In the evening, the Frosted Ram was as loud and rowdy as ever.

It was normal in the northern mountains, where the cold never went away and snow fell all year. Most men here preferred to have strong liquor warm their bellies before any work got done. The tavern sat near the edge of the village, half-buried beneath layers of snow and frozen stone. The tavern’s roof sagged beneath a thick white blanket that Fred cursed at least twice a day but never fully cleared away.

Inside, the fire was always stoked, and liquor and meat were always served. Instead of a sweaty kind of smell, the tavern smelled of wet dogs, as the men had wolf fur on their shoulders.

Selma moved through the crowd like the wind, serving everything before anyone complained.

"There," she said, setting the last mug down harder than needed. "Drink that and try not to choke on your own tongues from babbling so much."

One of the men barked a laugh. He was broad, red-faced, and wrapped in enough fur to make him look twice as large as he was. His beard was full of melted snow and old crumbs, and his eyes had been following her since he came in.

"Careful, Selma," he said, leaning back on his bench. "A mouth like that will get you in trouble one day."

"It already does," she said, picking up the empty cups from their table. "That’s why I know how to get out of it."

The men laughed again, but the mood shifted a bit.

From behind the bar, Fred sensed the change and looked up.

He did not say anything at first. His hands continued wiping the inside of a mug slowly, in steady circles, but his eyes were now focused on the table.

Selma noticed the change too.

She noticed everything in the tavern. After working there for a long time, ever since she was a little kid, she had developed a sharp instinct for these things.

This table was the dangerous kind for her.

"Hey, Selma," the red-faced man called as she quickly turned away. "Why don’t you keep us company tonight?"

"I have better things to do than entertain old men," she answered without looking back.

A dangerous glint appeared in their eyes.

"Like what? Scrub pots?"

"That too."

Another man whistled. "Still too shy for some company, huh?"

Selma stopped, and a frown appeared on her face.

Behind the bar, Fred’s wiping slowed down. ’Not again...’

The red-faced man grinned, showing yellow teeth. "Everyone knows, girl. Pretty little thing like you, still sleeping alone. That’s a crime in these mountains."

His friends chuckled and took another sip from their mugs.

Selma turned around with a bright smile that did not reach her eyes. "And everyone knows your wife locks you out twice a week because even she can’t stand the smell of you."

The tavern erupted in booming laughter.

A few men slapped the tables. Someone near the hearth almost spat ale into the fire. Even one of the red-faced man’s friends laughed before quickly hiding it behind his mug.

The man’s grin died.

Selma gave him a small curtsy, exaggerated enough to be insulting, then turned away again.

She got three steps before his hand closed around her wrist.

The tavern’s people collectively groaned. Trouble was on the horizon yet again. But none of them looked away.

Northerners loved trouble too much in these boring, frozen lands. But the laughter faded, replaced by the scrape of benches and the low mutter of men wondering whether this would become worth watching.

Selma looked down at the hand around her wrist, then slowly raised her eyes to him.

"Let go."

The man tugged her closer. "Don’t be like that. We’re only being friendly," he said, smiling with his crooked teeth.

"You’re going to regret it if you don’t let me go."

"Hah! How so?"

His grip tightened when she tried to pull free.

Selma’s smile was gone now. She twisted her wrist the way Fred had taught her, but the man was strong. He pulled her close enough that she smelled the sour ale on his breath.

"Come on," he said, his voice lower now. "Don’t be shy. Sooner or later, you’ll have to sleep with someone. Might as well be a real northern man, eh?"

One of his friends leaned forward, grinning.

"Maybe all three of us. We’ll make a woman out of you before morning."

Selma stopped struggling. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

For one tiny moment, she went very still.

The red-faced man seemed to mistake that for fear. His grin came back, slow and greasy.

"There you go," he said. "Not so sharp now, are—"

Selma drove her knee up between his legs with every bit of strength she had.

The sound he made was not human.

"Huargghh!"

His face turned from red to white, then to a strange shade of purple as he released her wrist and folded over the table. His mug tipped, spilling ale across his lap, but he was far too busy clutching himself to notice.

The tavern exploded with laughter.

Selma stepped back quickly, rubbing her wrist.

"I said let go."

One of the man’s friends surged to his feet, laughter gone from his face. "You little bitch—"

"Bruno," Fred called.

A chair scraped near the back wall.

Bruno stood up from the corner where he had been eating stew alone, and the mood in the tavern shifted for the second time.

He was only seventeen, but no one who looked at him ever guessed that first. He was built like a bull. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a square jaw, and a permanent scowl that made strangers think twice before speaking to him.

He set his spoon down carefully.

After all, he didn’t want to get scolded by Fred.

The northerner who had risen glanced at him and scoffed, though the sound came out weaker than intended. "What? The pup wants to play?"

Bruno simply walked toward them.

Selma moved aside, still rubbing her wrist, but she shot Bruno a glare.

"Don’t break the table this time. Fred will kill us."

Bruno rolled his eyes and nodded.

Fred sighed from behind the bar. "Or the chairs."

Meanwhile, the northerner grabbed his mug and threw it.

Bruno tilted his head just enough for it to smash against an unprepared guest. Ale splashed across Bruno’s shoulder. He looked down at the wet spot, then back at the man.

The northerner rushed him and swung first, a wide punch aimed at Bruno’s jaw. But Bruno just stepped inside, blocking the man’s arm with one of his own, while the other slammed into the man’s stomach. Before he could fold, though, Bruno caught him by the back of the neck and, for good measure, drove his face into the table.

