Yamasu had always been a small, tight-knit village since its foundation.
Being the coldest place in the northern region, the villagers spent most of their time indoors, sheltering themselves from the frigid weather. Winter seasons were always the harshest, lasting up to five months.
Luckily, most of the villagers were natives to the area and were accustomed to the cold, preparing accordingly during the warmer months. Provisions and supplies were gathered to last them up to seven months indoors, and the men ensured they built sturdier huts so that when the seasonal storms hit, their homes would not be blown away. Since children were more prone to illness, they were bundled tightly in coats made of thick animal skins and ordered to stay inside indefinitely.
To curb the boredom that came with isolation, the mothers would often tell them tales of heroes from times of old and their adventures. A favorite story was about a leader who wished only for daughters but was fated to have a son. One of his wives, carrying his child, feared his wrath but was aided by a goddess, and the boy was later born clutching an axe, a magical bag, a magic rope, and a magic conga scepter. The leader, unsurprisingly furious to have a son, tried to kill him, but no matter what he did, the boy survived. With the help of the goddess, the boy was told that one day he would avenge himself against his father. Even as a child, he waged war against him.
Though the tale fascinated the children, the stories they loved most were the legends of powerful deities from the East. They were amazed to hear that there was a place in the world where snow never fell, where it was always warm, and where people walked outside without fear of illness.
Such a wonderful and magical place seemed impossible to imagine. They listened intently as their mothers spoke of special humans who shared the same blood as the gods—beings blessed by the power of the sun, large and terrifying figures who could lift mountains with their bare hands. They were revered by all, and what set them apart from regular humans was the color of their eyes, resembling molten gold with the ability to see into a mortal's soul.
It was said that these beings were wise and kind, but when angered, they could become monsters. It was important never to offend them if one wished to avoid their wrath.
So it was no surprise that Kishar's men were unwilling to fight this mysterious man, even if he was not like the half-bloods in the legends. It was simply not worth the risk, and Kishar understood that. With a heavy sigh, he spoke to his men.
"We will not engage in battle with this man. I simply wish to meet him and learn why he has chosen to roam our lands."
"Do you think he'll be willing to meet those demands?" Yuri asked. "After his first run-in with Bukara and the others, I don't think he'll be too keen on speaking with us."
Kishar let out a low chuckle, making Bukara tense at the sound. "You're right. I wouldn't be happy to be approached by those who tried to rob me either. However, this man has met neither Orion nor me. We can disguise ourselves as regular villagers when we approach him." Kishar shrugged.
"A solid plan, Chief, but the other villagers won't be able to treat us as one of them," Orion remarked.
"You are as insightful as you are handsome, Orion. We shall approach him when he is alone or perhaps wait for him to come to us. If he is still in town and has visited the old man, that means he is staying at the inn, which isn't too far from here," he said.
"We will lie in wait."
At the same time, Ceremus and Atilla entered the very inn they were discussing.
A sturdy two-story structure crafted from thick timber and reinforced stone at its base greeted them. Its sharply sloped roof, layered with thatch and wooden shingles, was designed to let the accumulating snow slide off easily. Icicles clung to the eaves like frozen fangs, glistening in the dim light of lanterns flickering outside the entrance.
A large wooden sign, weathered from years of exposure, hung above the door, its carvings barely visible beneath the frost. The scent of spiced mead and roasted venison wafted from within, mingling with the faint trace of burning firewood. Heavy furs draped over the entrance kept the cold at bay, and the moment one stepped inside, the warmth of the roaring hearth in the common room embraced them like a cozy blanket.
The interior was dimly lit by iron sconces and the glow of the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the wooden beams overhead. Thick rugs covered the stone floor, softening the sound of boots as weary travelers sought respite. The walls were adorned with hunting trophies—antlers, furs, and weapons from past visitors who had left their mark on the place.
A young woman, hunched over the desk and dozing off, snapped her head up when the door swung open, bringing a rush of biting cold air inside.
Seeing two figures standing there startled her. She hadn't expected any visitors, considering the storm warning that had been in effect for the past few days. Most travelers had hurried home, while others dared not step outside for fear of being caught in it. She had been just about to close the inn for the night but figured there could still be a few unlucky souls seeking shelter. Waiting so long had lulled her to sleep, so it was quite a shock to see them.
One of the men, who appeared younger, stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Is this place still open?" he asked. Despite his boyish appearance, the way he spoke and carried himself suggested wisdom beyond his years.
The woman stared at Atilla for a few moments before catching her bearings. "I-I—oh, I apologize. Yes, we are still open. In fact, you two are just in luck—I was about to close for the night," she said with a nervous laugh.
The young boy nodded and turned to the older man beside him. The innkeeper followed his gaze and gasped as she took in the sight of him.
He towered over her, his smooth skin reminiscent of the warm cider she drank as a child. His long, thick hair and piercing golden eyes left her frozen in shock. His face and stature rivaled the beauty of the chief of the mountain bandits who governed the town.
She knew without a doubt that he was not from these parts. Her mind drifted back to the stories she had heard as a child: "Blessed by the power of the sun, large and terrifying figures that could lift mountains with their bare hands. They were revered by all, and their eyes—molten gold—could see into a mortal's soul."
Those were the words her mother and aunt used to say before bedtime, and they had lived in her mind ever since.
"H-How many rooms would you two like?" she asked after recovering from her shock.
Before Ceremus could respond, Atilla answered, "We would like two rooms, please. Is that alright, eldest brother?" He glanced at the man.
The innkeeper, surprised to hear that the pair were siblings despite looking nothing alike, caught something flash in Ceremus' eyes before he slowly nodded.
Wasting no time, she quickly grabbed two keys, ensuring they were for the largest and nicest rooms in the inn.
"The rooms are just to your left, up the stairs," she said politely.
Atilla glanced down at the keys, noting the room numbers engraved on the back. He expressed his thanks and made his way up. The older man, who had not spoken since their arrival, finally looked down at the young woman.
She swallowed as she felt his heated gaze on her but dared not look up, fearing she might offend him.
After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he spoke in a deep, melodious voice, "Many thanks," before following Atilla up the stairs.
Only when she could no longer hear his footsteps did she collapse to the ground.
"W-What a scary man… a beautiful but scary man," she whispered.
Who would have thought the stories she had been told as a child were real?
Even if she couldn't confirm whether he was truly half blood, she could tell just from his presence alone that he was an important man. And those eyes? Eyes unlike anything she had ever seen before couldn't fool her. Without a shadow of a doubt, the innkeeper knew he was one of them. "Wait until I tell mama about this."
~*~
The rooms upstairs were small but comfortable, each containing a sturdy bed piled high with woolen blankets and a small brazier to ward off the bitter cold.
The windows were shuttered tightly, though the howling wind still found ways to whisper through the cracks. Despite its rustic appearance, the inn had an air of quiet resilience, a haven for those passing through the unforgiving north.
Tonight, with the storm looming on the horizon, it would be a sanctuary for Ceremus and Atilla—though whether the night would remain peaceful was yet to be seen.