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“Is someone else eager to taste steel?!”

The howling blizzard screen stood against sound in the same way a rampart stood against spears, yet the cloaked man sent the message through clearly enough. Three raptors lay dead at his feet, none of them attaining anything but irritating the man chosen to be their prey.

No longer maddened by the supernatural aura of a wyrm, the remaining raptors decided to heed their instinct and turned tail, whatever desire to keep harassing the man drained, vanishing beyond Marek’s sight without so much as issuing hisses that ultimately were drowned out by the blizzard.

Marek dropped his intimidating stance but refused to sheath his sword. He would lie if he considered the most recent skirmish only a hassle. By claiming the lives of more ersatzverns by Dalavut’s edge, Marek managed to mend the injuries sustained during his fight against the undead hordes.

Once recovered from his former traumas and knowing the theropods would not keep harassing him for the hours to come, Marek walked past the dissected animal carcasses, penetrating further into the curtain of arctic death.

With the blazing sphere long gone and a roaring gale threatening to create sleet on his eyes, Marek’s normally acute eyesight could not perceive what lay beyond five or six yards in front, a distance that showed hints of shrinking even more.

One misstep and Marek could end up plunging into a slippery precipice.

And to worsen his circumstances further, the nicks caused by the ghouls poked and tore segments of clothes, and now the wintry environment jabbed the unprotected spots as if it were a cold needle.

I should have brought a sewing kit.

The march continued for other agonizing minutes, and Marek’s mind began to be flooded by spiritless thoughts. What if he got lost? What if another fit found him in such a vulnerable moment? He could suffer from a badly-timed stroke, and a predator could seize the instant to gash his throat. Or worse: no enemy would find him, and hypothermia would get him dead before he could run into a shelter.

No. No way in hell. I could not perish in a rather deplorable manner. He protested mentally.

If only Marek counted with an artifact that allowed him to pierce through the dense darkness.

Oh, he had something better — not an item, but a living partner, one who had not only given him guidance but also tender company.

Get over it, Blakesley. You had your personal guide and screwed it over when you revived a leech. Marek gritted his teeth as he innerly self-reproached. You lied and almost killed her. She had every right to leave you for dead—

Marek stumbled, and his self-reproach came to an end, plunging directly to the ground. It was a trifling blunder, and he even prevented digging his face into the snow, yet the event came like a slap that busted the last of the warrior’s nerves, the sole soldier that had kept his head cold and bereft of unfruitful emotions.

His composure hit the limit, and Marek snapped.

“I— fucking— loathe— this— ice cube of a place! ” Despite the intensity of the bellow, the present blizzard stood strong and muted the raging uproar. “I loathe chickens!” With one fist, Marek smacked the frozen ground. “I loathe wolves!” His strikes splashed snow around. “I loathe zombies!” The constant bangs bored a hole into the ground. “And I loathe this bloody snow! ”

The infuriated human unleashed one last punch, beginning to pant a moment afterward. He shut his eyes tight, gathering all his will to compose himself, a task that took him many breath cycles.

What did you expect? Beach and fruit drinks? This is the Arctic. Snow is the order of the day.

Only when Marek picked himself up could he notice what he had tripped over: a crater. He was about to leave that sour fit of his behind, but a more detailed examination showed Marek that the pit was a footmark — one with a diameter that grazed the three yards, if not bigger. The cavity was carved several days ago, and the constant flurry almost hid its existence, but there was no doubt it was an animal footprint.

Only one ‘animal’ was capable of remolding the landscape in this way.

Marek’s eyes drifted across his surroundings, spotting objects protruding above the wintry sea. Wrecked wood, Marek concluded — remnants of a catastrophe that stormed in that very place.

The fighter tensed, and he licked his numb lips, taking his free hand to the silvery ax that hung on his waist and securing the grip on his sword. He moved across the rubble, watchful despite the gelid winds’ unrelenting endeavors to turn his eyes into crystalline orbs.

From the sidelines, he witnessed the ruination: crushed shacks, sundered barns, and demolished wooden ramparts. Structures made to repel wild fauna crumbled against the onslaught of a titanic lizard as if they were a row of toothpicks and mounds of pebbles.

Not even Marek’s explosive rifle could cause this much rampage.

