The Fall Of Snow: Guard Your Heart

3. Three

Three

Reckless Behavior

P anic threatens to drown me as I scramble for a place to hide without leaving a trail of blood, but there is nowhere to go. The cabin is basically one large room, save for the bathing chamber, which is out of the question. The warriors will use it, I'm sure. That leaves the supply closet.

As the voices grow sharper, I hear boots knocking against wood, presumably to clear the larger chunks of mud and leaves before entering. I slip into the supply closet without a moment to spare as the front door bursts open, followed by a banter of deep voices. Through a crack in the wooden door, I watch the warriors pile in and my heart rails against my chest. Each man is burly and covered in grime; some with shorn hair, others with shoulder-length locks, and one woman.

It's not entirely surprising, as there are females who join the Arion Warriors, but I just didn’t assume one would be a member of this specific cabin. I twirl the ruby ring around my finger over and over again with my thumb, releasing the anxious tension building in my bones.

"Man, is there anything you aren't allergic to?"

I search for where the comment came from, but in the commotion of them all stripping off their weapons and soaked outerwear I can't be sure who spoke. As if on cue, the woman sneezes not once, not twice, but three consecutive times before punching the warrior who made the comment in the arm, a massive man with shorn brown hair and matching eyes winces as he grabs his injured limb.

He's quite good-looking.

"Come on, mate. You know it flares up when it rains. Did you see the shit the wind was picking up?" The female warrior with the allergies finds her way to the couch in front of the fireplace and sits down, rubbing her eyes. She must be in her mid-thirties, the lightest dusting of silver peppering her copper bun. Her tall frame is muscular and toned and I find myself a bit inspired. She could probably take down more than one huntsman at a time.

"I swear there's an entire tree up my nose from all the debris swirling in the storm." The female warrior rubs her face with both hands, tendrils of copper framing the sides .

A man with his hair pulled back to the nape of his neck makes his way toward the bunks at the far end of the wall and rolls onto the bottom bed. His long body barely fits between the supports. He crosses his ankles as he sits at the foot of the bed. I catch him yawn before he places his hat over his face and folds his arms across his chest. Despite his darker features, he appears almost . . . ill. The dark circles under his eyes and the hollow cheeks make him seem not only tired but unwell.

The dark-skinned warrior who follows behind him smiles from ear to ear as he walks straight through to the kitchen and begins pulling clay bowls out of the cabinets. Despite the storm that just rolled through, this man radiates sunshine and rainbows with his high-rounded cheeks.

Another hulking man with sandy hair cut close to his scalp takes up space beside him and begins to cut a thick loaf of bread into slices but finds it a difficult task when he tries to stab into the crusted loaf with a smooth butter knife.

I don't dare move a muscle as the group settles in. If I make a sound, I'm done for. I've heard stories about the warrior camps. Known for their unforgiving nature and brute force, the Arion is well respected, if not feared in Roselaria. To be a member of the Arion is an honor, and we thank them for protecting our borders.

With strict and merciless training, the men and women tend to be brutal and crass. To say they were tough on each other would be an understatement. I can only imagine how they would treat someone who has broken into their cabin, even if they swore an oath to protect their people .

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," the man with the salt and pepper hair squints his eyes shut, extending his crow's feet. "You've got to use a knife with teeth or you'll demolish the entire thing."

The sandy-haired one shrugs once before pulling a dagger from his side and slicing the bread with the serrated edges. I nearly bark out a laugh as the scene unfolds. The older one puts his palm to his face before shaking his head in defeat, clearly wondering where he went wrong with the man cutting the bread.

Despite what the rumors say, the dynamic between the warriors is almost . . . playful . They seem friendly with one another as they grab their bowls and begin pouring the soup into them. My stomach rumbles at the sight, and I pray they can't hear it over the commotion. Sure, they are rough around the edges, but I see the small kindnesses they show one another as they hand over a steaming bowl of supper or offer one another the last seat near the fire. One even goes as far as to compliment whoever cooked the meal. That's not to say I don't believe they aren't dangerous and wouldn't take kindly to someone like me.

As I watch in fascination, I notice there aren't eight soldiers as I first suspected. There are six, meaning some are either missing or this cabin isn't at full capacity.

A final one enters the room, bringing it to a total of seven warriors residing in this cabin, darkness swirling around him. He makes his way towards the broken-in, cushioned seat near the fireplace, slumping down on it like his legs suddenly gave out, mussing his dark, tousled hair with the motion. He's chiseled like raw cuts of stone and his face is perfection save for the jagged scar on the left side of his jaw. He grunts as he sits, brows furrowed. Brooding from head to toe. Tall. Dark features. Annoyingly handsome.

He reminds me of the haughty guard my mother hired just before I left the manor. All hot-headed and entitled. I swear this warrior is so angry there is steam rolling off of him. Just by looking at him, I can tell what type of man he is: aware of his good looks, always acting as if his life is more important than others, like his issues are somehow more dire than anyone else's. Arrogant.

I hate him already.

My legs begin to cramp in the small space as I wait for the warriors to go to sleep in their bunks. My ankle still throbs despite the pressure of the bandage. Every minute drags on as I watch their evening routine unfold. Dinner, dishes, showers, bed. The seven warriors seem to move as a unit in the small space, each knowing where to step or what to do next to make the space work efficiently. It's impressive for people with such broad frames.

