The ravine walls rose on either side, jagged and sheer, funnelling the snow-laden wind straight through the narrow pass. It was cold enough to burn the lungs. Cold enough to turn sweat into ice. And cold enough to remind every man standing there that hesitation meant death.
Kairo dropped his pack by the rock face and scanned the terrain. The bend in the ravine offered cover—low boulders half-buried under frost, overhangs that could shield them from a direct line of fire. But it also meant one thing: once the enemy entered, they'd have nowhere to run.
"Two angles," Kairo said, pointing. "You take the right ledge," he told Elira, "cover the high ground. Lucio, you're with me—close range. They step into this bend, we don't let them step out."
Lucio nodded without question. He'd been in enough ambushes to know the unspoken rule: short, sharp, brutal. No second chances.
Elira was already moving, climbing the frozen slope to the ledge above. Her boots barely made a sound despite the ice, her hand steady on the grip of her pistol. From up there she could see the curve of the ravine stretching behind them, the whiteness of the snow broken only by the black shapes of pine at the far end. And there—faint movement. Too distant to make out faces, but close enough to read intent.
They were coming.
Below, Kairo crouched behind a boulder, the steel of his pistol cold against his palm. He didn't look up at Elira, but he knew exactly where she was. He always did. In the last weeks, they'd learned each other's patterns—the way she shifted her stance before taking a shot, the way he tilted his head when he caught a sound out of place. They didn't need words.
Lucio broke the silence. "They'll send two in first. Scouts again."
Kairo's gaze didn't leave the mouth of the ravine. "Then the scouts die first."
The first shadow appeared minutes later, slipping into the bend like smoke. The man moved low, rifle angled, scanning every crevice in the rock. He didn't look up. Most men didn't—not when they thought the danger was ahead, not above. That was his mistake.
The crack of Elira's first shot was sharp against the muffled snow. The scout dropped without a sound, his rifle clattering on the ice.
The second man froze, eyes snapping upward, but it was already too late. Kairo stepped out from behind the boulder, his own shot punching through the quiet. The man fell hard, blood already darkening in the snow.
The echo of the shots faded into the wind. Then—silence again.
"They'll rush us now," Lucio said, reloading.
Kairo's lips curved slightly, the closest thing to a smile in hours. "Let them."
He was right. Within seconds, the mouth of the ravine erupted with movement—four, maybe five figures charging in, their boots kicking up snow. They fired as they came, the muzzle flashes briefly painting the rock walls in strobing bursts of orange.
Elira shifted position, her breath steady despite the gunfire. She picked her targets cleanly, each shot deliberate. One man spun, went down. Another stumbled but kept coming.
Kairo moved like water through the chaos—never in the same place twice, using the rocks as cover, his shots short and precise. Beside him, Lucio fired in quick bursts, keeping the attackers pinned long enough for Kairo to advance.
It was fast. Brutal. The kind of fight that left no room for second thoughts. When the last shot cracked through the ravine, the air hung heavy with cordite and the faint copper tang of blood. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the silence, landing on still-warm bodies.
Elira descended from the ledge, her cheeks flushed from cold and adrenaline. She stopped beside Kairo, scanning the ground.
"Six," she said. "Any more?"
"Not here," Kairo replied, eyes already on the far end of the ravine. "But they know we're not running."
Lucio gave a low whistle. "Which means Vale's going to send more."
Kairo holstered his pistol. "Good. We'll be ready."
Elira didn't miss the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth—his tell when the stakes shifted. She stepped closer, low enough for only him to hear.
"You know this doesn't end tonight."
He met her gaze, the wind catching the loose strands of her hair. "No. But tonight, we make sure they remember what it costs to come for us."
There was a heat in his voice that had nothing to do with the fight—a promise, not just to her but to himself. And she believed it, the same way she believed the snow would fall and the river would keep running long after this war ended.
The silence after a firefight was never truly silent.
It had its own weight—the crunch of boots on snow as they stepped over the fallen, the faint metallic click of a slide racking back into place, the wind carrying away the last traces of gunpowder. Kairo stood still for a moment, letting the air settle, before giving Lucio a single nod.
