Although winter had not fully arrived, the sudden drop in temperature had already plunged the Scandinavian Peninsula into deep cold.
The cold had completely enveloped the region of Grums, spreading out along the shores of Lake Vänern.
The entire valley looked like a vast snowfield. Most living creatures had either died or fled, leaving behind only a handful of species capable of withstanding the brutal cold and surviving in this frozen wasteland.
The group of trolls before them clearly belonged to that hardy minority.
Each troll stood roughly twelve feet tall and weighed well over a ton. There were around ten of them in total.
Their skin was dull and gray, like weathered granite. Massive bodies were topped with tiny, cocoa-bean-sized heads. Their legs were thick and powerful, ending in flat, calloused feet, while their long arms hung awkwardly at their sides. A nauseating stench constantly wafted from their bodies.
Trolls favored raw meat but were not particularly picky about their prey. In the frigid depths of late autumn, they especially loved raw fish.
The largest and ugliest troll hefted its massive wooden club and smashed a hole in the ice.
The smaller trolls immediately crowded around, clumsily flattening themselves against the surface as they plunged their hands into the icy water, fumbling for fish.
Their clumsiness rendered the entire process absurdly inefficient.
Occasionally, when a sizable cod was dragged out, the tallest troll would snatch it away at once. After gnawing off several mouthfuls of the choicest flesh, it would toss the remaining "scraps" to the younger trolls.
Suddenly, the largest troll let out a snorting, rumbling grunt and raised its head toward the valley.
The others froze, following its gaze in unison.
There were living humans here.
...
Indeed, a witch was approaching them—walking gracefully straight toward the trolls.
She looked young, barely over thirty, her exposed face almost entirely free of wrinkles. A pointed wizard's hat sat atop her head, and she wore a black coat that offered virtually no protection against the cold.
The moment they stopped feeding, the trolls needed no orders from their leader.
They surged forward together.
In weather like this, fresh human flesh was far more appealing than frozen fish.
Though often mocked as creatures with "one-ton bodies and brains no bigger than boogers," trolls possessed formidable strength and considerable resistance to magic. Their combat ability was far from weak.
An untrained wizard facing one head-on would likely come to grief—let alone a whole group of them gathered together.
The witch frowned slightly and spoke in a hoarse, rasping voice.
"A bunch of disgusting vermin."
That voice clearly did not belong to a young witch in her twenties or thirties. It sounded more like that of a woman in her seventies or eighties.
The trolls' limited intelligence prevented them from understanding her words.
Snorting loudly, they charged toward her.
Unhurried, the witch drew her wand from her waist.
Only when the nearest troll closed to within ten yards did she finally raise it, moving with effortless elegance.
A flash of green light burst forth.
The closest troll collapsed, eyes wide open—dead.
Another flash of green light followed.
Then another.
Each emerald beam ended a life with flawless precision.
In little more than ten seconds, more than a dozen troll corpses lay scattered around the witch.
Of the entire group, only one remained—
The largest troll, their leader.
Despite its pitiful intelligence, it seemed to grasp something of the situation.
It dropped to its knees, letting out frantic, snorting grunts toward the witch, as though begging for mercy.
The witch clearly had no intention of finishing it off.
Calmly, she lowered her wand and turned to continue on her way.
She had taken only a few steps when she abruptly halted.
Her expression changed.
She spun around at once, wand snapping back up toward the troll leader.
The massive troll was already sprawled on the ground, writhing and groaning, blood trickling from the corners of its mouth.
Moments later, a small, ferret-like creature burst out through its chest.
Tiny but astonishingly fast, it gnawed at something between its teeth—most likely the troll's heart.
The witch did not linger her gaze on the weasel-like magical creature.
Instead, she looked up.
High in the sky, a tall, gaunt, pitch-black winged horse was hurtling toward them.
Its head resembled that of a fire dragon, and a pair of broad wings spread from its back.
"First a Jarvey, then a Thestral…" the witch murmured hoarsely "It's been a long time, Frederick."
A skeletal old wizard leapt down from the Thestral's back.
He bowed deeply to the witch before speaking.
"My respects, Lady Rosier. I must say—you look exactly the same as you did fifty years ago."
"Just a small trick," the witch snorted coldly. "I didn't expect you to make it here."
"I've been living in seclusion on Greenland for fifty years," Frederick replied, his tone as reverent as ever. "Partly to avoid that damned dog badger, and partly to wait for today… to wait for my master's summons."
"And the others?" Rosier asked. "Krafft, Carol, Melusine…"
"Carol and Melusine should already be dead," Frederick said calmly. "As for Krafft, he's still on his way here by flying carpet. I spotted him while passing over Tórshavn. Dragnea and Tuske should be arriving soon as well."
"It seems this gathering will be larger than I expected," Rosier said, a faint smile appearing on her face.
She lowered her gaze toward the castle hidden beneath the ice of Lake Vänern.
"And if we add Vance and Emerson as well."
...
At Durmstrang Institute, the Halloween feast was in full, raucous swing.
Students wore masks and dressed as all manner of monsters and spirits, singing and laughing around roaring bonfires.
For this northern magical school, Halloween was nearly the liveliest celebration of the entire year. Once winter deepened, even the Christmas feast would see a sharp decline in attendance due to the brutal cold.
Headmaster Professor Winston Vance was not among the revelers.
He stood apart, head tilted upward, eyes fixed on the sky.
Beside him stood a white-haired old wizard.
Had Christopher Patrick been present, he would have immediately recognized the man—the same elderly wizard who had once scrubbed the deck of the ghost ship during his first visit to Durmstrang.
"The time is almost here," the old wizard murmured, glancing down at his watch.
"Yes," Headmaster Vance replied quietly, nodding.
Almost at the same moment, on the shores of Lake Vänern not far away—
A streak of golden light rose into the sky, leaving behind a mark against the darkness of night.
It resembled a triangular eye, its pupil split by a single vertical line.