Despite spring having arrived in the Northern Border Province, a bone-chilling cold still clung to the wind. Sif's hands gripped the reins so tightly that her fingertips were numb. The warhorse beneath her panted heavily, stumbling on its four hooves, its sweat quickly freezing in the cold night.
Faster... a little faster...
Behind her, the burning glow of the Cold Moon Tribe's encampment trailed in the distance—each step bought by her brother's sacrifice. Sif couldn't turn back, couldn't stop.
"Run south, and never return!" her brother Sigel's roar echoed in her mind, embedding itself like a spike into her soul. He was dead now—as were her parents and siblings—leaving her a lone spirit, wandering an unforgiving world.
She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to keep fleeing south. With supplies gone, she drank from river water and subsisted on tree bark and sparse wild fruit.
Days later, the warhorse finally collapsed, its strength gone. Sif fell off its back, her body hitting the ground hard. She tried to rise but couldn't even move her fingers. Consciousness faded; Sigel's face swam before her eyes.
I'm sorry, brother... I can't go on...
Vision blurred. Darkness claimed her.
A mighty hunting party from Red Tide Territory advanced north. Skilled hunters and vigilant knights moved with purpose, eager to impress. After all, Lord Louis himself led this hunt.
Louis wore a thick wolf-skin cloak and rode confidently atop his warhorse. Ahead, a seasoned tracker crouched beside fresh tracks on the wasteland.
"Lord, wild rabbits. Several of them." His voice was low.
Louis nodded, drew his short bow, and nocked an arrow. He squinted into the distance, spotting a grayish-white rabbit peeking from behind withered grass.
Whoosh—
The arrow flew so swiftly its path was invisible. It struck the rabbit's neck with pinpoint accuracy. The creature tumbled and died instantly.
"Excellent shot!"
"Truly a master archer, Our Lord!"
The hunters and knights erupted in applause and flattery.
"Lord Louis excels in both pen and blade—his hunting is proof."
"With archery of this caliber, even the kingdom's royal huntsmen pale!"
"If our Northern Border Province had a hundred such archers, barbarian invasions would be a thing of the past!"
Their compliments rolled on, each more effusive than the last. A knight rushed forward, proudly holding the rabbit for Louis.
"Lord, was this rabbit touched by the King of Beasts? Such difficulty to land even one shot!"
Louis smirked inwardly. These courtiers knew how to flatter—perfectly expected. He didn't mind; reputation demands a little mythmaking.
Of course, this hunt was just a pretext. His real goal: to find the princess who'd been seized by the Frost White Bear. Hunting provided the perfect cover on his northward journey—disguising his prophetic talent. Yet some were already suspicious. They noticed his uncanny luck. From south to Northern Border Province, he predicted every twist of fate.
Some whispered it was divine favor. Others quietly called it a "daily intelligence system"—but in a world without "web novels," such terms were meaningless. So, they attributed his success to the Dragon Ancestor's blessings.
Soon, the group bagged wild deer and caught cold-water fish from the icy river. Laughter and celebratory chatter filled the air.
"Such relaxations... not bad," Louis thought, smiling at his companions' joy.
Suddenly, a scout burst in, breathless and alarmed. "Lord! We found a young girl ahead!"
The hunting party fell silent, exchanging puzzled glances.
"A young girl?" Knight Lambert frowned. "Here?"
"He lay near the icy river," the scout gasped. "Unconscious, face-down in the snow."
Louis's expression shifted—calm, focused. "Lead us there."
Passing through a sparse forest, they reached the bank. There, in the snow, lay Sif—unconscious and face-up, her short white hair tangled with frost. Her fur coat was shredded, exposing purple-streaked flesh from hypothermia and fresh wounds hinting at days of suffering.
A hunter leaned close, studying her. "Lord, she's from the Northern Tribes."
Another whispered, "Cold Moon Tribe."
Silence. The Cold Moon Tribe was the Northern Border's sworn enemy. Yet Louis merely observed her for a moment.
"Bring her back. We'll treat her," he ordered.
The knights carefully lifted her onto a warhorse. The hunters, cart laden with game, wheeled southwards.
Back in Red Tide Territory, Sif was carried to a spare room and entrusted to a local medic. Louis watched silently, his gaze fixed on her face. Her closed eyes, cracked lips, and furrowed brow showed a life hanging by a thread.
He handed the medic a vial of life potion. "Use this."
The doctor hesitated, then administered it. Slowly, color returned to Sif's cheeks, and her breath steadied. Though still unconscious, she was alive.
"A single vial is costly," Louis remarked quietly. "I hope she survives."