The hailstorm lessened, or it looked like it. In reality, the curtain of speeding air was blocked by a wyrm-made building made of steel-hard ice. Awe seized the fighter’s mind, his hands trailing the side of what Marek would call a glacier-sculpted porcupine of dozens of feet at its tallest and twice that number in length, with spikes so durable and extended that they could make a fine orcish greatsword.

Eventually, Marek found the exact location where the gelid cone spawned — where the thorny flower sprouted. Gloved fingers slid through to the inception of the ice structure that, unlike the rest of the unnatural glacier, was smooth and glassy.

The gawking came to a sudden stop when Marek detected a silhouette inside the translucent block. This was not the first time the adventurer testified a victim’s frozen corpse inside one of the dragon-made hunks; however, the unlucky citizens of Grætøh took the wintry blast indirectly, whereas the frostbitten human in front of his eyes took the full blow of the tempest.

The person encased in rigid tragedy has his skin abraded, like the sand of the desert dissolved the rocky pillars, with the clothes, flesh, and even a few organs torn out of his bones. That individual, whose gender could no longer be discerned, died before feeling the stabbing sensation of bitterness.

Marek recoiled with a gasp, aghast at his discovery. He gulped, and his lower lip shivered. Did he willingly seek the dragon? Was he so deluded as to believe he could stand against such a living disaster?

It is almost like you are seeking death.

You are a death seeker!

A wheeze rose from Marek’s dry throat — a wheeze that transformed into chuckles. “You are fucking stupid, Blakesley… You, defeating a wyrm?” The chortle continued. “You couldn’t even defeat this weather. You couldn’t even defeat a warg on your own!”

The grim reality struck Marek, and his half-hearted laugh did little to tone it down. Hilarity could no longer conceal his vulnerability. The only individual who diminished his sense of impending doom was no longer at his side.

You did more than give me company, Sig.

When his spontaneous peak of fear decreased and vanished, Marek walked toward a broken shack, one that would shelter his battered body from the harsh weather. The entrance, along half of the wooden building, lay destroyed, barely keeping the freezing winds at bay, but it was the best he could find.

With such fierce gales, sparking a fire was an impossible deed, and, to pour salt to the wound, unfortunate circumstances made Marek relinquish the leftovers of his earlier meal. There was not going to be dinner that cold night.

Upon tossing his device onto a wall and sitting in a corner, one last task needed to be fulfilled: setting the warning sign for potential attackers. In a swift move, he impaled Dalavut on the timbered and broken floor.

Oak-toned eyes collided with the sunken eyes devoid of life engraved on the sword’s guard. Marek snarled at the cursed metal and murmured: “Next thing I’m doing after ending this absurd journey is to get rid of you. ” Naturally, no response came from the accursed blade, which only emitted that dreary twinkle.

After his one-sided exchange with an inanimate weapon, Marek curled and wrapped himself up inside his cloak; at least he could take solace in his monstrous garment protecting him against the icy temperatures.

The minutes went by, a period during which Marek contended against the environment to get the so coveted rest he needed to survive another day. He won, at least for the night, his torpid eyelids shutting down for the remainder of the night.

He could only hope to lift his eyelids open again.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

Everything was painted red.

The paved streets. The buildings. The deceased Il Compasso members. The enemy.

Whether the red was on account of the berserk-like ire burning in his guts or because of the blood that cascaded down his twisted visage was something that Marek could not tell or care.

The militants’ throats were sliced, and their hearts gorged, a trivial feat by dint of battle-hardened reflexes and a certain onyx- and scarlet-colored sword.

In no time, the coal-haired youth lost himself to the bane of the accursed item, giving himself wholly to the thrill of violence. He could no longer recognize faces nor acknowledge the trauma that was increasingly spreading across his body.

The young warrior bellowed like a beast, booming outcries that drowned out the chirping noises of allies and enemies alike.

Cheating gave the ambushers the upper hand. Cowards, all of them, relying on distance and speeding missiles and magical blasts, too far to be afraid of his weapons’ severing edges.

Someone harassed the enraged man, someone who tried to call him off with a buzzing babble.

Someone at the reach of one stride.

Finally, an adversary who used his presence in battle, although not so much his head.

