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"You'll die before sunrise."
Virrak's voice came from behind me, low and flat. I didn't turn around. My legs were still shaking from the council tent, from the way they'd looked at me like I was already a corpse.
"Then I'll die running," I said.
The snow crunched under his boots as he moved closer. "The hunters left ten minutes ago. They have horses. You have a spear you can barely lift."
I finally looked at him. Old, scarred, gray beard braided with iron rings. The only man in that tent who hadn't voted to strip me naked and leave me for the wolves.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. Just stood there, breath misting in the freezing air, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"I swore an oath to your father," he said. "I don't break oaths."
"My father's dead."
"The oath isn't."
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or sit down in the snow and let the cold take me. But none of those options kept me alive, so I turned and started walking.
"Wrong direction," Virrak said.
"I'm not going back."
"I know. But if you go that way, you'll hit the river in an hour. The ice is thin. You'll fall through."
I stopped. Turned. "How do you know?"
"Because I've been fighting in this frozen hellhole for thirty years. Now move. East ridge. We have maybe two hours before they catch up."
He didn't wait for me to agree. Just started walking, shoulders broad under his wolf-pelt cloak, moving through the snow like it wasn't there.
I followed.
What choice did I have?
---
The first hour was silent. My lungs burned. My hands were numb even inside the gloves someone—probably Virrak—had shoved at me before we left camp. The spear dragged in the snow behind me because I couldn't hold it up anymore.
Then I saw it.
Floating over Virrak's head, faint and blue like a HUD overlay.
**[Virrak - Lv. 48 Warlord]** **Morale: 62% | Loyalty: 89% | Condition: Fatigued**
I stopped walking.
"What's wrong?" Virrak asked, not looking back.
"Nothing," I said, but my voice came out too high.
He stopped. Turned. His eyes narrowed. "You're seeing something."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. How the hell was I supposed to explain this? *Oh, by the way, I'm not really your dead lord's daughter, I'm a game designer from another world and I'm seeing RPG stats over your head like this is some kind of twisted isekai?*
Yeah. That would go great.
"I see numbers," I said finally. "Over your head. Loyalty. Morale. Level."
Virrak stared at me.
"You hit your head in that fight," he said.
"I didn't."
"Then you're mad."
"Maybe." I met his eyes. "But I'm also right. Your loyalty is eighty-nine percent. Your morale is sixty-two. You're fatigued but you're pushing through it because you think I'll collapse if you don't."
His jaw tightened.
"How could you possibly—"
"I don't know." My hands were shaking again. "But I saw the wolf's weak spot too. In the tent. A red mark on its throat. That's how I killed it."
Virrak's hand moved to his sword.
"If you're possessed—"
"I'm not."
"Then what are you?"
"I don't know!" The words came out louder than I meant. "I don't know, okay? I woke up in this body two days ago and I don't understand any of this and the only thing keeping me alive is that I can see things no one else can see."
Silence.
Snow fell between us, soft and relentless.
Virrak's hand stayed on his sword.
"Prove it," he said.
"What?"
"If you can see what I'm thinking, prove it. Tell me something no one else knows."
I looked at the floating text again. Scanned the stats. And then I saw it, buried in a sub-menu I hadn't noticed before.
**[Hidden Trait: Guilt - Failed to protect Lord Korde]**
My throat tightened.
"You think you failed my father," I said quietly. "You think if you'd been faster, or smarter, or braver, he'd still be alive. And you're following me because you think this is your last chance to make it right."
Virrak's face went white.
He took a step back.
"How—"
A horn blast cut him off.
We both froze.
The sound came from the west. Close. Too close.
"Hunters," Virrak said. His hand left his sword, moved to the axe on his belt. "Run. Now."
We ran.
---
The ridge was steeper than it looked. My boots slipped on ice. My lungs screamed. Behind us, I could hear the dogs—low, hungry barks that echoed through the trees.
"How many?" I gasped.
Virrak didn't answer. He was scanning the tree line, eyes sharp, moving like a man half his age.
Then I saw them.
Three riders. Furs and leather. Bows.
And floating over their heads:
**[Hunter - Lv. 22]** **[Hunter - Lv. 24]** **[Hunter - Lv. 26]**
"Three," I said. "Levels twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-six."
Virrak shot me a look. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means the one on the left is the weakest. Take him first."
He didn't argue. Just pulled his axe free and moved.
The first hunter didn't even see him coming. Virrak's axe took him in the chest, clean and brutal. The man fell.
The other two wheeled their horses around.
One of them raised a bow.
I saw the red targeting line before the arrow flew.
"Virrak—"
He moved. Not fast enough.
The arrow hit him in the shoulder.
He grunted. Staggered.
"Virrak!" I didn't mean to scream his name. It just came out.
The second hunter nocked another arrow.
I looked at the floating text. Scanned for weaknesses.
And there it was.
**[Weak Point: Horse - Left Foreleg Injured]**
I didn't think. Just moved.
I threw the spear.
It wasn't a good throw. I didn't have the strength or the training. But the horse was close, and the spear was heavy, and somehow—somehow—it hit.
The horse screamed. Went down.
The rider hit the ground hard. Didn't get up.
The third hunter looked at me. At Virrak. At his dead companions.
Then he turned his horse and ran.
I collapsed.
Virrak was breathing hard, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers.
"You called me Virrak," he said.
"What?"
"Not General. Not sir. Just my name."
I didn't know what to say.
He pulled the arrow out. Didn't even flinch.
"We need to move," he said. "More will come."
I nodded. Got to my feet.
And then I saw it.
Over the ridge, maybe half a mile east.
Smoke.
Not just smoke.
A signal fire.
Burning in the old Korde pattern—three short bursts, one long.
Virrak saw it too.
His face went hard.
"That camp's been abandoned for six years," he said.
"Then who lit the fire?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
But we both started walking.