The nurses checked her through the night. By dawn, Sif still slept fitfully. Louis waited at the door, hands behind his back, hooded eyes hidden beneath the wolf-skin cloak.
A gentle knock: the medic entered.
"She remains unconscious, but stable. The potion helped. Her fever has broken. But it may take days for her to fully recover."
"Very well," Louis replied. "Leave her to rest." The medic bowed and left. Louis stepped close to Sif's bedside. Her features were delicate: high cheekbones streaked with dirt and frost, pale skin tinged with life, lips slightly parted as she breathed.
His stomach tightened. He'd never intended such savings. Yet upon seeing her, he felt too resolved to abandon her.
Meanwhile, the other knights prepared a secluded chamber for her recovery. Women's robes were gathered, warm clothes brought forward. A soft-bristled brush and basin of water arrived. Everything to restore her dignity.
Louis observed from the threshold, brow furrowed. He checked with the medic again and assigned a stalwart knight, Sir Lambert, to guard the door.
"Do not let anyone disturb her," he commanded. Lambert nodded, offered a respectful bow, and stationed himself by the entrance.
Days passed in silence.
Finally, Sif's eyes fluttered open. She blinked against the light and tried to focus. Her gaze lingered on a face she didn't know. Panic tinted her features.
"Lady...?" Louis leaned in his cloak, voice soft. Sif froze, eyes wide. He held up his hands in calm.
"I mean no harm. You're safe here and in recovery. Do you remember your name?"
Sif's voice was cracked: "I... I'm Sif. From the Cold Moon Tribe."
Louis nodded. "Welcome to Red Tide Territory, Sif." He held out a handkerchief. "You're injured. Calm yourself."
She stared at it as though at a relic. She touched it, feeling its softness—luxury she hadn't known in years. Her gaze drifted to Louis. His face was calm, authoritative, yet oddly gentle under the scarred cloak.
"I don't understand..." she choked. "Why did you save me?"
Louis paused. "Because... you're alive. That's reason enough."
Sif's eyes welled with unexplained gratitude—and something else: suspicion. "But—our tribes are enemies."
Louis nodded. "That may be, but I do not judge you for where you're from."
Silence stretched between them. Louis continued quietly, "I have... resources. I can help you recover. In return, you can tell me who you are, why you fled."
Sif swallowed. Despite her weakened state, some spark of her former strength glimmered. "Very well."
Outside the chamber, Lambert reported to Louis: "She's awake and coherent."
"Good." Louis exhaled. "Send someone to bring us tea. I'll speak with her soon."
Lambert left. Louis looked at Sif for a moment longer. She shut her eyes. He hesitated, then followed Lambert out.
Later that afternoon, tea arrived—served on a tray of polished stoneware. Sif sat on the bed's edge, legs wrapped in linen. Louis entered, followed by a servant.
"Sif," he began gently, "this will help you regain strength." He handed a warm mug. She took it, its heat rekindling her senses.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Louis sat opposite, silent. She sipped the tea slowly, savoring unfamiliar warmth, taste, and kindness. Finally, she spoke.
"Why me?" Her voice quavered.
He placed a gentle hand on his chest. "I saw you suffering. I chose to act." He paused. "I am Lord Louis of Red Tide Territory. We are at war with the Northern Tribes—but I believe... not all suffer from the same sins as their leaders."
Sif's eyes glistened. "You call me 'not enemy'... after I came from the tribe that slaughtered my homeland?"
Louis tilted his chin. "You fled—not for conquest, but for salvation. I do not punish those who run from bloodshed. I punish killers."
She lowered her gaze, tears slipping down her cheeks. He handed her a handkerchief richly embroidered—soft and fragrant.
"I know you're injured," he said. "But if your wounds heal enough, you can eat, bathe, rest. When you recover, we'll decide what comes next."
Sif nodded. "I understand."
He rose. "Rest now. You've suffered much." Outside the door, Sir Lambert knelt. Louis nodded. Lambert rose, voice quiet. "I will see to your safety, mistress."
Sif looked up, confused. Louis quietly replied, "She's not a mistress yet, but I will protect her as one."
Lambert bowed deeply.
Louis stood in the corridor with his cloak billowing slightly in the wind. He looked toward the north, past the fortress walls. Thoughts of icy plains, revenge, and future confrontation flitted through his mind.
I saved her life... now I must uncover her story. And decide whether she becomes a tool or an ally.
The flickering lamplight cast long shadows across Red Tide hallways.
Outside, snow still lingered in patches. Within, fragile warmth was rekindled around Sif and her unknown protector.
Winter was ending, but new beginnings were just beginning to stir.
End of Chapter 22
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