The sky swelled with an unyielding mass of heavy clouds, threatening to turn into a snowstorm at any moment. Sparse snowflakes were already swirling above Alv's head, twisting into tight spirals, echoing the gusts of wind.

  The man trudged through the trees with difficulty, fighting against the deep snowdrifts. His breath had long since turned ragged, and sweat poured down his neck in three streams, but Alv was ready to crawl forward on all fours if he had to. Somewhere out there, beyond the endless white veil, salvation awaited him. But the trail of crimson droplets following in his wake told of the futility of that hope.

  Alv stumbled once more and collapsed into a deep snowdrift. For a moment of weakness, both his strength and his hopes abandoned him, and he surrendered to anxious thoughts.

  Before his eyes arose the throne hall and the regal profile of his father, Harold, etched into Alv's heart since childhood. A boisterous feast, the ruler's commanding speeches. His throne, left empty in the heat of discussions—back then, the boy had liked to secretly imagine himself sitting there, though he had never dared to take the seat. But as he grew, Alv understood that one day, that childhood dream would become reality, inevitably...

  Only now, it never would—for after Harold's overthrow, his son's greatest ambition had shrunk to mere survival. And he was failing even at that, with his exhausted horse, his bleeding wound, and the approaching storm.

  But Alv refused to surrender, unwilling to cast away his grand ambitions, even on the very brink of death. He could scarcely believe in their fulfillment now, yet their mere existence gave him the strength to move forward.

  With a heavy sigh, the fugitive rose and staggered on, without truly knowing where he was going. But after only a few steps, an arrow struck him in the back. Alv swayed and fell face-first into the snow.

  His fevered mind reeled through childhood memories and now-impossible dreams. And between them, a single desperate thought stretched like a crimson thread:

  - I don't want to die... - he whispered in delirium, lying motionless upon the ground.

  From behind the trees, a trio of pursuers emerged—they, too, were breathing heavily, but now that their prey was down, they descended the hill at a leisurely pace. One of the men came to an exhausted stop, bending over and taking deep breaths. The other two, however, trudged on along the path Alv had carved through the snow, as if, unlike their companion, they had no choice.

  - Cut off his head, - ordered the man who had fallen behind, though his companions hardly needed the command.

  At last, he straightened up, inhaling deeply, and lifted his face to the sky. The weather had taken a hopeless turn for the worse, and he merely wished to gauge the scale of the approaching catastrophe. But against the backdrop of heavy gray clouds, Morten, to his great surprise, spotted an unexpected observer.

  Perched on a snow-covered treetop ahead was a small childlike figure dressed in lavish festive garments. The child's keen, attentive gaze followed the scene below—yet in those eyes, there was no fear, no disgust, no pity.

  Morten met the piercing stare of the fair-haired child, and a shiver ran down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. No, he was not afraid of an unexpected witness to their execution of Alv. But in an instant, he knew exactly who stood before him, even though he had never encountered the divine messenger in person before.

  Something stirred within his soul for a fleeting second before anyone else noticed Huld.

  - A wish... - the thought flickered through his mind.

  And Morten felt it in his very skin—he had to be the first to make his wish, or he would be deprived of the chance entirely. His thoughts nearly tumbled into a feverish chase after his deepest desire. But then, in his mind's eye, flashed the image of the massacre on the capital's marketplace, and he cautiously pushed the idea away.

  Time—he needed time to weigh everything, to think it through. But he had only as much of it as it would take his less fortunate companions to notice Huld.

  Morten pulled the bow from behind his back and silently drew the string. The first of his accomplices took an arrow in the back, letting out a pained gasp before sinking into the snow. The second managed to turn toward the sound—only to take the next shot straight to the chest.

  Between the trees, the blizzard howled over the fallen, while the murderer stood on the hill, gazing in silence into the emerald eyes of the young god.

  - My lord, it is you who grants wishes, is it not? - Morten asked tensely.

  - Only one, - Huld replied, unperturbed.

  - What do you wish for?

  The cutthroat hesitated—there was no one left to stop him from considering his wish, yet the very possibility stirred an uneasy feeling within him. But he did not dare voice his doubts to the god directly.

  - Such mercy is too great a gift for a mere man, - Morten spoke obsequiously, long accustomed to fawning over his lords.