Wood cracked, and the table broke.

Fred closed his eyes and sighed, already clutching his forehead.

"Every goddamn time..." he muttered.

The red-faced man, still half-curled over in pain from the kick, tried to rise with a knife and stab him.

But Selma called it out. "Knife!"

Bruno easily grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it, and broke it until he released the knife onto the floor. Then Bruno pulled the man down and kneed him in the face.

The man dropped like a sack of flour.

The third northerner looked at his two friends, looked at Bruno, then raised both hands.

"I’m good."

Bruno just stared at him for a long second, and the man slowly sat back down.

Fred finally put the mug down and stepped out from behind the bar. He was not large like Bruno, nor loud like half the men who drank in his tavern, but when he walked across the room, people made space for him.

He stopped beside the broken table and looked at the crack running through the wood.

Then he looked at Selma’s wrist and sighed.

"Selma," he said.

She straightened up quickly. "I’m fine."

"That was not why I called out your name."

"...." She stayed silent as a mouse.

Fred stared at her.

A few men nearby quietly looked into their mugs, suddenly very interested in the ale.

Fred exhaled through his nose. "Go to the kitchen. Bring warm water. Boiled, if the pot’s still hot."

Selma glanced at the two men on the floor. "What for?"

Fred looked at the blood beginning to drip from the broken nose of the man whose face had met the table.

"For cleaning."

Bruno cracked his knuckles and pircked one of them up.

Fred glanced at him and added, "And possibly more, depending on how good of a mood they feel in, when they wake up."

Selma’s mouth twitched.

"Alright."

Then she walked toward the kitchen, stepping over the spilled ale and ignoring the whistles and cheers from the sidelines. As she pushed through the kitchen door, she heard Bruno drag one of the men across the floor.

Then Fred’s calm voice followed.

"Don’t put them outside, Bruno. I don’t want frozen bodies on my front porch."

Selma shook her head, but despite the ache in her wrist and the heat still burning in her cheeks, a small smile tugged at her lips. Even if the tavern was full of drunk assholes, it felt like home to her.

But by the time she reached for the water pot, Selma had a feeling the night had only just begun.

The kitchen door had barely swung shut behind her when the front door opened.

A sharp northern wind rushed through the tavern, carrying snowflakes, cold mist, and the bitter scent of pine from the mountains outside.

A few men cursed and pulled their cloaks tighter, turning toward the door with annoyance already rising in their throats.

Then the man stepped inside.

Bruno had been dragging the red-faced northerner toward the wall near the entrance by the back of his coat.

Bruno stopped the moment the door opened. His body simply refused to move.

The figure in the doorway stood tall enough to nearly fill the whole frame, wrapped in blackened steel and wolf fur. For the first time since Fred had known him, Bruno took a step back without being ordered to.

Every instinct in him screamed the same thing.

Do not stand in his way.

If he barred this man’s path, death would follow.

The stranger turned his hooded head slightly toward Bruno.

From beneath the shadow of the hood, two red, catlike eyes looked at him, and Bruno quickly averted his gaze.

The man stepped into the tavern, and the door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

He wore armor like a knight, but not like any knight from the north. The plates were dark steel and dull grey, layered over one another. His cloak was worn by travel and battle. Dried frost clung to the edges of his greaves. Thick wolf fur circled his neck and spread over his shoulders, resting beneath a heavy hooded cape that draped over the armor and hid most of his face.

The hood swallowed everything above his mouth, leaving only the faint glow of those red eyes whenever the firelight caught them.

He was huge, close to one hundred and ninety centimeters, and built like a brick wall. But there was an inexplicable elegance to his step. Beneath the armor, his body was forged by violence—broad, powerful, toned, but still athletic like a predator.

It was Teclos.

He slowly scanned the room in silence.

His gaze passed over the men at the tables, the broken chair, the blood on the floor, the northerners near Bruno, Fred behind the counter, and finally the empty table near the corner.

Then he leisurely walked toward it.

The whole tavern held its breath.

Not many things could shut this rowdy bunch up. A brawl usually made them louder. Blood usually made them excited. But Teclos gave off such a dangerous presence that unless somebody was truly dull, nobody would provoke him.

When he finally reached the empty table and sat down, everybody watching him released a sigh of relief.

Selma returned from the kitchen with the water pot in her hands and stopped.

Her eyes moved from Bruno, who still had not dragged the man outside, to Fred, then to the stranger sitting alone in the corner.

Fred’s face had gone pale, and he gave Selma the smallest shake of his head.

But she ignored it, because of course she did.

Fred’s jaw tightened. With only a glance, he signaled Bruno to stay ready. Somehow, Bruno understood. He let the northerner drop to the floor and shifted his stance, eyes fixed on the stranger.

Selma set the water down, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked forward with more confidence than anyone in the room felt.

"What can I get you, sir?"

The hood turned toward her, and a piercing gaze fell upon her. Selma couldn’t help but shiver a little despite her previous confidence.

"Something warm with meat in it," he said.

His voice was low and calm.

Selma nodded. "Right away, sir."

The food was brought to him quicker than usual.

When she placed the bowl before him, Teclos reached up and pulled back his hood.

Another wave moved through the tavern.

This time, it was not fear.

It was awe.

The man beneath the hood was handsome, painfully so, with sharp features, pale skin, and red eyes that made him look both noble and inhuman. His expression remained stoic and unreadable, like a true noble.

Selma was stunned and forgot to breathe for a second.

Teclos only picked up the spoon and began eating.