"Strip the weapons. Take anything with serial numbers filed off—we'll need replacements."
Lucio moved without argument, kneeling beside the first body and rolling it over. Blood seeped into the white beneath him, spreading slow like ink in water. The rifles were good—Italian make, clean and well-oiled. Not cheap street gear.
"These weren't freelancers," Lucio said, glancing up.
Kairo didn't reply right away. His gaze was on a small detail—a patch sewn into the inside of one attacker's jacket. The embroidery was faint but distinct: a coiled serpent, fangs bared.
He'd seen it before, years ago, in Naples. A crew Vale had bought loyalty from with cash and blood. The fact they were here meant the war was stretching farther than the Hollow.
Elira crouched by one of the dead, rifling through the man's pockets. She found a small notebook, the pages damp from melted snow. Names. Numbers. Dates.
She held it up to Kairo. "It's a log. Looks like payments. Weekly drops, same hand signing off each time."
Kairo flipped it open, scanning. The signature wasn't Vale's. But it was someone in his orbit.
"This is a ledger of favors," he said. "We keep it."
She didn't miss the way he slid it into his coat pocket rather than handing it to Lucio. Some things he guarded himself. Always.
The clean-up was quick but methodical. Weapons were taken, ammunition redistributed. The bodies were dragged to the shaded side of the ravine, out of sight. Snow would cover them soon enough, but until then, concealment was better than leaving a calling card.
When it was done, Kairo gave a sharp tilt of his head toward the far end. "We move before the next wave finds us."
Lucio took point, but Elira hung back just long enough to match Kairo's stride. She spoke low, eyes forward.
"You're thinking they'll change tactics now."
"They will," he said. "Vale will stop sending soldiers. He'll send someone who knows me."
Her tone was even, but he caught the flicker in her eyes. "An old ally?"
Kairo's jaw flexed. "Old enemies are predictable. Old allies are not."
The path wound them out of the ravine and into a narrow stretch of pinewood. The trees closed in, muffling the wind, but also killing their lines of sight. Every creak of a branch overhead was sharper here. Every crunch of snow beneath their boots felt louder.
They walked in silence for nearly twenty minutes before Elira spoke again.
"When we get to the safehouse," she said, "we need to talk about distribution routes."
He glanced at her. "You think we're leaking information."
"I think Vale's finding us too easily for it to be luck."
Kairo didn't answer immediately. He was used to being the one who suspected, the one who doubted. Hearing it from her—not as an accusation, but as a fact—sat differently.
"If we're compromised," he said finally, "I'll deal with it."
Her eyes stayed on him. "You can't shoot this one away, Kairo."
For a heartbeat, his gaze met hers fully. "Watch me."
The safehouse sat at the edge of a frozen clearing, its dark stone walls blending into the treeline. From the outside, it looked abandoned—shutters nailed, chimney cold. But inside, the rooms were warm from the small fire Lucio started in the back hearth, and the smell of strong coffee soon cut through the damp air.
Kairo moved to the table in the main room, laying the weapons out in a neat line. He inspected each, checking for wear. Elira pulled the ledger from his coat pocket without asking, setting it beside the rifles.
"Lucio won't be here all night," she said quietly.
Kairo's hands stilled. "And you're telling me that because?"
She leaned against the table, close enough that the scent of her skin—gunpowder and winter air—slid past his restraint. "Because when he's gone, I want you to tell me what you're not telling him."
He studied her for a long moment. The firelight threw shadows across her face, softening the hard lines.
"Careful, Elira," he said, voice low. "You keep pushing like that, and one of us will break."
Her answer was quiet but steady. "Maybe one of us needs to."
The space between them felt electric. Not the kind that came before a kiss—this was sharper, edged with trust and defiance tangled together.
Kairo finally turned away, picking up the ledger. "Eat something. You'll need it in the morning."
But she saw the tension in his shoulders. And she knew, even without him saying it, that tomorrow would be worse than today.