Right ahead of them, a group of people were rushing up the open white plains, riding hard over the crusted snow on the backs of saddled wolves the size of warhorses. The animals' paws tore shallow trenches and sent powder hissing outward in pale fans. From the looks of it, about a couple dozen at least, lean shapes, cloaks snapping in the wind, steel glinting at hips and shoulders. At the front was a young man in a set of golden armor, cape flaring behind him, a tiara catching the thin sunlight, and a shining sword bared across his saddle horn. The ultimate depiction of a "Hero" in all the stories Ludwig had read before, someone's painted icon stepped down from a chapel wall. As if those fantasies had come to life. The group rushed fast toward them, the wolves' breath steaming, and they didn't seem to be in any way friendly.
