They had been drifting for most of the morning, gliding southward along the jagged Greenland coast. The sea was calm—flat like a sheet of hammered silver. The cliffs loomed to their left, black and frosted at the tips. Above them, pale gulls soared on invisible winds, wings wide and soundless.
Cain rowed in silence, as always—bare-chested beneath his fur-lined cloak, arms moving with the rhythm of a practiced ghost.
Janice sat curled in the forward seat of the canoe, her hair gathered over one shoulder, humming quietly.
But today, her mood had changed.
There was something playful in her eyes.
She plucked the wool scarf from her neck, unwound it, and held it up in front of her like a mirror.
"Do you think I'd make a good noblewoman?" she asked, twisting her golden hair up into a mock bun, holding it in place with a twig.
Cain didn't answer.
His eyes flicked toward her.Then away.Fast.
She giggled.
"What about this one?" she tried next, letting her hair fall loose, framing her face with two soft curls. She pulled the rest into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. "Too soft? Or mysterious? You can be honest."
Cain said nothing.
But his jaw tightened. Slightly.
"You're blushing," she teased, pointing.
He scowled and looked forward, rowing a little harder.
"I am not."
"You are," she said, beaming. "Your ears turn red when you do."
He didn't respond. But his strokes became more mechanical. More focused.
Janice laughed and leaned over the side of the canoe, letting her fingers skim the sea.
She liked making him flustered. It felt like a game she was secretly winning.
And in those quiet moments—between waves, laughter, and heat—she felt something settle in her chest.
Something like… peace.
It was Cain who saw the smoke first.
He paused mid-stroke.
Janice noticed the stillness immediately.
"What is it?"
He pointed.
Far ahead, at the base of a cliff where two ridges met the shoreline, a thin column of gray smoke curled into the sky. Steady. Controlled. Chimney smoke.
They drifted silently for a few minutes.
Closer.
And then they saw it.
A structure—low, slanted, weather-worn. Tucked into the rock like a long-forgotten relic. Iron roof, walls dark with frost. A sled propped against one side.
And a flagpole.
At its top, the fabric whipped once in the wind.
Not white.
Not black.
But red, white, and blue.
The Union Jack.
Cain stopped rowing.
Completely.
His fingers curled around the rim of the canoe until the wood creaked beneath his grip.
The Light Stone, hidden under his coat, pulsed once—uneasy.
Janice saw the tension rise in his shoulders. Saw his jaw clench. His eyes sharpen.
She reached out—softly, instinctively—and touched his arm.
"Let me talk to them," she whispered.
He didn't look at her.
But she kept her hand there.
"If I go alone… maybe they'll listen."
Cain said nothing.
But he didn't stop her.
He let the oars drop gently into the water.
Janice pulled her coat tighter, adjusted her scarf, and climbed carefully from the canoe onto the rocks, her boots crunching in the snow.
Cain sat perfectly still, the wind tugging gently at his hair.
He didn't move.
But his eyes never left her.
The station guards had seen her immediately.
A young woman.
Blonde. Fair-skinned. Eyes wide with hope and resolve.
She looked like something from a softer world—out of place in the gray-black snow around her. Her coat hung slightly off her shoulders, oversized and worn thin, hugging a body made for warmth, not war.
Her cheeks were flushed with cold, lips trembling—not from fear, but from determination.
She walked forward slowly, hands raised.
"My name is Janice Colling. I'm not a threat—I was part of the first expedition. I just want to talk."
The men weren't listening.
They hadn't seen a woman in months.
Not one who smiled.Not one who still looked soft, untouched by frost or hunger.Not one who glowed.
The kind of men stationed in places like this weren't the Empire's best.
They were what was left over.
The Garrison
Sergeant Vult was the first to approach—hulking, jaw thick with unshaven stubble, eyes narrowed under a ratty fur cap. He was a man who never left his boots untied or his threats idle.
Private Kin, younger, twitchy, barely holding it together. His eyes flicked between Janice's face and her chest. He whispered things to himself, even as he gripped his rifle.
Corporal Hicks leaned against the outpost's wall, arms crossed, scar over one eye. He didn't move at first, just watched. Like a man trying to decide whether he was bored or amused.
Beardsley emerged next, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the cold, arms inked with old navy tattoos. He cracked his knuckles slowly.
And then came Grave—cold, aristocratic, his coat buttoned to the throat. Eyes as dead as a crow's. He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
They surrounded her.
Vult barked the first order.
"On your knees. Drop the satchel."
Janice obeyed.
Kin kicked it away.
"She matches the sketch," Hicks muttered. "No doubt about it."
"Pretty little traitor," Beardsley added. "Bet she knows where he is."
Janice looked up, eyes wide.
"Please. Just listen—he's not what you think. I came here to—"
She never finished.
A boot hit her ribs.
She gasped, curling slightly—hands still up, palms open.
