Seated in the company of three near-strangers in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, awaiting the storm’s inevitable arrival, Truman arrived at a singular conclusion: he was actually not fond of the situation. Not at all.


    He nodded, as if to agree with himself.


    The cold gnawed at his face, the snowflakes forming light layers on his head every few minutes. Fun shaking it off.


    At the very least, the Emberite stone provided them warmth. Raisin-sized stone he found while digging for food. Powerful warming ability. Good rock.


    Beside him, equally ensconced in blankets and basking in the Emberite’s warmth, was the prisoner lady. Her hat was tipped forward, shielding her eyes as she drifted in and out of sleep. Every now and then, she would lurch onward, then snap awake and catch herself.


    Truman might have offered his shoulder for support, but she seemed to hold the notion of physical contact in the same regard Truman held the notion of being poor.


    Utter distaste.


    He smiled faintly as Alice withdrew her hands, having just finished stuffing smelly tissues up his nose.


    “The herb within should counteract the effects soon,” she murmured before retreating to her own seat, her cheeks flushed red from the cold, her fingers raw at the tips.


    Truman’s nose, along with his sense of taste, had long ceased to function—not only due to the relentless chill but also from prolonged exposure to the poisonous air of the forest. Though they had traveled several miles down the Sail road, his senses had yet to recover.


    Miss Alice coughed—loud. Prisoner lady stirred, scowled, then adjusted her hair under her cap.


    “Is it time to eat?” she muttered.


    Before Alice could form a reply, Dame Freya arrived, balancing a tray of bowls. The first to pick up their food was the prisoner lady. Her blue eyes staring at the half-full portion like she was somewhere else. A flicker of irritation crossed her face. Gone in a second.


    Alice followed, then Truman, and lastly, Freya.


    They ate in silence, an uneasy quiet settling over them, until Freya, with no regard for the tension, embarked upon a recollection of the day she had chosen to become a knight. She claimed it was for the sake of simple pleasures like this.


    Truman squinted, uncertain which aspect of their current predicament she found pleasurable.


    He turned slightly, catching the prisoner lady watching him—or rather, staring at the crumpled tissues stuffed into his nose.


    “Sorry about that,” she pointed to his nose with her chin, putting down her empty bowl. “Must suck.”


    “Do they look strange? They feel strange,” Truman mused, his expression as reassuring as one could manage while chewing a piece of stale bread.


    “It looks funny,” she said, like it was an observation.


    “Ah…” Truman’s shoulders slumped slightly.


    She observed the tissues for a moment longer before murmuring, almost to herself, “This world must be evil.”


    “Hm?”


    “It has to be…”


    Truman considered this but said nothing. He had also neglected to listen to Freya’s ongoing tale, only snapping back to attention as she suddenly clapped her hands together, an eager glint in her brown eyes.


    “Let us play a game!”


    Truman scratched the back of his head, setting down his now-empty bowl.


    “… No,” Alice said flatly, momentarily breaking out of what seemed to be very ominous thoughts.


    Prisoner lady pointed at Alice. “What she said.”


    Truman sensed a strange sensation churning in his stomach—something distinct from hunger, though no less unpleasant.


    "No, no, no!" Freya declared, undeterred. "This wretched mood will be the end of us! You must indulge me." She grasped Alice’s hand in exaggerated entreaty.


    A quiet settled following her claim, and the group came to acknowledge that the quiet they sat in wasn’t peaceful at all. It was suffocating.


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    To Truman’s surprise, it was Penelope who broke first. “Fine.”


    Alice exhaled in defeat. “Have you something in mind?”


    “Truth or drink!” Freya straightened. Her armor clanked, a reminder that neither knight had removed their gear, prepared to depart at any moment’s notice.


    “… But we have no drinks,” Alice mumbled.


    Penelope and Truman sighed at that same realization.


    Freya waved a dismissive hand. “’Tis alright. I have a Lucenite!” She pulled a brown stone out of her pocket, raising it like it was a trophy. “We shall pass it around, answer a question, and if the stone glows white, it confirms the truth of one’s words! Fascinating, is it not?”


    Truman was the only one to nod.


    “Excellent! Sir Truman, you shall begin!” She tossed the stone. Caught with ease.


    The prisoner lady shifted, crossing her legs like Miss Alice.


    “Question!” Freya yelled out, her eyes sparkling with childlike excitement. “What do you despise most. Elaborate answers only.”


    Truman looked around, waiting for someone to answer while they all stared at him. Alice nudged his arm.


    “Oh, me,” he realized.


    He thought for a second, his golden eyes glinting with nostalgia. “Broken promises.”


    The stone in his hand flared brilliantly. Hard on eyes.


    Freya clasped her hands together, grinning. “Amazing answer…” She said in an expectant tone.


    When Truman didn’t continue, she leaned in. “More elaborate?”