The man rushed toward the target, galloping like a warhorse whose rider was Seolvor’s champion. As expected, the distance was a trivial obstacle, and after a couple of footsteps, Marek found himself at blade length from the enemy, a bearded guy wrapped in a cloak. What a stroke of luck! An oblivious wizard broke ranks and was stupid enough to drop to the streets.

A fatal mistake. A last mistake.

The point of his weapon speared unerringly at the target’s heart, both flesh and ribs opposing resistance in the same way a fresh bread would resist a meat cleaver. A resilient garment diverted the attacking thrust, but no miracle manifested — the target would not survive.

Marek stared at the dying foe, the swordsman baring his stretched fangs, flaring through his nostrils. The soon-to-be-dead man uttered some words that Marek failed to comprehend.

The wizard lifted his head, causing the hood of his head to fall to the nape. And for the first time since his sword bit the iron-savored liquid in that clash, the berserker could recognize a face.

He recognized the baldness. The thorny-like beard with gray roots. And the strict face of his mentor.

Uncontrollable anger was replaced by bewilderment that, sooner than later, was replaced by a panic so intense that it nearly made the young man’s legs crumble on the spot.

The cloaked man — the wizard — was Aurelio.

And he just killed him.

Lips trembled as Marek held the moribund form of his master, trying to come up with words. But no word could convey how much he lamented his previous attack.

The elderly man wheezed some words, but with his mind whirling wild, the young fighter could not conceive their meaning.

There was the indistinguishable sound of boots stomping on paved soil, and Marek twirled at the source. It was an enemy soldier, a real one this time. The soldier wielded an enchanted weapon, a sizable one, and swung it downward at the duo.

With Dalavut still sheathed on the body of his master, Marek had no choice but to use Iousterard, praying to Seolvor that he could parry such a heavy strike.

The gleaming, keen edge of the silver ax collided against the hefty blade of what Marek identified as a claymore.

A loud crank spawned from the crash of both pieces of magical metal, followed by a dry clatter. Not only did Iousterard block the plunging claymore, but it also split it into two pieces.

The contained shattered, and the condensed magic spread with a ringing radiance. The light engulfed the unfortunate soldier first and then went for the student-master duo, who could only witness how the arcane discharge expanded to swallow them both.

And after the blinding flash that rocked Marek’s world, silent darkness followed.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

Marek jolted awake and shouted a broken gasp.

Layers of frost covered all his clothes, from cloak hood to his boots, stiffening the long fabric and making it crunch with his alarmed motions.

He had that old, wicked dream. No, it had been no dream but a memory. A mental evocation that he had overcome years ago.

Or so he thought.

Disoriented, Marek was stripped of the cognitive capability to tell apart reality from dream, and as a consequence, his agitated eyes darted around in search of any imaginable enemy, be it a human soldier, an arctic beast, or a rotten undead, all while frantically panting.

His eyes widened the instant they detected a cervid skull forged on black metal — the embellishment of that infernal longsword. The instrument that reaped Aurelio’s life.

Marek’s face warped into a hateful snarl, his pupils even shrinking in an animal manner. He threw a kick, and the blade was unrooted from the wooden floor, the force flinging it to the corner of that wasted abode.

The weapon crashed and fell, echoing with a couple of plunks. Had Marek not been possessed by distress, he would have discerned that the blizzard had disappeared.

But the fighter’s mind remained in dismay in light of his atrocious nightmare, and the state of the weather passed unnoticed. His breath was fast, to the point that the fog in front would blur the sight of his face if it came from someone in front.

The irregular respiration continued for another minute, after which Marek tried to shake off his distress by swiping his face. When that did not immediately work, both hands took the border of his hood and pulled it over his forehead and eyes. Then, he groaned in exasperation.

I got over that episode of my life. Why does it come back to bite me at the most inopportune time?!

During the next five minutes, Marek strained to hold himself together before keeping up with his hazardous journey. He breathed in and out and tapped the back of his head against the wall behind, eyes squeezed shut, and his hands rested on both knees.

One last lungful sigh and the warrior opened his eyes, rising to his feet with no reluctance at all and shaking the snow stuck on his garments. One swift quake, and his cloak and clothes beneath crackled, once again free from the rigidness of the ice.

