Chapter 61: A Familiar Face in the Cold

The morning air was crisp, a gentle veil of frost covering the cobbled streets of Brenhold as Dorian adjusted Regis’s saddle. The city, nestled deep into the northern regions, carried an atmosphere much colder than the previous towns, not just in weather, but in mood.

Bundled in thick coats, people hurried along, heads down, their faces drawn tight from the bite of winter. Merchants grumbled as they set up their stalls, their breath curling into the air like wisps of smoke. The usual laughter of children was absent—replaced by the quiet, efficient pace of a city used to enduring the cold.

Dorian patted Regis’s neck. "What do you say, buddy? Let’s warm this place up a little."

Regis huffed, his white mane fluttering in the chill breeze.

With a grin, Dorian swung onto the saddle, his black cloak billowing slightly as he tapped his heels against Regis’s side. "Let’s explore."

As Dorian rode through the streets, he observed the people—their weariness, the stoic silence that clung to their expressions.

Then, an idea struck him.

His fingers grazed over his violin, but he hesitated. Not yet, he thought. He needed something familiar, something soft—a tune that could slip through the air like sunlight breaking through clouds.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his signature trick—his floating flute.

A gentle melody hummed through the streets, soft at first, then growing, a sound that danced above the frost-bitten air. The self-playing flute twirled and dipped, enchanting passersby who paused in their hurried steps.

Eyes lifted. A merchant smiled. A child tugged at his mother’s sleeve, pointing. Even the grizzled guards at the gate tilted their heads slightly, their cold watch interrupted by the unexpected tune.

A few heads turned towards Dorian, some with curiosity, others with amusement, the air around them slowly shifting.

But before the warmth could fully settle—

A blur of movement.

A cloaked figure darted forward—a flash of a hand—and snatched the floating flute from the air.

Dorian’s eyes widened.

Oh, you have made a mistake, my friend.

The thief ran, weaving through the crowd, cloak billowing behind them as they sprinted down a side street.

Dorian, without hesitation, kicked Regis forward.

"After them, Regis!"

The white-and-black steed surged forward, hooves clattering against the stone, sending snow and dust scattering in his wake.

The chase was tight—the thief had the advantage of narrow alleyways and familiar streets, while Dorian, despite Regis’s speed, was forced to maneuver carefully through the bustling marketplace.

The thief vaulted over a cart, knocking over a stack of crates, trying to slow him down.

Dorian gritted his teeth. "Really?"

Then he remembered—it’s my flute.

With a flick of his wrist, lightning crackled at his fingertips.

A tiny jolt—nothing harmful, just enough to send a sharp shock through the flute.

The thief let out a yelp, body jerking mid-stride, and with a gasp, they tumbled forward—

Crashing straight into a pile of trash cans.

The street erupted with laughter as vegetable peels and discarded paper flew into the air.

Dorian pulled Regis to a stop, quickly dismounting as he approached the now dazed thief.

"Well," he said, leaning down to pull back the hood, "let’s see who thought it was a good idea to steal from a bard."

The moment he saw her face, he froze.

It was her.

The elven woman from Svalen.

His eyes drifted to her neck, and there it was—

A pendant, almost identical to his own.

But where his was red, hers was golden.

Dorian let out a breath, a slow smile curving his lips.

"We," he said, crossing his arms, "have a lot to talk about, miss thief."

…

The streets of Brenhold were still coming to life as Tache and Selyse walked side by side, their boots crunching softly against the frost-laced cobblestones. The winter air was crisp, but laughter warmed the space between them as Tache knelt down, ruffling the hair of a giggling child who had just poked his leg and run away.

"Oi!" Tache pretended to stumble, arms flailing dramatically. "By the gods, you got me! What sort of fearsome warrior are you?!"

The kids squealed in delight, scattering like startled birds, their laughter echoing through the street.

Selyse, walking a step ahead, shook her head with a small smile, pretending not to watch.

Tache caught up, grinning as he fell into step beside her. "Oi, don’t leave me behind," he teased.

Selyse rolled her eyes but didn’t respond.

Tache's smile softened as he studied her profile—the sharp lines of her jaw, the way her brow was slightly furrowed despite the laughter moments ago.

"Alright," he said, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. "What’s wrong?"

Selyse glanced at him. "Nothing."

Tache scoffed. "Right. Because we just met yesterday, huh?" He exhaled sharply, his voice dropping slightly. "Come on, Selyse. I’ve known you since we were kids. I know when something's eating at you."

Selyse sighed, looking straight ahead. "I just…" She hesitated. "I don’t get why you told that kid about your past."

Tache arched a brow, then chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ahh, so that’s it. You’re mad ‘cause I spilled about the shitlings of Twelve to the bard?"

Her gaze snapped to him, a flash of irritation in her eyes. "That’s not what I—!" She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You were drunk. You know that’s a conversation we don’t have, and you—"

"Let me stop you right there," Tache interrupted, his voice suddenly calmer. "I wasn’t drunk, Selyse."

She opened her mouth, but he shook his head.

"I know what I was saying. And yeah, I don’t usually talk about it—but he’s a bard."

Selyse frowned, arms crossing. "So?"

Tache exhaled, gaze distant. "His voice means something to people. We’re mercenaries, Selyse. Most of the time, the only people who care about us are the ones who hire us or the ones who die by our swords."

She flinched slightly at that.

Tache continued, "I don’t want him to hate the Twelve Gods. That’s not what this is about. I just…" He looked at her, voice quieter. "I want him to be careful. Because sooner or later, he’s going to wander onto a battlefield. And he’s going to see what we saw."

Silence stretched between them.

Selyse swallowed, staring at the icy road ahead. She knew Tache wasn’t wrong. Dorian was… naïve. His idealism, his belief in people, was something precious—something she wished she still had. But he was walking into a world that would devour him whole.

Tache spoke again, softer this time.

"And you know…" He hesitated, then sighed. "We don’t talk about her. But that kid reminds me of Jess."

Selyse stopped walking.

Her arms tightened around her chest.

Tache’s jaw tensed slightly, as if regretting saying the name out loud.

But before he could take it back, Selyse turned—and without a word, she wrapped her arms around him.

Tache stiffened, startled—then exhaled, his arms coming up to hug her back.

"That’s enough," she murmured. "No need to open old wounds again."

A single tear rolled down his cheek, hidden by her shoulder.

He didn’t respond.

He just held on.