Lor watched her go, the bread forgotten in his hand, his eyes narrowing as a chill crept up his spine.

"What the hell is she up to now?" he muttered, his voice low, a mix of curiosity and unease tightening his chest.

Lor dropped a silver coin onto the tavern table, the clink muffled by the hum of conversation around him.

He rose, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.

His mind gnawed at him, Ameth's image burning bright—her axe slung across her shoulder, her purposeful stride into the forest, the cold precision in her movements.

It wasn't unusual for townsfolk to gather firewood, but Ameth?

The girl who moved like an ice statue, who spoke in clipped syllables and sold vegetables?

Her stride had been different—driven, purposeful, like a blade aimed at a target.

Lor licked his lips, a spark of curiosity igniting in his chest. "If she's up to something, I need to see it."

The cobbled streets gave way to dirt, then to a narrow path framed by towering pines, their needles carpeting the ground in a soft hush.

The air was cool here, damp with the scent of moss and resin, the sunlight filtering through the branches in slanted beams.

Lor kept his distance, his boots careful on the uneven ground, his movements silent as he trailed Ameth.

She moved steadily ahead, her blonde braid bouncing lightly against her back, the axe glinting as it caught shards of sunlight, a stark contrast to her plain gray dress.

She reached a clearing not far into the forest, where ancient trees stood thick and heavy, their trunks gnarled with age.

Without hesitation, Ameth set her palm against one.

A faint hiss echoed as frost bloomed where her skin met bark, a perfect circle of rime spreading outward, crystalline and shimmering.

She stepped back, gripped the axe with both hands, and swung.

The blade met frozen wood with a sharp crack, splinters spraying white as the blow sank deeper than should have been possible.

She swung again, her rhythm steady, arms firm, the sound echoing through the forest like a tolling bell.

Lor crouched low behind a cluster of ferns, his eyes narrowing as he watched.

She wasn't cutting for kindling—these were proper logs, thick and straight, timber that could fetch a higher price than vegetables.

Smart, he thought, a grudging respect flickering in his chest.

Brutal, even.

But then the forest shifted, a subtle ripple that made Lor's skin prickle.

Leaves rustled though the wind was still, branches creaked, and from the shadow between two leaning pines, a figure stepped out.

A man with rough hands, an apron tied around his waist, a cleaver strapped to his belt.

Behind him, another emerged, then another, and a fourth.

Lor's eyes widened as he recognized them—not bandits or mercenaries, but vegetable sellers from the market, their faces familiar from countless mornings haggling over cabbages and carrots.

"Evenin', girl," the first called, his voice low and mean, his bald head gleaming in the dappled light.

His arms were corded from years of lifting baskets, his smile crooked and unfriendly.

Ameth paused mid-swing, her axe still buried in the frozen trunk.

Slowly, she set it down, the blade thudding softly against the ground, and turned her head.

Her icy-blue eyes met theirs without a flicker of surprise, her face as blank as polished marble, carved from something colder than her magic.

"You've been real busy, haven't you?" another man sneered, spitting onto the dirt, his wiry frame tense with malice.

"Cart emptied in half the time it takes the rest of us to sell a single sack of cabbages. Funny thing, that."

Ameth didn't answer, her expression unchanging, her silence a wall of ice that seemed to infuriate them.

The bald man stepped closer, cracking his knuckles.

"See, we don't like it when someone cheats. Market's tight as it is. You pull tricks, we all starve. So—why don't you tell us what you did, hm? Where's the secret?"

Still, silence.

Ameth's lips didn't twitch, her eyes didn't waver, her body as still as the tree she'd been chopping.

Lor's stomach tightened, his fists curling around the straps of his satchel.

He wanted to step in, to do something, but he forced himself still, his breath shallow.

Not yet.

He needed to see what they wanted, how far they'd push, what Ameth would do.

One of the men—a wiry fellow with soot-black hair—lifted his hand, and a small orange flame blossomed in his palm, dancing against the pine-dark air, its heat licking the shadows.

"Maybe she needs some encouragement," he said, his voice low, a cruel edge to his grin.

That drew a laugh from the others, a harsh, barking sound that echoed through the clearing.

But Lor noticed something else—these weren't idiots.

They'd brought magic, steel, and numbers, their faces set with a grim determination that went beyond simple bullying.

They weren't here to scare her.

They were here to break her.

The bald man's grin widened, his crooked teeth flashing as he stepped closer, looming over Ameth.

"Don't talk, huh? Fine. We got other ways to make you speak."

His eyes raked her body with a hunger that made Lor's teeth grind, a predatory gleam that turned his stomach. "Bet a little fun will loosen that tongue."

Another man barked a laugh, his cleaver glinting as he shifted it in his hand. "We'll take turns. She'll be begging to tell us her trick by the time we're done."

They closed in, their steps deliberate, their faces twisted with malice.

Ameth didn't flinch, didn't lift her axe, didn't even narrow her eyes.

She stood as still as the frozen tree, her face expressionless, her icy-blue gaze level and unyielding.

And that—the utter lack of fear, of rage, of anything—seemed to enrage them more than words could have.

The bald man snarled, stepping right into her space, his hand shooting out to grab her braid, yanking her head back with a sharp tug.

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