  - I need time to think it over carefully... - the mercenary treaded cautiously, watching the child's reaction intently.

  - Huld nodded, his keen gaze shifting toward the bodies sprawled across the ground—there was only a trace of curiosity in his expression.

  - May I return here later? - Morten asked.

  - Yes, - the god replied.

  - Will you wait for me here? - the man pressed, already shaping a plan in his mind.

  - I will wait... - Huld agreed.

  Morten began retreating slowly, never once turning away, as if afraid to let the god slip from his sight. Trapped in thoughts of new opportunities, he had nearly walked away when his gaze fell upon the corpses, and he snapped back to reality.

  Under Huld's unwavering watch, the killer returned to Alv's body and took from his companion's hands the sack containing the prince's severed head. Calculating as ever, Morten feared that an elusive wish might slip through his grasp—but the bounty for the fugitive would be his alone, no matter what came next.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  ***

  The blind youth walked among the trees, following a narrow, well-trodden path in the snow. He moved slowly, stretching his hands forward, taking careful, tentative steps. Behind him, with a hand resting on the boy's shoulder, followed Morten—guiding him, warning him of obstacles.

  The guide's face showed a hint of impatience, but any irritation caused by his companion's sluggishness was more than outweighed by the payment jingling merrily in gold coins at his belt.

  The path came to an end, and the travelers found themselves beneath a large, sprawling tree. From its crown, a fair-haired child nimbly descended along the bare branches, eyeing the guests with curiosity.

  - Do you have a wish? - Huld asked, addressing either Morten or the blind youth.

  - Yes, yes, Lord Huld! - the boy fell to his knees.

  The blind youth pulled a wooden tablet from his tunic, the writing upon it crude and uneven, and held it out before him, unaware that the god was speaking from the tree's lower branch.

  - I was born blind, my lord, - the boy spoke, - but your priest says that you have the power to grant any request, to heal any affliction...

  - Priest? - Huld repeated.

  - Yes, Lord Morten, - the blind boy clarified.

  The child remained silent, but the look he cast at the man was anything but childlike. In Harald's castle, Huld had seen many priests of Odin, but hardly any of them bore even the slightest resemblance to Morten. And yet, it was difficult for the young god to deny the greed and cunning that united them. So he chose not to dispute the boy's words.

  - And what is it that you wish for? - the god simply asked.

  - I want... to see, to be able to look upon the world... like other people do, - the youth stammered, his voice filled with barely contained excitement.

  - That is easy, - Huld nodded confidently.

  The boy deftly wove a thin cord from his silver hair and reached for the tablet in the blind youth's hands. As of late, following Morten's advice, Huld had made it a rule to have his supplicants write down their wishes.

  All because several of Morten's dissatisfied "clients" had already returned to him more than once, demanding explanations for the way Huld had interpreted their desires. Fortunately, Morten was a skilled warrior and could resolve most disputes with a sword. Even so, he had decided to eliminate any ambiguity and misunderstandings in his clients' dealings with the god.

  But the more wishes Huld granted, the more Morten became convinced that entrusting his own fate to the young god was a terrible idea. He had seen far too many warped desires and their consequences in just a few months. During that time, the man had only grown more certain that he had done the right thing by profiting from others' wishes rather than making one himself. And now, he suspected, it was time to bring this venture to an end—before word of the runaway god's whereabouts spread too far.

  Huld tied the cord with the wooden tablet to a branch and returned to the treetop, where a handful of golden leaves trembled in the wind. He plucked one and leapt down.

  The blind youth flinched at the sound of something landing nearby. But Morten, well accustomed to such sights, was no longer surprised. Instead, a thick unease settled in his chest—the kind he felt when facing an opponent far stronger than himself. A sense of danger.

  Huld scooped up a handful of snow and warmed it in his palms until it melted completely, revealing the golden leaf in a small pool of water. Then the god stepped forward and washed the blind boy's face with the icy liquid. The youth shuddered at the unexpected touch and blinked, his head turning this way and that in confusion. But after a moment, his gaze steadied, clear and focused. And the first thing he saw was Huld.

  The boy burst into tears, collapsed into the snow at Huld's feet, and began to murmur words of gratitude. They warmed the young god's soul and flattered his vanity, assuring him that, at last, he was doing everything right.

  - And you, - the child turned to Morten, - have you decided what you want yet?

