Afi bought another book for Sylvia to read. This time, it was an instruction manual on the repair of clothes and blankets. The book detailed different stitches and even explained how to darn a sock. While it fascinated Sylvia, it bought Afi little joy. Sylvia told him a few stories from memory instead. She told him the tale of the girl that grew up among wild horses, and the story of the bird that granted wishes to those pure of heart. According to the story, only children qualified.

Afi kept training Sylvia in the yard every evening. She did not have much to show for it, but she was at least fattening up a little, so she did not complain. The exercise made it a lot easier to sleep and eat properly, and while the lack of progress was frustrating, Afi proved a patient teacher. He was persistent, but not unkind. The focused practice also gave them both a reprieve from their worries and fears.

Sylvia made sure to cook hearty meals for the both of them every day. Thick soups, plenty of buttered roots, and dried meat with beans and bread. When she served stewed bitterleaf, Afi wrinkled his nose, but after chewing the first mouthful, he ate as enthusiastically as ever. Sylvia found his liberal attitude to cutlery rather charming. It certainly did not set the bar very high for her own table manners. Only when Björn came calling, did she stiffen up. She was hardly disappointed that Björn did not repeat his offer for her to sit at the table. She simply stood silently in the far end of the kitchen and bid her time. Once the Wolf was gone, she made sure to clear the table at once and remove any traces of the unpleasant visit.

This morning, Sylvia made her way to the market with a few coins and a basket. She aimed to buy some more greens and perhaps a piece of meat for dinner. She felt at ease traversing the streets of Surtearv on her own. Rumours spread just as quickly among Wolves as they did in Nyberg. Afi’s aggression toward the tradesman, who had dared to touch Sylvia, had the desired effect. Some Wolves even apologised if they bumped into Sylvia on accident in the crowded market.

Gathering handfuls of turnips into her basket, Sylvia kept count in her head to make sure she could afford the amount, and would have enough left to go to the butcher. As she dropped ten copper into the merchant’s hand, a shrill metallic chime rang through the air. Startled, Sylvia nearly dropped her basket. She peered up at the watchtower. The bells rang insistently. In the space of a single breath, all of Surtearv was on its feet.

People ran in and out of houses, gathering up belongings and grabbing weapons. The merchant scrambled to cover his wares. Sylvia jumped aside to avoid a group of Wolves hurrying past on horseback. She swung around, observing the chaos erupting in the square.

“Fire! Fire!”, shouts echoed through the streets.

Sylvia looked up and saw balls of fire raining from the sky. Her eyes went wide in terror. Dropping the basket, she ran. She ran for her life. She darted through the alleys, dodging armed Wolves running in the opposite direction. The flaming projectiles landed all around them, breaking windows and setting roofs aflame. Screams rang in Sylvia’s ears, along with the frantic warning of the bells.

When she turned the last corner, and saw their house, the woven roof was already smoking dangerously. Running to the door, she found it locked. She dug in her pockets, but realised she had lost the coin purse and key in her hectic flight. Cursing aloud, she turned, looking down the street, but there was no sight of it. She must have lost it closer to the market. She yanked the door handle, but it would not budge. She banged her fist against the wood.

“Afi! Afi! Are you in there?! Afi!”

A deep rumble shook the ground under her feet and another shower of fire flew in from beyond the clay walls. Pressing herself against the stone facade, Sylvia narrowly avoided a ball of fire, which slammed into the cobbles at her feet and rolled away, leaving a trail of burning residue. Trying the door again, Sylvia found the metal handle warmer than before. She looked up and saw dark smoke billowing through the roof, saw flames licking along the edges.

“Afi!”, Sylvia screamed at the top of her lungs.

She ran around the house, peeking into the windows and finding nothing but black smoke and bright flame behind the glass. Shying back, she felt her chest constrict. A stinging pain shot through her. It was hard to breathe. The world blurred around the edges. She spun around, looking for something, anything. Her gaze fell on the small shed and the bale of hay. The brown horse was gone. There was no escape.

A loud crash boomed from the south, soon followed by the sound of many of hooves thundering across stone, of clashing metal and screams, both the kind that instilled confidence, and the kind that did the opposite.

