Lor watched her go, the bread forgotten in his hand, his eyes narrowing as a chill crept up his spine.
"What the hell is she up to now?" he muttered, his voice low, a mix of curiosity and unease tightening his chest.
Lor dropped a silver coin onto the tavern table, the clink muffled by the hum of conversation around him.
He rose, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.
His mind gnawed at him, Ath’s image burning bright—her axe slung across her shoulder, her purposeful stride into the forest, the cold precision in her movents.
It wasn’t unusual for townsfolk to gather firewood, but Ath?
The girl who moved like an ice statue, who spoke in clipped syllables and sold vegetables?
Her stride had been different—driven, purposeful, like a blade aid at a target.
Lor licked his lips, a spark of curiosity igniting in his chest. "If she’s up to sothing, I need to see it."
The cobbled streets gave way to dirt, then to a narrow path frad by towering pines, their needles carpeting the ground in a soft hush.
The air was cool here, damp with the scent of moss and resin, the sunlight filtering through the branches in slanted beams.
Lor kept his distance, his boots careful on the uneven ground, his movents silent as he trailed Ath.
She moved steadily ahead, her blonde braid bouncing lightly against her back, the axe glinting as it caught shards of sunlight, a stark contrast to her plain gray dress.
She reached a clearing not far into the forest, where ancient trees stood thick and heavy, their trunks gnarled with age.
Without hesitation, Ath set her palm against one.
A faint hiss echoed as frost blood where her skin t bark, a perfect circle of ri spreading outward, crystalline and shimring.
She stepped back, gripped the axe with both hands, and swung.
The blade t frozen wood with a sharp crack, splinters spraying white as the blow sank deeper than should have been possible.
She swung again, her rhythm steady, arms firm, the sound echoing through the forest like a tolling bell.
Lor crouched low behind a cluster of ferns, his eyes narrowing as he watched.
She wasn’t cutting for kindling—these were proper logs, thick and straight, timber that could fetch a higher price than vegetables.
Smart, he thought, a grudging respect flickering in his chest.
Brutal, even.
But then the forest shifted, a subtle ripple that made Lor’s skin prickle.
Leaves rustled though the wind was still, branches creaked, and from the shadow between two leaning pines, a figure stepped out.
A man with rough hands, an apron tied around his waist, a cleaver strapped to his belt.
Behind him, another erged, then another, and a fourth.
Lor’s eyes widened as he recognized them—not bandits or rcenaries, but vegetable sellers from the market, their faces familiar from countless mornings haggling over cabbages and carrots.
"Evenin’, girl," the first called, his voice low and an, his bald head gleaming in the dappled light.
His arms were corded from years of lifting baskets, his smile crooked and unfriendly.
Ath paused mid-swing, her axe still buried in the frozen trunk.
Slowly, she set it down, the blade thudding softly against the ground, and turned her head.
Her icy-blue eyes t theirs without a flicker of surprise, her face as blank as polished marble, carved from sothing colder than her magic.
"You’ve been real busy, haven’t you?" another man sneered, spitting onto the dirt, his wiry fra tense with malice.
"Cart emptied in half the ti it takes the rest of us to sell a single sack of cabbages. Funny thing, that."
Ath didn’t answer, her expression unchanging, her silence a wall of ice that seed to infuriate them.
The bald man stepped closer, cracking his knuckles.
"See, we don’t like it when soone cheats. Market’s tight as it is. You pull tricks, we all starve. So—why don’t you tell us what you did, hm? Where’s the secret?"
Still, silence.
Ath’s lips didn’t twitch, her eyes didn’t waver, her body as still as the tree she’d been chopping.
Lor’s stomach tightened, his fists curling around the straps of his satchel.
He wanted to step in, to do sothing, but he forced himself still, his breath shallow.
Not yet.
He needed to see what they wanted, how far they’d push, what Ath would do.
One of the n—a wiry fellow with soot-black hair—lifted his hand, and a small orange fla blossod in his palm, dancing against the pine-dark air, its heat licking the shadows.
"Maybe she needs so encouragent," he said, his voice low, a cruel edge to his grin.
That drew a laugh from the others, a harsh, barking sound that echoed through the clearing.
But Lor noticed sothing else—these weren’t idiots.
They’d brought magic, steel, and numbers, their faces set with a grim determination that went beyond simple bullying.
They weren’t here to scare her.
They were here to break her.
The bald man’s grin widened, his crooked teeth flashing as he stepped closer, looming over Ath.
"Don’t talk, huh? Fine. We got other ways to make you speak."
His eyes raked her body with a hunger that made Lor’s teeth grind, a predatory gleam that turned his stomach. "Bet a little fun will loosen that tongue."
Another man barked a laugh, his cleaver glinting as he shifted it in his hand. "We’ll take turns. She’ll be begging to tell us her trick by the ti we’re done."
They closed in, their steps deliberate, their faces twisted with malice.
Ath didn’t flinch, didn’t lift her axe, didn’t even narrow her eyes.
She stood as still as the frozen tree, her face expressionless, her icy-blue gaze level and unyielding.
And that—the utter lack of fear, of rage, of anything—seed to enrage them more than words could have.
The bald man snarled, stepping right into her space, his hand shooting out to grab her braid, yanking her head back with a sharp tug.
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