A plan has already begun to form in my mind once they fall asleep. I'll slip out from the small closet to pilfer some food. I can't stay in here until morning, when I assume the warriors will once again leave the cabin. But the prospect of exposing myself to seven fully grown, eloquently trained soldiers is terrifying—almost as terrifying as my mother trying to murder me in my own home.

But hunger will lead a person to do stupid things. Hunger will take away one's sanity, and intellect if dire enough. Hunger has gnawed past my fear of being caught. It has chewed beyond the wall of self-preservation that has kept me alive thus far .

I silently unravel the bandage and remove it as gingerly as possible to further inspect the damage, biting the inside of my cheek to prevent a yelp of pain. Fear has a tight grip on my insides. At any moment, I could be discovered and dragged out of this closet by my hair.

With limited light filtering through the slats of the door, it’s hard to see my ankle but the coloring is not a shadow. The joint is the color of the storm. Gray, purple, blue, black—and large. The thin lines in my skin have been stretched and filled with swollen tissue. I need to wrap it with more than this blood-soaked cloth to stabilize it. I need more. I curse my useless magic again for doing me absolutely no good in this situation.

What good is this power if I can only fuze my magic to something that must be ingested? What good is my magic when I don't know how to use it properly?

I look around the closet for anything I can use when I come across a stack of drying rags. I really need to tear them into strips to get the best use out of them so I weigh the options of making noise and ultimately decide that risking the sound of fabric tearing is worth it. The warriors seem to be fast asleep with heavy breaths and my ankle needs tending to if I want to walk on it tomorrow.

I hold my breath as I tear the first piece, feeling the release of fibers all the way down. I muffle the noise as best I can by shredding the fabric under my cloak. It works well enough. I tie the torn ends together to create a longer bandage and wrap my ankle tightly, just as Violetta taught me. The bloodied wound seems to have closed up as much as I can hope for. The stability of the joint instantly feels better, but it has done nothing for the throbbing pain. It will have to be enough for now.

As the moon's reflection shines down through the glass windows onto the wet footprints that litter the wooden floors, I thank the Mother that none of them noticed my much smaller boot marks before trekking their own trails into the space. My clothes are now only damp thanks to the heat of the fireplace. The chill is finally gone.

The rhythmic melody of gentle snores takes turns holding space in the cabin—some low and guttural, some high-pitched and whiny. A song of sleep. Of resting bodies and wandering dreams.

This is my chance.

I'm fairly certain each warrior is in a deep enough sleep for me to sneak out of the closet undetected, just long enough to dull the ache in my stomach. Long enough to unfold my legs. Unfortunately, there isn't an ounce of stew left in the pot. I know this from when the smiley one offered everyone seconds before taking the last spoonful for himself.

Lucky for me, the hard-rounded end of the bread loaf sits on the long wooden table. It isn't much, but it's enough to hold me over. To stop the gnawing ache in my belly. I've been eyeing it patiently ever since dinner ended, praying that no one would swipe it before heading to bed.

A small victory in the form of crusted bread is perched on an oak cutting board, waiting for my hands to claim it. My mouth waters as my hands itch to grab it. I turn the knob of the closet door ever so slowly as to not make a sound and ease the door ajar just enough to shimmy through—just enough to snag the loaf and retreat back into the cramped space until morning. My legs quiver in protest as the blood begins to circulate evenly once again. Gingerly, I shift my weight from foot to foot as lightly as I can, feeling the cramps release and ignoring the throb. But the slight creak in the flooring nearly stops me dead. My body is a statue made of stone waiting for sounds to follow, but none do.

I am safe…for now.

I reach an arm out for the loaf at the end of the table, not wanting to take another unnecessary step. One hand on the door handle, one hand outstretched as my fingertips graze the bread. My nails scratch at the crusted shell of the loaf, causing crumbs to hit the worn surface of the table. I lean a bit further, just a little more. I need to grab the smallest edge to pull it closer towards me. If I could just—

The world tilts on its axis when my ankle gives out under the pressure, weakened by the sprain.

I tumble to the floor, causing the closet door to swing open wide, leaving me exposed. Not only did I make the floorboards creak, but I've also managed to crash into the open space of the cabin with enough noise to startle the entire forest.

My body freezes from head to toe, muscles seizing in panic. My heart is in my throat and I am momentarily paralyzed by fear, waiting for the seven warriors to stir from the commotion. I wait, ears perked for any change in sound. And wait. And wait. But once again, the only sound is that of slumber. I nearly laugh at my worry of the tearing fabric earlier. Snores of various kinds fill the air and I sigh with relief, feeling my pulse calm again. This group could sleep through anything. What if there was an attack in the night? They would be as good as dead.

Before I waste another minute pressing my luck, I snatch the bread loaf from the table, already diving into the warm fluffy center, and silently sneak back into the closet.

After devouring the too-small piece of bread I find a space at the floor of the closet, partially hidden behind a mop and a broom. Slumping against the bottom shelf lined with spare linens, I let the patterned snores of strangers lull me to sleep.