The borders between towns were never safe places. Caught between the culture of "everything for me," the people who roamed the roads would not extend a hand to anyone—even if offered money; they would usually do so to rob them. The idyllic idea of peasants farming small plots of the plains or forests that cities so preached, pushing their overloaded populations to migrate, was a lie. Two poor adolescents learned this on the road. Every hand that reached for them, every dog, the shouts pursuing them for fleeing straw beds before those who sold them those spaces sold them again to slavers—it was a slow, torturous journey. Sometimes they were caught, then they lived a night or a week of fear, suffering, and humiliations. Finally, they would find a gap in their captors' defenses and escape again, with a single goal: a place they had to reach. Midnight Raven.
Their feet did not go bare in the icy mud of the first cold months. Despite all the abuses committed, none of their captors wanted to sell their clothes or boots. They were cheap, but besides, no one wanted to spoil the potential merchandise. Both thin—the girl named Thris, thirteen summers, and Puck, twelve—did not have yellow teeth. Their hair was not a mop despite being washed hundreds of times only with river water. Their captors always saw a fortune in them. But they escaped. So upon arriving at the village, it was not difficult to find employment. She worked in a small inn, opened by the arrival of many mercenaries to the city. No one knew why, but the rewards from the Blackcap guild and the possibility of being recruited into the Blood Elves' army without having to travel to Stormhammer increased the initially nonexistent flow of visitors to these desolate lands. So she was forced to carry drinks in the small hall, to smile tensely when a drunk mercenary, with no prostitutes nearby, made advances—with money or by force. Cold sweat ran down her back when, amid laughter, the owner asked her to take food up to the guests. She knew—she knew that when he sent her—since there was no room service—it meant he had already been paid. Many of them, however, only sought company—someone to drink with, to laugh at their stupid anecdotes and terrible jokes. Some did not want that. She remembered them as she went down at night to her room in the stables, when she curled up to forget. Every time she saw her younger brother's eyes, his gaze was sadder than hers. Puck fared worse.
Getting a job in Midnight Raven was easy if you had muscles. The thin, effeminate Puck did not have them. He suffered trying to lift bales of hay or beams—even small stones were not easy. But in that village, there was always work—even for those without strength. The House of the Pink Charm, founded after the Blackcaps arrived, was where most slave traders made their sales before heading to the coastal cities. There, Puck worked—washing slaves before and after they were tested, healing their wounds, and applying makeup to make them appealing to many visitors. Yet, like his sister, there were times when they did not want a poorly nourished, wiry peasant, but someone soft to vent their passions. Those events occurred frequently. So even when she wanted to tell him about her suffering, she fell silent upon seeing him. He did not sleep—only curled up in a corner, with the blanket covering everything but his eyes. Thris only put the bowl with the leftovers she took from the kitchen in front of him and fell asleep. When she woke, the food was gone, and he was outside, bathing in a stream, with the cold of the first snows, wanting to wash off as much filth as possible. At those times, she would run out and wrap him in her arms until he stopped shaking. Then she would tuck him in and go to work. The drunks were not awake, but the arriving travelers were, as were the ladies who had survived the night of excesses with their guests. They needed food and a bath—despite that, they only took one of the two. The nights were long, and the adventurers had had no one but their mounts for months, if they had any.
The two traveled with a mission. Both had lost their parents. They were siblings only because they were the only ones of similar age in their village. Their goal was very important—that was why they had left their people, that was why they endured day after day the life they led. When they could talk, they only listened to the sounds of dawn. Neither had any interest in repeating their mission; they knew it very well. Besides, they feared someone else might overhear. So they remained like that—holding each other without touching, holding their poor hearts in each other's breath, giving each other courage by seeing each other day after day, to keep going, not to flee, to get up day after day.
Two months after arriving, their luck changed. That night, Puck did not return to sleep. Thris worried, but not much—it was not the first time. The brothel's users sometimes spent days partying, and he was forbidden to leave. He had to attend to everyone, and on several occasions, heal some woman or man who had been used too much and needed medical attention. Yet there was an unusual number of visitors, so she could not take the time to look for him. So a day passed, then two. By the time the week ended, she was determined to track him down. But when night came, she went to his room and found scraps of cloth at the entrance. Entering, she saw him—thrown on the straw, a little heap of Puck crying inconsolably, without clothes, only a ragged cloak covering him. Beneath it, bruises, burns, fluids from many origins. Seeing him like that was terrible. But he was crying with a smile on his lips. Fearing his sanity had finally given way, Thris stripped him and herself. She dragged him, and they submerged in the stream. The cold bit—terrible, cruel, tearing away the freshest memories, all the pain, so much that it seemed comparable to seeing their parents dead.
Snow in Midnight Raven was as white as in few places. Its population did not make large bonfires. So when a snowflake surprised her, she realized she had been in the middle of a frozen river for a long time. Dragging Puck back to their temporary home, she lit a small fire and began to heat dinner. He was lying down, had stopped laughing hysterically, and now only had a grimace—a hint of a smile. When the food was warm—some oatmeal porridge—she brought the bowl to him and wanted to pull the ragged cloak from his hands. He looked at her for the first time since she found him lying there. In his eyes, there was happiness. With clumsy movements, he unwrapped the cloak. Inside was a note and a small bag. The bag contained one silver piece, as well as several copper pieces. The letter said he had been accepted to work at the Blackcap mages' headquarters as a level six mage's servant and could bring his sister to work in the kitchen. Thris was speechless. With trembling hands, she brought the recommendation to the light. Though she did not need to, yes, it was all there—including the headquarters' seal. Then she heard Puck:
"They arrived last night. The Blackcaps went to celebrate for days and days. But as soon as their invasion group returned, it was her, sister. They captured her, like she told us would happen. She is covered in ice and surrounded by protections. Sister Lilith did not lie to us! All this time, we traveled for the right reason."
She ran and hugged him again. His skin had been fighting the cold for a long time; his whole body had suffered unspeakable abuses, so he was exhausted. She stroked his wavy hair and his horns—small, like those of a young goat. She tucked him in so his legs would not show the thick hair. The firelight mattered not—its reddish glow gave them warmth and colored everything so that no one would notice their dark red skin. Finally, Puck fell asleep, and she prepared to cast Charm—one of the few magics she had, the only one that allowed an incubus and a succubus to survive in that city. With a little luck, it would also help them free their leader.