Sylvia scanned her surroundings for a place to hide. Spotting the water troth, she ran to it. Turning it over and letting the water splash out, she scrambled underneath. The wet shelter should keep her safe from sword and fire alike. Or so she hoped.

Sylvia lay perfectly still while the battle raged on around her. Several unsettling noises reached her in the claustrophobic hiding place. Some were far off, like whispers in a nightmare. Others were close by and intimate, causing her entire body to tense painfully. She tried closing her eyes, but it only made the sounds all the more prominent. Opening them again, she tried to use them as a distraction instead. She focused on the slivers of light that crept in between the uneven cobbles and the wood. Touching the stones, she observed how the dim blue light changed the hue of her skin, how the shade cast between two fingers had a different colour than the rest of the shadows. When there was nothing more to discover in the play of light and shadow, Sylvia peered at the wood itself, running her fingers over the swirling patterns of the grain, and feeling the ridges that tools had left when the troth was built. The entire thing was made out of one thick trunk. Pine, if she was not mistaken. There was not a lot of pine growing in the area. It was a curious choice for something as simple as a water troth. Then again, most of the furniture in the house was also very curious and fine.

Sylvia jerked when another loud crash shook the ground. Eventually, the bells stopped ringing, but the screams continued to echo through the streets. Hours passed before the situation calmed. All the while, Sylvia lay on the damp ground, trying to distract herself with whatever sensation she could find.

The crackle of fire slowly faded, and the shouts became fewer and further in-between. When silence fell over the yard, Sylvia pressed her cheek against the ground in an attempt to peek through the space between wood and stone. She could only make out one or two cobbles past the troth. Pressed against the ground like this, she contemplated her options. She could not stay here forever. Surely, whoever had won the battle was already searching the city for survivors. She had to move, but she did not want to run into anyone. She could not even say which side scared her more, Wolves that were armed and ready to kill, or whoever would dare to attack a city of Wolves.

Slowly, Sylvia began counting to a hundred in her head. Every time she thought she heard a noise, she began anew. Eventually, she reached the number without interruption. Straining her ears, she waited just a little longer before finally pushing the heavy troth up and peeking out into the harsh light of day. She still could not hear a thing. Getting up on her hands and knees, she pushed the troth over, and it crashed against the stone. Sitting on her knees in the puddle, she took a moment to get used to the light, and then peered up at the house. Smoke still billowed from the roof. It was a shame. It was a good house, beautiful and spacious. Rubbing the dirt off her hands, Sylvia rose to her feet. The surrounding area did not look much better. Some houses stood while others had collapsed, but nothing was left intact.

The sound of running feet nearly caused Sylvia's heart leap out of her chest. Her head snapped to the side. Before she could even consider running, three armoured figures rounded the house. One arbalest and two swords were raised toward her. Throwing herself back on the ground, Sylvia draped her arms over her head in a vain attempt to protect herself

“It is just a little girl”, a deep voice said.

Sylvia heard one pair of heavy boots come closer. Hesitantly, she peered up at whoever had approached. One fair hand was held out for her and she took it, getting back on her feet. Sylvia nearly lost her footing again when she realised who it was that had helped her up.

“Yri Fri!”

Yri’s features really were as prominent as the stories said. Her skin was white like snow. Her eyes were light like honey. Her hair burned red like autumn leaves. Even with layers of thick leather and chainmail covering her body, the round of her chest and hips was evident. Hefting her arbalest over her shoulder, Yri smiled a sweet smile. “And who may you be? I take it you are not a Wolf.”

Remembering herself, Sylvia bowed her head. “Sylvia ElenaMarkus.”

“Sylvia”, Yri repeated. “What is a sweet young lady like yourself doing here?”

“I was taken here…” Sylvia paused. Was it weeks? A month already? She had not bothered to keep count. The days all blurred together between exercise and chores. She frowned. “… a while back.”

The expression on Yri’s face darkened. She tilted her head to the side and slowly raised a hand toward Sylvia, as if she were approaching a scared animal. When Sylvia did not retreat, she stroked her fingers over Sylvia's chin and cheek. She smiled again, but it was a pained smile. “Are you hurt?”, she asked softly.

Sylvia looked down over herself, realising how she must look, small and covered in dirt. She looked even smaller still in the large tunic, with the odd old belt around her waist. She was shaky and sore, but unharmed. She shook her head. “No. I think I am alright.”

