The Iron Crown

1: Florin

There was an art, to running. It was something very few men would admit – that not just everyone could run. They would fight, they would say, even if they knew they couldn't win. Cowardice, they would call it, scoffing at the very idea. Really, though, deep down they knew that they would be found, and caught, tried, and executed. And so it was better to make a stand, make a statement, plead innocents until their mouths bled. Go out with a bang and not a whimper. Well, they could make all the stands they wanted.

Florin gritted his teeth, bracing against the bitter wind. It drove icy daggers into any patch of unprotected flesh, leaving his face and the backs of his hands raw. The frost collected like dust along the few locks of golden hair which had escaped his hood. His palms were warm; the rope had burned through the soft skin and to leak red across the threaded hemp. Each twist and shift of his mare's head as she galloped had the rope biting deeper still. How long had he been riding? Since before the storm proper had set in. Long enough that the towering pines had faded into little more than matchsticks far, far behind him. It was open fields buried in snow for miles, now, broken only by the husks of dead oak trees which hadn't been hardy enough to survive the cold. Once these fields had fed a nation, lush and golden under the spring sunshine. Now there was nothing but the endless, featureless, white, framed against an angry grey sky.

Winter this year had been harsher and longer than any in recorded history. Spring should have long since set in. But the snow had continued to fall, and the wind had continued to blow from the North. It seemed as though winter would see no end. There were already rumours of food shortages should it persist, gossip that the city lords would soon be dethroned, and the guard would take control of all of Atun's Glory. Florin wished those were the worst of his worries.

The hounds were still baying, somewhere off in the storm. It had been hours since he'd caught a glimpse of them, but since leaving the forests they'd fallen back. In the open like this, they would be easier to spot, easier to fend off, and they knew it. They would wait until night fell and what little light he had to see by died before moving in again. Florin tipped his head back, trying to catch sight of the sun through the rolling clouds. How much time did he have, until dusk arrived to swallow all hope of escape? He needed to put more distance between him and his pursuers, but he'd already pushed his horse near to exhaustion. Florin clicked his tongue, and while the sound was mostly lost to the blizzard, but his horse still slowed to a canter. A smile played on his lips, despite everything.

Willow was a young mare, but good rearing had made her as sturdy and dependable as a rock. He'd chosen her for her steady temperament and white coat, which was almost impossible to spot against the snow, both of which had served him well when he'd hunted with the city guard. She was the only thing he'd taken with him. The only thing he'd had time to take. And, if given the choice again, he would choose the same.

Florin reached bloodied fingers under his cloak, warm and damp against his neck. He tugged at the chain, letting the compass slide into his palm. It's metal casing was frosted over, ice collecting across its face like cobwebs. It took him a few attempts to pry it open. Florin could barely read it through the wall of snowflakes, but from what little he could tell, he was still headed north. Good, good. That was good. Still headed north, still away from the city. He guided Willow through the snowdrifts, towards a scattered patch of trees. They would rest here for a few hours, though he doubted they could stay any longer than that.

His legs were weak as he slid from her bare back, threatening to give way entirely beneath him. He staggered, grabbing a hold of the reins a little tighter to steady himself. He'd never been well built, but his time spent training with the guards had once seen him well-fed, lean. Fighting fit, as the guard captains would have put it. But the month he'd spent on the run had robbed him of any and all unnecessary weight and muscle. He'd cast aside the chainmail and half-plate they'd gifted him, traded for fur lined trousers and a tunic he'd bartered with a merchant caravan for. Only the cloak remained – a bright scarlet trimmed with gold that, no matter how hard he'd tried, he couldn't bring himself to throw away. His father was a captain in the Aegis guard and had gifted it to him on his fifteenth birthday. He'd promised that within a year Florin would be training along with the rest of them. Just a year, he'd have to wait, and then he would finally be a man.

Was this what being a man was, then? He'd barely any stubble on his chin, barely cut his teeth. He couldn't even hold a sword properly. Was being a man scrounging about in the snow for something – anything – edible? Was it hiding in a dank little hollow, listening wide eyes all night praying to every god he could think of that that baying wouldn't come any closer? Or was it being out here, beyond the city walls, terrified of freezing to death?

Dwelling on it wouldn't help, wouldn't fix anything. He'd been on autopilot, tying the makeshift reins to one of the hollow, half-rotted branches. Florin tucked his ruined hands into his sleeves, trying to muster any sense of warmth. He leant his back against the tree trunk, doing his best to ignore how the bark shifted, sinking cold, damp claws through his clothes. His breath streamed like white ribbons from his mouth and nostrils, snatched away by the howling wind. Florin let himself sick down, crouching in the snow. His fingers traced the compass face, running his nails along the little intricate details. A fox, chasing its own tail, engraved into the dulled bronze. Florin squeezed his eyes shut, pressing it against his forehead.

"Fennon, help me," he prayed, his voice strange after so long riding in silence. Once, he had asked the great fox to guide his arrows, to bless his hunts. Now he was begging to be seen, to be protected. For Fennon was the only one who could turn the tides of a hunt, and like it or not, right now, Florin was another's prey.

He wanted to cry. Why couldn't he cry? He hadn't shed a single tear since he'd first fled. Not when he'd been forced to spend his first night desperately fighting to keep his fire burning. Not when he'd first had to fight off the lucky hound who'd caught him unaware, leaving him with a wound on his leg which still hadn't fully healed. Not even when it had finally set in that not only would he never see his father again, and that he would never be able to go home. And the worst part? Florin didn't even know why.

They'd just...turned on him. Arrived at the bookshop where he was working, dragged him to the guardhouse and locked him in a cell. It was a shear miracle he'd even made his escape; not all of the guards it seemed, had been made aware he had been arrested. When the shifts had changed, it had taken little to convince the new guards this was all some kind of joke on his father, played at his expense. When they'd let him out, he hadn't even looked back.

Everything was so confusing. Why was it all so, so confusing? Why couldn't it just be simple?

Perhaps this was what being a man was, then.

Florin reached beneath his cloak, unlatching the waterskin from his belt. He could barely feel his fingers as he uncorked the neck, tipping it into his mouth. He swallowed, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Gods, he was tired. Finally, Florin allowed himself to sink into the snow. Willow had busied herself nosing through the banks for what little plants still fought to grown beneath the frost. He would let her rest, and then they would continue to head north until they reached a village or roadside inn where they could shelter for the night. He clipped the waterskin back to his belt and, after uttering one final prayer, slipped the compass back around his neck. The metal was ice against his chest, little needles worming their way into his aching heart. Florin huddled beneath the dead tree, listening as the wind carried the hounds' song ever closer.