Bo groaned as he leaned back against the chair in his watchtower, his back aching in protest. He was growing old, that was for sure. Fifteen years of serving the Boar Clan would do that to a man, given that he had a couple raids and battles under his belt. Bo himself was an exceptional soldier, a man who had shown loyalty and honor.

To the right man, that was. Old Man Villtur was the aged soldier's original master, the man who had chosen Bo out of a lineup of twenty able-bodied men during the remainder years of the Outsider Wars. He had served underneath him for quite some time until it became clear that the old geezer was growing senile. Bo himself had seen the condition in his own father. He knew exactly that the disease of age reached every man at some point, Jarl or not.

There were two ways it usually went. Respectable retirement, or downright madness. Bo's old man was the former. Old Man Villtur was, unfortunately, the latter. So Bo put his valdoras on the younger Villtur, who was already beginning to outgrow the old geezer. That had been the right choice. After a coup and a bloody civil conflict, the younger Villtur came out on top, and Bo was given a cozy position in return.

Scouting wasn't exactly safe, and it didn't pay as much as a bodyguard. But, Bo got double the wages he earned as a grunt and was put into half the danger he once went through. It was a pretty sweet deal. In only a few more years, he'd be able to retire comfortably with some land to boast in the South.

Damn good living, he'd say.

"Shift change," a voice yawned from behind Bo. The scout turned to his partner, Gordon, who had walked into the watchtower's canopy. The entire structure was built upon a small isle that was a couple miles from the island Yorktown resided on, covered in snow and protected by warding runes that made the air shimmer. Supposedly, it was to make the place even harder to spot from afar. Bo wasn't exactly sure how it worked. Something to do with illusions, he guessed. He wasn't paid enough to worry about it.

"I think I might stay for an hour or two," Bo said as he sipped his tea, which had already gone cold despite it being ten minutes since he boiled it.

'Damn the Frost.'

The cold was the worst part of this damn job. Scouts weren't allowed to make fires, their only source of heat being these spell crystals that stored Encase Heat. Even then, they did a shit job at boiling water and warming this accursed watchtower. If Bo still had toes, they'd surely be black from frostbite by now.

"I won't complain for a few more hours of sleep," Gordon mumbled. "Though, I doubt Jarl Villtur would approve."

Bo only shrugged as he raised his spotting glass, his eyes squinting as he examined the island Yorktown resided on. "Not like there's much to report on. Those orcs haven't done anything as of late…."

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He trailed off as he spotted a plume of smoke rising from one of the surrounding ships.

"What is it?" Gordon asked.

"Fire," Bo muttered. "On the ships, it looks like."

"Wait, seriously?" Gordon's voice seemed to come awake at that. "Is it new?"

"It seems recent," Bo said. He held back the truth from his partner. He didn't want Gordon to know that his last recorded check-in was five hours ago. "It could be nothing, but I think you should contact Jarl Villtur about this."

Gordon didn't say anything.

"Best you hurry before he gets on our asses for this," Bo said as he noted the event on a piece of parchment. "Gordon?"

No answer from the other scout. Just as Bo started to get annoyed, something clanged on the ground, and the sounds of struggling became apparent.

Bo quickly turned to his partner, only to see the man being held back in a hold. His throat was cut wide open, dark crimson faceting from the wound like a sliced waterskin. Bo froze at the sight, watching as the perpetrator slammed the dying man onto the ground, his strange dagger stabbing into Gordon's belly and side.

Flight took over the scout like second nature. He sprinted toward the other side of the room, where the spell crystal holding Communicate lay. Bo would never make it.

Just as he made it halfway, his foot failed to connect with the ground. Bo fell hard onto the wooden floorboards, red hot pain flaring on his left leg like it was submerged into Helheim's rivers. His scream died when he saw that his foot was gone. A clean cut below the knee, spilling blood like an unholy waterfall. Agony accompanied fear as someone approached Bo, black hair spilling from the hood like a curtain of darkness. Bo tried to get away, tears of pain falling down his cheeks as he reached for the crystal again.

"Oh no, you don't," the hooded figure said, her voice upbeat like a child playing games. Bo could only watch as his outstretched hand was suddenly lopped off like some invisible sword had cleaved it. He stared at the sight, his breathing growing quick and shallow.

"No.. no, no!" Bo pleaded as he turned to the two strangers, who now stood above him like specters of the dead. "I don't want to die! Please! I'll do what you want! I'll go away! I haven't seen your faces!"

The hooded one chuckled at that, her feet stepping over the pooling rivers of blood that flowed between the cracked floorboards. She leaned down to Bo, her hands pulling back the hood to reveal a young woman's features with eyes that glowed with a cursed star. Bo stared at her, his mouth moving but not speaking. He couldn't even get the words out.

"Wrong time, wrong place, I suppose," the woman said, her soft hand resting over Bo's trembling lips. "Unlucky."

Bo could say nothing as his lower jaw was sliced off, darkness following the morbid act right after.

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