“Good”, Yri nodded. “Come with me.” She placed a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder and urged the young woman into step beside herself. The two soldiers who had arrived with Yri sheathed their swords and followed behind.

Walking with the Fri leader, Sylvia eyed the devastation around them, the fires still smouldering in houses, and the bodies littering the streets. Side-stepping most of the red puddles, she soon found herself back in the main square of Surtearv, the market she had been in just a few hours ago. The stalls were torn down, and anything of value had been looted and stacked onto wagons by the foot of the tower. Soldiers were walking around, checking the pockets of the dead, and stripping bodies of valuables, including weapons and any metal armour. In the midst of all this, stood someone even more revered than Yri.

Sylvia had only ever seen Thorun from afar. When she was little, she would spy from the edge of the woods whenever the Fri made camp near Nyberg. Once, the deep brown eyes had spotted Sylvia among the trees, but Thorun had soon averted her gaze without as much as a frown or a smile. Sylvia suspected she was not the only one who had ever thought to steal a glance. After all, Thorun was an impressive sight. Just like her sister, she was more legend than woman.

Thorun was a lot shorter than Sylvia remembered, but she was of broad statue, and undeniably fierce. Her skin and hair were as dark as the night, and her armour shone in contrast. I was shimmering even now, despite the splatters of blood on it. From her belt hung her two trusty longswords. According to Ingemar, she used both in battle, wielding them as easily as an assassin their daggers. The most remarkable and infamous thing about Thorun, however, were not her swords nor her armour, but her face. The entire left side of Thorun’s head was marked by deep scars, which ran from her chin all the way up to across her scalp. She kept the left side of her head shaved, making no attempt to hide the disfigurement. In Sylvia's opinion, these marks of battle only made Thorun more beautiful, more majestic.

“I found something”, Yri called.

Thorun's eyes found Sylvia in the scene of blood and ash. It was a very different backdrop to their first meeting. Not that Sylvia expected the Fri leader would remember such a brief glance. Pushed forward another few steps by Yri, Sylvia stopped just in front of the stocky warrior.

Sylvia bowed her head. “Thorun Fri, it is an honour.”

Meeting Thorun's eyes up close, Sylvia noticed both of them were working just fine. They were dim, but not damaged. She had always thought Thorun would be blind on her left side. The split eyebrow and torn cheek were a good clue, but no, her actual eye was intact.

Thorun let her gaze wander over the dishevelled slender figure in front of her. “Where are you from?”

“Nyberg”, Sylvia answered curtly.

Thorun nodded in understanding. “I am sorry.”

Sylvia merely nodded back. There was little more to be said.

“A horse will settle my debt”, Thorun determined. “Go where you wish, but be careful. Not many survive the Wolves once, not to mention twice.”

Sylvia contemplated the offer. A horse would help. She knew where the mountain was from here. She could probably get some supplies. The roads were bound to be moderately safe for the time being. She could make it all the way home. But what would she do once she arrived? Take over the farm? Her and what family? And Rebecca was gone. What was the point? No, her previous plan was much more sensible. Her goal was Fristad. It had to be.

Looking down at Thorun, she requested, “Please, if I may request it, would you have me among yours?”

“Of what use might you be?”

The question was asked without spite or judgement. Sylvia doubted she would be refused if she said nothing at all, but she knew her answer would determine her share of meals and goods. It was common sense. If you could not provide irrigation, you had to eat bitterleaf, rather than grain. If you could not help the caravan progress, you could not expect the same share of bread. Such was the turning of the world.

“I can read and write. My father was a scribe.”

Thorun’s eyebrows raised at that. “What is your name?”, she asked.

“Sylvia ElenaMarkus.”

“Sylvia”, Thorun repeated. “Elena and Markus. She was clever, and he was a good man. Not to mention, he was a quick hand at writing. Very well, you may share our name, Sylvia Fri. I expect you to make yourself useful.”

“Thank you. I am honoured”, Sylvia said sincerely.

“Speak to Aimo. Have him give you a horse. We leave before noon”, Thorun ordered.

Yri smiled at Sylvia while leading her away. “A scribe? That is impressive. I am sure you are going to do great.” Pointing toward the south, she added, “Out the gate. Aimo has a walking cane. You cannot miss him.”