Marek lowered his gaze to the blade he had kicked minutes ago. He frowned at the sight; he might have pulled himself together from the shock of his awful dream, but his contempt against the sword had not subsided.

But no matter how much disdain he had for the accursed sword, that did not make him hesitate when he reached its handle and clothed it with its respective scabbard.

Another day in this frozen hell.

The man stared outside the shack, witnessing the work of destruction caused by the flying disaster, now masked by a layer of white sea with snowflakes spinning around. It was early in the morning, and the first beams of radiance pierced through the clouds to make the landscape glow.

A vibrating rumble broke Marek from his contemplation, and he remembered that his stomach had not been stocked with nourishments the previous dusk. He walked past the shattered opening and began to draw Iousterard from its sheath, getting up for another harsh day of surviving.

Notwithstanding, something caught his attention from his sideline, a vivid color that stood out amidst the colorless scenery. It had grayish-brown tones, with scarlet painting a section of the form.

Marek knotted his brows together and calmly veered in the direction of the odd figure that, once close enough, could be identified as the bloodied carcass of a reindeer.

Did a pack of predators hunt a reindeer and decide not to devour it? Or perhaps this unfortunate ungulate survived an encounter with its stalkers only to perish because of the wounds it had sustained? None of these answers seemed likely — the animal lacked the typical violent clues of being beset by animalistic gnashers; in fact, there were no hints of struggle on behalf of the reindeer.

It was like the animal got ambushed and briskly annihilated, and everything it took to do so was to draw a clean gash across the furry neck.

“Hey…”

A song-like voice chided around, making Marek raise his gaze from the cadaver to the surroundings with a skip. He saw nothing on ground level, so he lifted his sight even further to the snow-clogged treetops.

Having passed ten or so seconds without Marek spotting the source of the voice, another sound carrying the same tone echoed. “Behind the house to your right.”

The directions were not clear at all, but the sound emitted was enough to draw Marek’s eyes to the speaker’s location.

And there she was: canine feet hanging from a branch, tail draping and faintly swinging because of the soft wind, and beaky face, half turned in his way while frontal body pointed at the woods, shining with splendid mirror eyes.

Her natural coat blended exquisitely with the pines' crows, making the task of telling apart where her body ended and the snow began a puzzle. The only elements that could give away her exact location were the radiance of her eyes and the dull brown hue of her toe beans and some feathers.

Any trace of gashes and scorches produced two nights ago was no longer apparent, at least not from the distance the man stood.

The mere remembrance of Marek rendering that beautiful snow-white coat made his commissures curl into a low snarl.

“Sigrid…” the man vocalized. What is she doing here? There’s no way she already forgot about our flare-up.

In a snappy motion and without twisting her neck or gazing away from the human beneath, Sigrid hiked both legs and rotated on her near, bringing her front to match her head. Then, she let herself drop to the snow, landing on four limbs and generating a hushed rustle.

“How did you find me?” Marek flatly stated, voice carrying a spick of disgust, albeit not one aimed at Sigrid.

“I got used to your scent of mixed blood.” The she-monster moved forward, rising to her bipedal stance. “Then I found dead raptors, whose injuries were unmistakably carved by a particular sharp metal. After that, it was not hard to deduce your hideout.”

“That’s how. But why? What happened with your search for the vampire?”

An owlhead shook tardily. “No luck. I thought it would be easier to find the creature if I were at your side.”

“Really?” Marek said, barely keeping his cynicism to himself. “Joining back that easily? Did you forget our dispute?”

The she-monster faltered upon reaching one wingspan away from the human, whose bitterness was evidently increasing. “No… I’ve not forgotten about our disagreement.” Sigrid narrowed her eyes, and a faint growl arose from her throat. “You were excessively roode, and a fox-like liar at that.” Marek wrinkled at the monstress’ venting. “And I also think you’re woefully attached to the nasty sword. Pathetically so. On top of that, you are a stoopid and rash hooman who doesn’t listen to common sense.”

A humorless chuckle resounded. “I take it you returned to me only to slur —”

“Shush,” Sigrid barked. “Doommy up while I chirp.”

Indignant, Marek twitched his upper lip; despite everything, he refused to offer a protest and suppressed his displeasure with a jaw wiggle.

