With surprising strength for a six-year-old, Yoriichi gripped Serena's upper arm, wedging his small shoulder under her armpit.
"Breathe, Mother," Yoriichi said, his voice a soothing, melodic anchor in the swirling chaos of her mind. "The threat has been neutralized. Exhale for four counts. Inhale for four counts."
Between the two of them, Yoriichi and Lyra managed to haul Serena back up. She stumbled, her legs feeling like overcooked noodles, until they guided her to the sturdy wooden chair Gared had vacated. She sank into it, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she finally allowed a single, choked sob of relief to escape her lips.
From the corner of the room, the creak of old wood broke the silence.
Silas, the old shopkeeper, finally stood up from his rocking chair. He favored his bad leg, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. The old man looked pale, his watery eyes wide with a mixture of shock, awe, and lingering terror. He had watched the entire drama unfold as a helpless bystander, fully expecting to be murdered alongside the Stark woman to silence the witnesses.
"By the Old Gods and the New," Silas breathed, his voice gravelly and trembling. He limped over to the table, staring at Serena as if she had suddenly sprouted dragon wings. "I didn't expect you would manage to talk over that fox. He has crushed men twice your size for merely looking at him wrong."
He shook his head, a genuine look of respect settling into the deep wrinkles of his face.
"You were really brave, girl. Mad as a hatter, but brave."
Serena didn't have the breath to respond. She simply nodded, keeping her eyes closed, focusing on Yoriichi's steady breathing exercises to calm her racing heart.
Seeing her state, the old man turned away and busied himself at the hearth. He grabbed an iron kettle, filled it with fresh snow from a bucket near the door, and hooked it over the roaring fire. From a small pouch at his belt, he drew a handful of dried pine needles, crushed sweetgrass, and a few dark, shriveled berries. He tossed them into the melting water.
A few minutes later, the sharp, earthy aroma of northern tea filled the shop, cutting through the smell of dust and blood.
Silas poured the dark liquid into a chipped clay mug and brought it over. He pressed it into Serena's shaking hands. The heat of the clay seeped into her frozen palms, grounding her. She took a slow sip. It was bitter, astringent, and burned going down, but it sent a shock of warmth into her hollow stomach.
"Thank you, Silas," Serena whispered, her voice hoarse.
Silas grunted, dragging his own stool closer and sitting down heavily. He rested his hands on his cane, staring deeply into the fire. The silence stretched again, but this time it was not tense. It was the quiet aftermath of a storm.
But as Serena took another sip of her tea, she noticed the old man fidgeting. His knuckles were white on his cane. He chewed his lower lip, his eyes darting toward the ironwood box sitting on the counter, and then toward the heavy oak door, as if afraid Gared was still listening through the keyhole.
"Umm..." Silas began, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "I need to tell you something. Something I should have told the Lord Commander years ago."
He stopped, his gaze shifting nervously to Yoriichi, who was currently using a clean rag to wipe the blood off the skinning knife, and Lyra, who was resting her head on Serena's lap.
"It's very secretive," Silas muttered, licking his dry lips. "Dangerous knowledge. You... perhaps the little ones should go play outside for some time? Or wait in the back room?"
Serena lowered her mug. The warmth from the tea had banished the worst of the tremors. Her mind, ever resilient, was beginning to piece its defenses back together.
She looked at her children. She looked at the blood on her son's rag.
Serena shook her head slowly.
"You can tell me anything, Silas," Serena said gently, but firmly. "You saw what happened today. You saw how they helped me. Without them, I would be dead, and you would be digging my grave. We have no secrets from one another."
She placed a hand on Yoriichi's head. "As I told you earlier, they aren't talkative. They are quiet ones. They will not repeat what they hear."
Silas stared at the boy. Yoriichi met the old man's gaze with those unsettling, bottomless red eyes. Silas shivered, realizing that the six-year-old was probably the most dangerous person in the room.
"Aye," Silas muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Quiet ones. Right."
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He leaned forward, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames.
"What Gared told you today... about the corrupt builders, the stolen steel, the wildling gold..." Silas began, shaking his head slowly. "It was the truth. But it was only a fraction of it. The story he told you was just a part to appease you."
Serena's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? The ledger has eighteen names. That is a massive ring of thieves."
"Eighteen names of the fishes," Silas corrected grimly. "The desperate stewards, the greedy builders. The men who sneak a single crate of arrows or a bundle of furs out of the armory when the Quartermaster is drunk."
Silas pointed a crooked, trembling finger at the dusty floorboards beneath their feet.
"Lord Gared's operation... it mainly passes from here," Silas revealed, the weight of the secret pressing down on him. "This shop isn't just a front to sell rusty axes to farmhands. It is the central staging ground. The entire syndicate is here much secretive."