    Truman blinked. “… What is an elaborate?” he asked, slightly struggling with the word’s pronunciation.


    “More details, Sir Truman,” Alice explained swiftly.


    “Oh.” Truman frowned in thought. “Well, why make a promise if one intends to break it? That’s disgusting.”


    Penelope raised a hand, her tone flat. “I don’t get why we should elaborate.”


    “Just follow the rules,” Freya hissed. “It is only fair. I will be sharing much information, therefore you must as well.”


    Truman thought about it further. “It is sort of a family thing,” Truman rolled his shoulders, making Penelope drop the thought of quarreling with Freya on the matter. She gave a small nod.


    Freya took the stone next. “Being told I cannot do something.” The stone glowed. “It began in childhood. I learned much, yet none of it was meant to serve me. Knowledge is a curious thing when it serves no purpose of one’s own”


    Truman did not see the correlation between the answer and the elaboration.


    “But who did it serve?” Alice frowned, leaning closer, as if to eye Freya better. “Your parents?”


    Freya shook her head. A strange look crossed her face. “No. The family.”


    Prisoner lady hummed. “Cool. Ali’s turn.”


    Alice sighed, taking the stone. “Uncertainty. Of people, of facts. I detest it. I must know.”


    Penelope snorted, flashing a rare, sharp-toothed grin. She shook her head at Alice, who began to cough. She handed Penelope the stone, rubbing her own throat.


    The prisoner lady eyed it with mild annoyance. "Being alone," she said, and the stone glowed. “It’s a childhood thing. Doesn’t matter if I like the person or not. As long as there’s noise, I hate it less.”


    Truman scratched the back of his neck.


    The prisoner lady slowly stood up. “I’ll excuse myself for a moment,” her breath misted in the cold air. “I’ll return shortly,” she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat and dragged her boots across the snow towards the frozen bushes in the far distance.


    Freya continued with the questions, and Truman turned to Alice, noticing how her gaze lingered on Penelope’s retreating figure for a moment before she turned back to Freya.


    Minutes passed.


    Truman was silently fighting a stomachache when Penelope’s footsteps sounded in the distance. She was returning, approaching from behind Dame Freya.


    Alice rubbed her temples. “Alright, Freya, I think we’ve had en—”


    “Wait, one, one more!” She held a hand up at Alice, whose expression spoke of some kind of pain. “What is your greatest fear?”


    The prisoner lady’s expression shifted. She looked very unimpressed.


    Alice sighed, lifting a cup to her lips.


    “Bro, did you not play when you were a kid?” Penelope’s voice cut through the chill.


    Alice coughed up her drink.


    Truman wondered what a bro was.


    Freya smiled. But it wasn’t a happy smile. She slammed her palm into the snow. “You know what, I also have a question for you, Pen.” Freya turned to look up at Penelope behind her. “Hold this stone!”


    Penelope lazily evaded the stone Freya threw, letting it fall on the snow behind her. Freya shot up.


    Alice and Truman followed, ready to diffuse the tension.


    “What are the biggest lies you’ve to—!” Before she could complete the sentence, her breath hitched.


    Her knees hit the ground with a thud. She looked up at them, confused.


    Before anyone could react, a thin rivulet of blood trickled down Penelope’s nose.


    Penelope frowned, touching the liquid and realizing it was blood. “What…”


    Truman blinked. Something was wrong.


    Penelope’s hand shot to her chest, fingers twisting into her cloak. She coughed, a terrible sound escaping her lips. And then, her head lifted, her eyes grazing past me, and then Alice. Her expression sharpened as her gaze fell upon Freya.


    “You…” A realization hit her, and she pointed a bloodied finger at Freya. “You po—!” Penelope’s lips parted, but no further accusation came—only blood, blooming against the white canvas on the ground beside Freya.


    She teared up, horror painted on every inch of her expression, a look of betrayal in her blues. Her eyes fell shut, and she collapsed onto the snow.


    Alice gasped, reaching out. “My la—!” but her own hands were already slick with red. She convulsed, choking on what little breath she had left before her body, too, surrendered to unconsciousness.


    Truman and Freya locked eyes.


    His stomach twisted violently, his entire body screaming alarm. A sickening heat clawed up his throat, and then—


    He heaved.


    Everything in his stomach spilled onto the frozen ground. His head spun. The tissues in his nose scattered into the wind, and with their absence, a taste awoke on his tongue.


    Bitter. Acrid. Wrong.


    Poison.


    In a blink, his sword was drawn. Freya knelt before him, ashen, trembling.


    Truman’s breath came sharp, uneven. He raised his blade, poised to end it before hesitation could take root—


    But she coughed. And the residue was red.


    “I—!” Tears streaked her cheeks, mingling with the blood slipping from her nose.


    She wavered, her head lolling.


    Truman’s chest tightened. His grip faltered. Before he could correct it—


    The world tilted.


    Everything went pitch black.