Kiing pushed through the snow, his axe heavy on his back. The trail had gone cold weeks ago. Every road led nowhere. The king who killed his brother was still out there, and Kiing was running out of leads. Then he saw smoke rising from a small cabin tucked between frozen pines. Inside, a group of travelers warmed their hands by a low fire. They shared bread with him and asked no questions. Kiing listened more than he spoke. When one of them mentioned crossing paths with a great army marching under a black banner, Kiing's chest tightened. He breathed through it. He asked where. A traveler pulled out a torn map and circled a spot in faded ink. "Three days north," she said. "If you're fool enough to chase them." Kiing left at dawn. The map shook in his gloved hand as he walked. On the second day, he heard something humming under the wind. He followed the sound off the path and found a stone well glowing pale blue in the snow. Frost clung to its runes. The water inside whispered his name. He stepped closer. The whisper sharpened into words. "A secret for a secret," it said. "Tell me what you carry, and I will tell you where he hides." Kiing stared into the glowing water. He set his hand on the cold stone rim. Then he leaned forward and began to speak.

Kiing spoke into the glowing water. He gave it the shape of his grief. He told it about the messenger, the axe, the long road north. The blue light flickered but did not brighten. The well stayed quiet. He felt the cold creep into his knees. Time was bleeding out, and the water knew he was holding something back. He tried again. He offered the name of his brother. He offered the guilt of arriving too late. The runes on the stone dimmed. A shallow gift, the water seemed to say. Not enough. Kiing's hands tightened on the rim. Somewhere north, a black banner moved further away. He could feel the miles widening. There was one secret left. The one he had not said even inside his own skull. He closed his eyes. He breathed it in his chest like he breathed the anger. Then he let it out. "I am afraid," he said. "I am afraid I will die before I reach him. And I am more afraid that I want to." The well drank the words. The blue light surged. Pale mist rose from the water, purple and silver, curling into the air like a slow ribbon. It drifted north over the pines and pointed. Inside Kiing's head, the water whispered a valley, a frozen basin sunk between cliffs of ice, shadowed and deep. The king camped there now. Kiing stood. His legs shook. He followed the drifting mist through the trees until he reached the edge of the army's old trail. Broken spears. A black helm pierced through by an arrow, half-buried in snow. He picked up the helm, turned it in his hands, and set it down facing north. Then he walked.