  Once again, a shiver ran down Morten's spine at that question, but he habitually shook his head. In response, Huld simply nodded and fluttered back up into the tree like a great, colorful bird. His fine garments, gifted by Harold, had grown tattered, now resembling a patchwork of bright feathers.

  Morten tied a thick cloth over the former blind boy's eyes and led him back into the forest along the only path. A certainty had nearly taken root in his mind—it was time to put an end to this. Yet greed still planted a seed of doubt.

  But by the time he finally emerged from the woods, bid farewell to the newly sighted youth, and made his way to his small rented home, Morten had made his final decision—he had earned enough to leave service behind and settle down somewhere, living a life of ease.

  That was what Morten was thinking when, upon stepping into the single room of his cottage, he found himself face to face with uninvited guests.

  There were four of them—all men, all armed, and all tense at the sight of the homeowner.

  - Morten...- one of the men drawled, shaking his head in displeasure.

  - Did you really think you could hide in this backwater? - he sneered.

  Two of his burly companions seized Morten at the threshold, forcing him to his knees before the speaker.

  - No, lad, orders must be followed,- the leader declared.

  - Especially when you've already taken payment upfront.

  - No, no, no! - Morten protested, his face going pale at the sight of his visitors.

  - I did everything!- he blurted out, preempting any further commands from the imposing man.

  For a moment, the leader hesitated, but then his expression turned skeptical once more.

  - Then why are you still here? - he asked.

  - I admit, - Morten nodded, now calmer as he realized they were willing to listen.

  - I stayed here a little longer to rest...

  - But only because I had already completed the job! - the mercenary emphasized.

  - And where are your men? - the man inquired.

  Morten shrugged indifferently:

  - Only I remain.

  The man chuckled knowingly.

  - No matter...

  - Better tell me, where's the proof?

  - Otherwise, you might just be a traitor hiding out here.

  - It's here! Everything's here! - Morten assured him hastily.

  - Harald's heir's head - I have it!

  - Well then, your own head stays on your shoulders, - the man murmured smoothly.

  - Show me.

  Under the watchful eyes of everyone present, Morten carefully got to his feet.

  - It's outside—behind the firewood pile, - he nodded toward the door.

  - Lead the way, - the visitor rose eagerly from the bench.

  Morten stepped out first, silently thanking every god that he had had the foresight to leave a loose end and keep Alv's head. Confidently, he overturned a few logs stacked by the cabin wall, digging into the snow.

  And there it was—the familiar coarse sack, stained with dried blood.

  But the moment Morten grabbed it, his heart plummeted into an icy void - the bundle was completely empty.

  ***

  Huld was not burdened by waiting—time meant far less to him than to mortals, and his mission seemed far more important than haste. He did not regret his promise to Morten to wait until the man had thought through his wish.

  But Morten's time had come to an end, and Huld knew it with certainty, reading the web of the near future—woven idly each morning, more out of habit than necessity.

  The young god realized he would no longer need to expect new visitors brought by Morten and decided to turn to the one wish that had eluded him.

  For the umpteenth time, he plucked a pair of precious leaves from the Tree of Being, Idras, then leapt down to the ground and made his way to the nearest hollow—where Morten had discarded the bodies of his fallen comrades and their mutual victim, so as not to frighten Huld's pilgrims.

  The child rummaged through the snow for a moment and pulled out Alv's head, long since found through the threads of fate—yet stubbornly unwilling to return to its rightful shoulders.

  With a practiced motion, Huld plucked a golden leaf, leaving only its curved central vein—now resembling a fishing hook. He threaded one of his long platinum hairs through it, like a needle, and once again set to sewing Alv's head back onto his body.

  The little god had done this many times before, but the results had always been disappointing, forcing him to undo the seam and try again—changing the pattern, the number of threads, the placement of each stitch. This time, he decided to weave a leaf from the sacred tree into the wound—something he had never attempted before.

  Slowly but surely, the work neared completion, stitch by stitch forming an intricate silver pattern of unearthly beauty. At last, Huld pulled the thread taut, hiding its end within the wound—now barely discernible beneath the meticulous embroidery of the god's hand.

  The corpse stirred, its deathly pallor fading. Alv's eyelids fluttered, then opened, revealing gray eyes filled with fear and despair.

  And the first thing they met was the emerald gaze of Huld.