After spitting up those words of weight, Sigrid took a brief pause, after which she emitted a feeble whistle, relaxing her ears and letting her sight stray slightly. “But… I understand. All foolishness considered, I comprehend the hole you are in.” Marek’s grumpy mien untwisted a little bit, and one brow imperceptibly rose. “You’re dying and desperate. As doomb as facing Hissing Wing is, its blood is essential for your survival,” she focused on Marek once again. “You need help. My help. Possibly more than ever. It would be unjust of me to leave you alone with your life-and-death struggle.”

Marek’s petulant look faltered, reverting to its stoic standard. The girl afore, as beastly as she was on the exterior, intended to throw aside his previous failures — his deceptions and death-leading carelessness — on behalf of his well-being.

She was too goodhearted for this harsh and voracious environment.

Given the closeness of what Sigrid stood, the fighter confirmed that the sequels of that grim night practically faded. The scar near her breast was no longer a mark of violence but a region stripped of fur, and the carbonized remiges were likewise gone, leaving only subtle blanks on her row of splendid quills.

Any evidence of her clash against the ghouls was nearly undone — but only on the surface; Marek had not forgotten nor forgiven the consequences of his moronic mistakes.

When the cloaked human saw her, he saw the bloodstained fur and the blackened plumage, which retroactively evoked other grim memories, like the aflame warehouse — and the sword piercing Aurelio’s chest.

Sigrid was too good-hearted, and he would not allow that gleam of virtuousness to be wasted on him.

Marek bit his inner lip and murmured. “How childish you are, Sig.” At such words, Sigrid tilted her head backward. “Can’t you fathom the severity of the current circumstances? I lied to you about my goals and put you at the forefront of a search for your greatest nightmare, brought an undead freak to your home, and almost killed you. And are you telling me you’re letting it go?”

“Y-yes— I mean, Yes, of course! Didn’t I make myself clear enough?” Sigrid barked back, now adding her own pinch of irritation into the flames. “Or perhaps the lack of sleep has dwindled those sharp senses you brag so much about?”

“My senses are attuned like never they had been,” the man disgruntledly remarked, one of his darkened eyelids twitching, ironically betraying his sleeplessness. “Your common sense is the only thing dwindling here, you featherhead! ”

The low, throaty growls evolved into a caw that escaped Sigrid’s beak. “‘Featherhead’?! I came here offering you my talon, and your response is insulting?! Forgot about being roode: you are straight out vulgar and unkind!”

“First, it was you who began the derogatory chirrup. Second, duh! Sure it took you long to realize I’m a complete douchebag who almost turned you into a burnt rug.”

Sigrid menacingly leaned forward. “Oh, my chirrup has not concluded. I’m used to the Marc who is a jerk, hasty, and ridiculously dependent on a fooking piece of metal!” Marek’s brows jumped at Sigrid’s first-ever half-swear. “But not this whimpering hooman who is only dedicated to licking his wounds, like a fox hunter bit by a hare!”

“W-whimpering?! Oblivious piper! Don’t you see I—”

“ Shush! ” A glass-shattering shriek overwhelmed any potential protest generated by the human. “What happened to that man on the highlands? The man who had found himself surrounded by dozens of wolves and a pack of vicious wargs. Two times, he got beset by hungry gnashers, and not once did he whine about it. No! Gruhulla and his pack growled, and he growled back!” Sigrid moved her arms to her chest, one hand squeezing the other. “What happened to that brave man!”

Marek clenched his teeth, not so much out of irritation but also because Sigrid’s speech carried some truthfulness. “That man… that man thought he only had to worry about himself! That all the mistakes he committed would only manifest as a wound across his body. Then, you showed up,” Marek scrunched up his eyes, pain swelling inside them. “I ignored you, and your life hung from a thread because of my stupidity.”

“But— But that is the past!” The owl-wolfess rebuked, her head shaking. Afterward, she spread her arms and wings. “Look at me! I’m fine! It was only one blunder. I overcame that misadventure. Why can’t you?!”

“B-because— I cannot get myself to fail—”

“So, it is that? Your doomb pride? Does Marek Blakesley think he is better than everyone else when alone?! And I am supposed to be the childish one?!”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Sig!”

“Then why?! Why do you want me off your deadly trip?!”

