael said quietly. “That’s why he’s noble. In a way, he saved her twice—once from a loveless marriage, and once from the Baron.”

  Stick’s voice wavered as he said, “I think I understand now.”

  “Good.” Titor’s tone turned stern again. “Then you’d better understand this too: don’t lay a finger on the Lords’ food!”

  “Yes, sir!” Stick replied, standing at attention with a grin, though his eyes glistened.

  As the three Hunters turned back to the campfire, Titor’s voice wavered, betraying the tears he tried to hide. As Titor marched back to the fire, his footsteps crunched softly in the frost. Smith and Michael followed, each giving Stick a small wave and a faint smile. Left alone, Stick sat quietly, the story replaying in his mind. Alone now, the weight of responsibility pressed down on him. He glanced at the camp, at the hunched figures gathered around the weak firelight. He felt the enormity of their plan press down on him. What if we fail?

  The question hung in his mind like the frost on the grass, stubborn and cold. He took a deep breath, the cold air burning in his lungs, and exhaled, watching the mist dissolve into the night. For a moment, he lingered, staring at the stars again. Smiling through the hard times, huh?

  Then, resolute, he turned and made his way to the fire where the other slaves were.

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