Vult grabbed her arms and twisted them behind her back. She cried out, but didn't resist.
Kin stepped closer.
"Where's the boy?"
"You hiding him?" Hicks said, grinning.
"Or is he hiding in you?" Beardsley sneered.
Janice's eyes welled. Her lips parted.
"No—don't—please—"
Grave stepped forward.
Crisp boots on the frozen ground. Each step deliberate. Measured. Too calm.
He crouched slowly in front of her, as if inspecting something expensive. His eyes weren't cruel—they were empty. A nobleman's gaze, as if even now he were judging the quality of what knelt in the snow before him.
His glove rose.
Touched her cheek.
Just the leather, soft and cold, grazing her skin.
Then it slid downward.
Janice flinched.
A breath caught in her throat.
But none of the others stopped him.
Not Vult.
Not Beardsley.
Not Hicks or Kin.
They watched.
Waiting.
Enjoying.
Her coat hung half-open now, the buttons already half-pulled from their threads. Her scarf dangled from her neck like a broken flag.
Grave's fingers reached her collar.
Pulled.
Rrrip.
The coat tore.
Her shoulders caught the cold first, followed by a wind she hadn't felt before—not from the snow, but from the emptiness in the men's eyes.
She screamed.
Not from pain.
But from betrayal.
From the sound of dignity being taken.
And somewhere beyond that scream—
The world went still.
The Light Stone pulsed once beneath Cain's ribs.
Not with warmth.
Not with light.
But with judgment.
Vult never saw the blade.
He turned to say something—maybe a joke.
The glaive caught him at the neck and kept going.
His head hit the snow with a wet thud and rolled to a stop against a blood-flecked boot.
Steam curled from the neck stump like incense from a broken altar.
Beardsley spun, mouth open—Cain was already there.
The glaive sang through the air.
It split him open from shoulder to hip. His torso slid sideways. His knees stayed upright a moment longer than the rest of him.
Kin raised his rifle—screaming.
Cain closed the distance with a single step.
Crack.
His fist shattered Kin's jaw.
Crack.
The other hand drove steel into his chest with a twist that ended breath and sound in the same instant.
Kin folded like wet cloth.
Hicks turned to run.
Tried to make it past the door.
Cain grabbed his leg mid-step, yanked him off his feet, and drove his heel into the man's throat. A burst of blood. A broken windpipe.
Silence.
Only one was left.
Grave stood alone now.
He had drawn his pistol with perfect form—officer-trained, elbow locked, posture pristine.
A calm breath escaped his lips.
Cain met his eyes.
No words.
No mercy.
Grave fired.
The bullet grazed Cain's cheek—too late.
Cain had already moved.
Already inside his range.
Already driving the glaive through the soft gap beneath Grave's ribs.
It pierced clean through.
The pistol dropped from Grave's fingers.
Cain leaned in—eye to eye—and whispered:
"You failed."
Then pulled the blade free and let the man crumple into the snow.
When it was over—
The snow was red.
The outpost was silent.
The wind held its breath.
Janice sat hunched in the snow, her coat torn open across one side, hands clutched to her chest, arms shaking.
Her braid had come undone.
Her hair clung to her cheeks in wind-whipped strands.
She was breathing, but not moving.
Cain dropped the glaive.
It hit the earth with a sound too heavy for its weight.
He knelt beside her slowly.
His hands were bloodied. His shoulders cut. His lip cracked.
But none of that mattered.
Because she looked at him—not like a savior, not like a weapon.
But like a boy.
A boy who had come when no one else had.
"You came," she whispered, voice cracking.
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He just leaned in.
And held her.
Not tightly.
Not out of anger or triumph.
Just enough to say:
Never again.
The fire inside the outpost was low, but it cast just enough light to see the dust motes in the air, drifting like pale ghosts.
The walls were blackened with old smoke. Bullet holes marked the boards like pox. The floor was smeared with half-dried blood in wide, dark smears—remnants of Cain's fury, still warm beneath their boots.
Cain said nothing as he carried Janice across the room.
She didn't resist.
She didn't sob or flinch or speak.
She simply clung to him, not desperately—but like someone who had finally stopped swimming and was afraid of sinking. Like someone who had been strong for too long.
Her cheek pressed against his neck, breath warm and uneven.
He set her down gently on a cot in the far corner—away from the broken door, away from the windows, away from the blood and the mess of boots and discarded rifles.
Somewhere quiet.
Safe.
Then he sat beside her.
He didn't speak.
He didn't touch her again.
He just sat.
And listened.
For a long time, she just cried.
Not loud.
Not shaking.
Just soft tears—steady, slow, endless, like rain that doesn't know how to stop. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her chin tucked low, her fingers trembling where they pressed into her sleeves.
She wasn't crying for the outpost.
Not for the bodies on the floor.
Not even for what they had tried to do to her.
She was crying for everything.
"It's always like this," she whispered eventually. Her voice cracked around the words.