“Because it was not the first time it happened! People had died because of me, and I don’t want you to be next on the list!” Whatever admonishment Sigrid had prepared for the stubborn man froze on her throat, and her rigid posture untensed.

Marek took a beat to breathe in and spoke: “I-I’m not alone because I choose to, Sig… I’m alone because everyone else who was minimally dear to me scattered away or died,” Marek pinched the bridge of his nose. “In my youth, when I was even stupider, I committed several mistakes that ended up harming my comrades. Injuries. Loss of assets. Meaningless crap like that. Then, when I thought I left my novicehood behind, I erred catastrophically, and one… one very dear to me died.”

“Marc…”

“Now, despite my age. Despite my combat prowess… Nothing has changed. I’m still the same selfish prick prone to pull up those life-threatening failures…”

Following his confession, Marek lowered his gaze to where the dead ungulate rested. The she-monster had no words to appease the war-hardened man in front, and her stare went stray for a while. How to console a scarred by conflict, with several deaths on his back?

“I… I cannot understand why you want to stay at my side. You may have little loved ones, perhaps only one, but my friendship isn’t worth it to balance out your lack of friends.”

Sigrid’s pearlescent, azure eyes fell over the man. “You are more than a friend to me, Marc,” the fighter scoffed and murmured under his breath. “You are my hero. ”

Clinker-colored eyes shifted from the carcass to the avian girl. “I was supposed to defeat Gruhulla and his pack, but they were too much for me. As a result, their fangs surrounded me, with my tail against a pine. My demise would mean the success of Gruhulla’s quest for conquest. The citizens of the Frostscape, including Imbi and even Ankarl, would get within each of the wargs’ vicious jaws.

“But then you appeared: my savior. Brandishing a shining ax and an ugly sword, wearing the hide of those who hate me, you stood against my enemies.” Marek said nothing; however, Sigrid’s talk about his supposed heroic deeds stopped his spirit from declining even more. “And you had no obligation to kill them. The Frostscape is not your home, nor were the wargs a direct threat to you. Yet you willingly accepted the last will of an elderly warrior when no bounty was at stake. Meanwhile, I, well…” Some chiding giggles escaped from Sigrid, and Marek showed a growing curious grimace. “I nearly left you for death.”

Marek’s eyebrows arched high for a mere instant.

“Since then,” Sigrid discarded her weak sense of humor and continued, “my respect and adulation of you only grew… despite your roodeness and stubbornness.” Yeah, yeah. I got it. Marek’s orbs almost rolled back; there had been too many insults directed at him today, but he could no longer bring himself to feel angry. “You misstepped, and a vampear awakened? I didn’t even know what lay in that forest to begin with! You zapped a blazing arrow and hurt me badly? The vampear and the ghools would have disemboweled me without your intervention. You saved me again!”

“But I caused their rise to begin—”

“Shush. Shush. Shush. No more self-blame. I’m lively and soundy. Stop whimpering, Marek Blakesley. And stop with the lone wolf mask: you are stronger than everyone I’ve heard of, and you may find Hissing Wing on your own, but can you reach the Icing Boundary in one piece? I mean, look at yourself! I found you sleeping, approached to make sure you were alive, got out of the shack, and you did not even notice me!”

“A—!” Marek stifled a squeal. Did Sigrid do all that… and he didn’t even stir in his sleep?

“That’s why I returned. I cannot leave someone dear to me alone, defenseless against the freezing environment, and with a cold one eager to cleave his throat.” Sigrid clutched her arms, and her eyes, now half-lidded, wandered away from his friend. “I do not want my hero to die… I don’t want another of my friends to die again… Not if I can do something.”

“Sigrid…”

No other words were vocalized during a one-minute-long pregnant pause; Marek surveyed the monstress in front while Sigrid’s irises lingered around, only focusing on the human warrior for a few instants before wandering off again.

The wheels’ of Marek’s mind went into motion. What should I say? My debacles were many, yet Sigrid dismissed them like a piece of copper. She knows my nearly-suicidal goal, my crappy personality, and my many weaknesses, and still want to give me company in my adventure. Do I really mean much to her? As Marek thought, he could notice the owl-wolfess tensing and her ears dropping low. Darn it! My lack of response generates more distress in her. I already hurt her enough. Come on, Marek, say something!

