Chapter 11: Journey To The West [2]

Chapter 11: Journey To The West [2]One Weeks Later...

The journey to the West hadn’t been easy.

In fact, just leaving the North was a battle in itself.

Endless snowstorms pounded the land with icy winds, turning roads into shifting white sheets. Visibility dropped to nothing more than a few feet, and sometimes we had to stop for hours—sometimes days—just to wait out the blizzard. Every night felt like a gamble: whether our tents would hold, whether we’d wake up buried in snow or missing someone to the cold.

And if the weather wasn’t trying to kill us, the beasts surely were.

I had heard rumors about the creatures of the North, but living among nobles and stone walls made it easy to forget how real those stories were. Out in the open wild, they were anything but stories.

We were attacked more than once on our way down the mountain paths—by frost wolves, blizzard lizards, and something that moved like a shadow under the snow, snapping at the horses’ legs.

But none were as deadly as the one we faced on the fourth night.

The Snow Lion.

A beast straight from old northern tales, as large as a carriage and twice as fast. Its fur was pure white, blending into the snow almost perfectly—except for its eyes. Piercing silver, like polished steel.

We had stopped to camp near the foot of the ridge, trying to find shelter beneath a frozen cliffside. I remember Darion had just finished inspecting the perimeter when we heard it.



A low, growling roar that didn’t sound like any beast I’d ever known—it sounded more like the earth itself was groaning.

The Snow Lion charged through our camp before anyone had time to shout a warning.

It tore through our defensive line like it was nothing.

We lost one knight instantly. A younger recruit named Haren. I didn’t even see him fall—I just saw the blood on the snow, and the empty space where he used to stand.

Darion barked orders, trying to form a half-circle around the beast. We didn’t have time for strategy, only survival. Our blades barely scratched it, and our horses had long since scattered in fear.

I remember drawing my sword—hands frozen stiff—and stepping in beside Darion as he clashed with the beast head-on.

It was the first time I’d seen fear in his eyes.

And yet... somehow, we survived.

Darion struck the lathel blow—That was the only we survived that night.

By the time we left the northern ranges behind, we had lost one men and one horse. The others were injured—some mentally more than physically.

I couldn’t blame them.

The North did something to a person.

It made you quieter. More alert. More aware that you were just a small, breathing thing trying not to die in a place that had forgotten the warmth of the sun.

But now, finally, I could see green again.

Just a few hours ago, we passed into the borderlands—where the snow faded and grass began to push through the frozen ground. Trees were taller, their leaves no longer heavy with ice.

The West was still far, but the worst was behind us.

----



By the time we reached the borders of the Evans territory, the snow had long since melted from our boots.

But the weight of what we carried?

That stayed with us.

The journey had taken more from us than expected. One men dead. Several wounded—physically and otherwise. Even those still walking did so with heavy steps and blank eyes. You could feel it in the air: exhaustion, grief, silence.

When we finally passed through the checkpoint that marked the western border, no one cheered. No one even spoke.

I dismounted and walked straight to the front, toward the carriage where the Knight-Captain sat—his armor dusty and dull, his right arm still bound tightly with cloth from an old bite wound.

He looked up at me with tired eyes. Didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

"I’m sorry," I said quietly, lowering my head. "For the men we lost. For dragging all of you into this. It should’ve been a simple escort, and I turned it into something else entirely."

The other knights were watching. Listening.

I didn’t hide my voice.

"Every one of you followed me without question. And because of that, some of you won’t see your families again."

My throat tightened as I continued.

"Once we return, I’ll personally oversee full compensation to the families of the fallen. Their names will be honored in the Evans Hall of Remembrance. And their loved ones will receive lifelong support under the Evans family name—education, housing, food, everything."

The Knight-Captain didn’t respond right away. Then he gave a small nod, barely noticeable.

"We knew the risks," he muttered. "But... thank you, Young Master."

Still, I could tell his heart was elsewhere. Probably still in the North. With Haren. With the others.

Later that evening, once we had settled in at the nearest garrison rest stop, I tried to do what I could to lift their spirits. I sent for warm food, strong alcohol, and even hired a few dancers and musicians from the nearby town.



Coin didn’t fix grief. But it could loosen shoulders. Let men breathe.

I watched from the side as some of them laughed for the first time in days. One was already passed out by the fire, snoring with his cup still clutched in his hand. Another was dancing terribly with a village girl, all while the others clapped offbeat.

I sat beside the Captain again, offering him a full flask of strong West whiskey.


"Still doesn’t feel like a win," I said quietly.

He looked at the fire for a moment, then finally took the flask.

"No," he said, taking a long drink, "but we’re still alive. That has to count for something."

I nodded.

We were within Evans territory now. Safer roads, warmer air. The sharp chill of the North was behind us—but I knew the real danger might still lie ahead.

Because what I had done in the North... the lie I had spun... The death of one knight was consequences of that lie.

And the West, for all its comfort and color, wouldn’t protect me forever.

Still, for now, I allowed myself one rare thing.

A moment of rest.