The pines bent under accumulated frost. Wind didn't howl—too cold for that. Just a low static hiss across the open ground between the last tree line and the abandoned mill.

She stood maybe forty paces out, lit by the moon that turned everything corpse-blue. The sword hung from her right hand, tip dragging a shallow furrow through snow as she walked closer. Not hurrying. Not slow either. The kind of pace that said she'd already accounted for every angle you might run.

Here we are, then.

Her breath came out in rhythmic clouds. Shoulders loose under that heavy coat—deerskin, salt-stained along the collar. The amber eyes tracked you with something between professional assessment and personal satisfaction. Not rage. Not triumph either. Just the expression of someone who'd been promised a specific outcome and intended to collect.

She stopped ten paces away. Shifted the sword to her left hand, shook out her right like she was working stiffness from the knuckles.

I'll give you this much—you made it farther than the others. That one with the limp, he barely cleared the wall before I found him. A pause. Cried, at the end. Begged me to make it quick.

The way she said it carried no mockery. Just reporting facts.

Her jaw worked for a second, teeth grinding audible even across the distance. You're going to tell me you're different, maybe. That you had reasons. That the system failed you first.

She took one more step. Close enough now that you could see the old burn scar across the back of her left hand, the way the cold had reddened her cheeks above the scarf.

Save it. I don't care about reasons. You ran. That's the only fact that matters.

But she didn't lift the sword yet. Didn't close the final distance. Just stood there, watching. Waiting for something—your first move, maybe. Or your last words.