“I-I can…” a stammering voice broke the uncomfortable silence, and Sigrid’s gaze landed on the man in front, this time steady and with no intention of breaking eye contact. “I can… I can’t believe you described me as some kind of knight who came out from a fairytale,” Was that the best you could vocalize, you eminent jerk?! “As I said, you were the childish one all along.”

Silvery eyes blinked in bafflement. Afterward, the sense of confusion shrank as another one, a little more hostile, began to sprout. The wolfish mane around the neck bristled, and the lovely irises dilated. “You… You stoopid fool!”

Due to the emotion-wearing chatter, Marek’s normally acute reflexes failed him that instant, and a snow-white, feathery appendage struck one of his cheeks with enough strength to make him teeter one yard behind. “That’s all you have to say!” Surprising, isn’t it? I thought exactly the same thing. “I struggled to say why I admire you, all your roodeness considered, and your only response is more roodeness?!”

“I must confess, Sig,” Marek said, one hand rubbing his aching cheek, “Conveying emotions is not my forte. Really, I was a mercenary, not an orator. That was the best I could respond with.”

“Well, you do not try hard enough!” Another wing swung in his direction, but at that moment, he got to duck.

“Wow, wow. That I’m bad at touchy matters doesn’t mean I didn’t learn my lesson!”

“Deceit! Marek Blakesley’s thick skull can only grasp lessons through the use of violence! ”

“N-no. No. No need for that. I-I swear,” gloved hands were hustled into the air in self-defense. “I’m a jerk, pathetic, can’t survive crap on my own, and I whimper a lot.”

“You will whimper even more when I get to fan your foul head!” Sigrid dashed forward, showing more seriousness in this unnecessary fit than in their prior quarrel.

This time was also one-sided, as Marek had the least of intentions to perform an offensive comeback. Alright, I may deserve this. She will just land a couple of hits, and then she’ll revert to her jolly and innocent self. Just hope she doesn’t end up tearing my face.

Marek’s arms hiked and crossed in front of his upper body, clenching his teeth in anticipation, ready to withstand the incoming beating. However, before Sigrid had the chance to unleash a springing attack with her wings, a low, muffled roar interrupted the not-so-fair battle.

The noise came from Marek’s insides.

Marek looked to where the sound originated, then shifted his sight back at the she-chimera, whose eyes were directly staring at his, both squinted and burning with annoyance.

“Aaand I’m hungry. Not a fair battle when the opponent has an empty stomach, if you ask me,” Marek got to utter.

“I did not intend this battle to be fair.” Marek could feel a dash of Howling Talon riding that hiss, and the ball of his throat bobbed imperceptibly. Nevertheless, some part of his core, he wanted to crack a grin. Somehow, he felt a flicker of joy.

Sigrid closed her eyes and issued a tired whistle, abandoning her aggressive posture shortly afterward. Not two seconds passed, and Marek also dropped his defensive stance.

“Well… there you have it,” she pointed at the reindeer with one wing. “Food. To both of us.”

“S-sure. I’ll need to collect—”

“There are some goods that would burn very well at the shack over there,” once again, she pointed at the mentioned element with a wing. “I collected them during your deep rest.”

“I t— thank you, Sig. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Me neither.”

A hand rose and scratched Marek’s jaw. Man, not even in one of Gebaten’s most remote places, can one escape a woman’s ire.

Sigrid swiveled and stomped her way back to the hut where Marek passed the night, fluffy tail lashing the air. “Well, you know where the wood and the meat are. Hurry up, I fancy some cooked reindeer. I’ll be waiting at the shack.”

“Understood.”

Right before Sigrid disappeared behind the shack, she yelled one last time. “And for whom it may concern… this time I did use my beak!”

Once Sigrid’s silhouette disappeared behind the wooden wall, Marek exhaled heavily. “She hates me more than ever now… I should’ve chosen my words more carefully.”

The man’s eyes adjusted toward the cadaver of the deer. Well, that’s how it is. Marek stooped low and grasped at the animal’s rigid legs and subsequently began to drag the body to the house where Sigrid lay.

Against her partner’s display of bad temper and aggressiveness, Marek performed the task of preparing the food with a minuscule smirk traced on his face and with feeble radiance warming his heart.

Welcome back, Sig. You had no idea how bearable this place is with you around.