"Always someone with power. With boots. With orders."
Cain didn't move.
"They said we were civilizing the world. That we were saving people. Bringing law. Order. Progress."
She laughed once. A hollow, humorless sound.
"But all I saw was sickness. Smoke. Hunger. People coughing in alleys while officers drank brandy in the warm parts of the city."
She shook her head, hair falling loose around her face.
"I wanted to believe. I really did. In the mission. In the Empire. In Penfold. In God. In… something."
Her hands covered her face for a moment. Her shoulders hunched forward, voice tight.
"But now?"
She looked up at him, through tear-lined lashes and wind-burned cheeks.
Her eyes were swollen, but open.
Clear.
"I don't believe in any of it."
She reached out, softly. Fingers brushed the front of his coat.
"Just you."
Cain looked at her.
He didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
He just stared—for a long moment—because he didn't know what to do with that kind of trust.
She had seen what he was.
What he had done.
She had watched him cut men down like they were weeds.
And now she was saying she believed in him.
Only him.
He didn't know how to carry pain like hers.
So he didn't try to fix it.
He just moved forward slightly.
Closed the space between them.
And pulled her gently into his arms again.
Her body folded against his like it belonged there.
And for a moment—just a moment—she let go completely.
Not because she was weak.
But because he was strong, and she didn't have to be, not right now.
She cried against his chest, quiet sobs muffled in the folds of his coat. Her fists clenched the fabric like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
The Light Stone, hidden beneath the pouch between them, pulsed faintly.
Not with power.
But with warmth.
They stayed like that until the fire burned down to red embers.
Until the shadows grew long and cold across the blood-stained floorboards, and the storm wind outside began to shift—cooler, sharper, as if the world itself was reminding them that safety was never meant to last.
Cain closed his eyes once.
His head tilted slightly, as if listening.
The distant sea whispered.
The air tightened.
A pulse thrummed through the Light Stone beneath his coat—faint, but warning.
He stood.
No words. Just motion.
Janice stirred immediately, feeling the sudden loss of his warmth, her arms still faintly trembling.
She reached out, fingers catching his sleeve before he could step away.
"Where are you going?" she asked softly.
Cain looked down at her.
The firelight caught the angles of his face—sharp, tired, beautiful in that otherworldly, dangerous way.
His voice was quiet. Steady.
"I have to prepare."
"For what?"
He didn't look away.
"They're coming."
Janice sat up straighter, blinking fast. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her sleeve, smearing ash and salt across her pale skin. Her braid was loose now, her lips chapped and colorless—but her eyes were clear.
"Then let me help."
Cain paused.
Just for a breath.
Then turned back toward the door.
Janice stood fully now.
Her voice came again—not loud, but filled with something she hadn't had before.
Not innocence.
Not hope.
But conviction.
"Please," she said. "I want to be useful. I want to be strong. I don't want to cry and wait for you to save me every time."
Cain stopped.
Turned slightly.
Looked at her.
Really looked.
The girl from the shore, trembling before a bear, arms shaking.
The girl who had shielded him from a beast ten times her size.
The girl who had followed him, when no one else would.
He nodded.
And pointed.
Toward the wall rack.
A single rifle rested there.
British.
Clean.
Loaded.
The stock worn smooth with use.
"Learn," he said.
Then turned and walked out into the snow.
Janice stood frozen for a moment.
Then stepped forward.
The cold floor bit into her bare feet. Her shoulders ached from crying. Her fingers were raw from gripping him too tightly.
She approached the rifle.
Her reflection stared back at her in the metal—distorted, warped. A girl too small for war. Too soft for revenge. Too kind for fire.
She took it anyway.
It was heavier than she expected.
Her hands adjusted. She ran her thumb over the safety. Checked the sights. Her hands trembled. But less than before.
Then her eyes rose.
And she saw it.
The flag.
The Union Jack still hung above the entrance.
Its colors faded, but still proud. Still arrogant. Still watching.
Janice stared at it for a long time.
Then moved.
She walked to it with steady steps.
Reached up.
Untied it.
Her hands were slow, careful.
She folded it once.
Then twice.
Paused.
Then stopped.
And unfolded it again.
She looked at it—really looked—for what it was.
Not a symbol of safety.
Not anymore.
Just cloth.
And history.
And blood.
She turned.
And threw it into the fire.
The flames caught slow at first. Licked the edges. Curled the corners.
Then devoured it.
Blue, red, and white turned to black and orange and ash.
Janice didn't smile.
But she stood straighter.
Taller.
Outside, Cain dragged the canoe from the rocks to the edge of the station, his breath visible in the cold air. His eyes scanned the structure—every beam, every bolt, every usable sled runner. His mind was already moving.
Angles.
Weight.
Wind resistance.
He didn't hear the flag burn.
But the Light Stone pulsed once beneath his coat—
And he knew.
She had chosen her side.
And this time—
she would stand.