Far to the south of Frostfall, where the snows turned to mist and the mountains fell into dark pine valleys, a single rider galloped through the night.
The wind tore at his cloak, the hoofbeats echoing like war drums. Blood streaked his furs, dried and frozen — a survivor's mark. He bore no banner, only fear.
At dawn, he reached the fortress of Bjornhold, stronghold of the Bjornskarn clan.
The gates opened just long enough to let him through. Inside, the great hall was lit by fire pits and ringed with the heads of beasts — bears, wolves, and men alike. At the far end sat Jarl Soren Bjornskarn, a mountain of a man whose left eye was clouded white from an old wound.
The rider stumbled forward, fell to one knee, and gasped, "Jarl… Frostfall has a demon."
The hall fell silent.
Soren leaned forward. "Speak."
"It was no man," the scout rasped. "He walked through the storm as arrows fell, and death followed him. He touched our archer — just touched him — and the lad fell lifeless, like his soul had been torn free."
The murmurs began — low, fearful.
One warrior spat into the fire. "Old wives' tales."
But another crossed himself, muttering, "No man kills with a touch."
Soren's single eye narrowed. "You're certain of this?"
The scout nodded. "I saw it. The Frostfall warriors call him the Reaper."
The Jarl sat back slowly, fingers drumming against the armrest. "The Reaper of Frostfall," he said, testing the name like poison on his tongue. "And you say he's but a boy?"
"Aye, my lord. Barely grown."
The firelight caught the Jarl's scarred face as he smiled — not with amusement, but calculation.
"Then Frostfall has a weapon the gods themselves might envy."
He stood, the hall's chatter dying instantly. "Send riders to every clan that owes us favor — the Ironharts, the Drakesons, the Wyrmfeld. Tell them Frostfall harbors a creature of death, a half-blood cursed by Hel herself. Tell them he's building an army of spirits beneath the snow."
A few of his men exchanged uneasy looks. "But, Jarl, what if he isn't—?"
Soren slammed his axe into the table, splitting the wood. "Then we'll make sure he becomes one. Fear is the best weapon a man can forge, and I'll see Frostfall burn beneath it."
By the next moon, word had spread across the northern realms.
Tavern fires whispered of the boy who killed with a touch.
Merchants crossed themselves when they passed Frostfall's borders.
Some said he was the son of Death himself. Others swore he was a god reborn — or the herald of Ragnarök.
And in the great hall of Thornhaven, seat of the high clans, envoys gathered to decide the truth. The fire crackled as a dozen jarls argued over ale and fear.
"They say he slew ten men with one word!" shouted one.
"Nonsense," another barked. "It's tricks and lies — Frostfall trying to scare us off their iron mines."
But Jarl Soren's messenger stood among them, cloak tattered, eyes hollow. "I saw it. He didn't draw a blade. He just touched the man's face. And the life went out of him."
The hall quieted.
At the far end, Jarl Ingrid Thorn, one of the most powerful leaders in the north, rose from her chair. Her voice was calm but edged with steel. "Whether the tale's truth or terror matters not. Fear moves armies faster than gold."
She turned toward the fire. "Send word to every holdfast. We'll convene under the winter moon. If Frostfall shelters death itself, we'll drag it into the light."
The jarls murmured their assent. The war horns would not sound yet — but they soon would.
Far to the north, the winds over Frostfall carried a strange stillness.
Zank, unaware of the storm building beyond the mountains, stood alone on the ramparts beneath the pale moon, feeling the world shift — as if something vast and unseen had turned its gaze toward him.
He didn't know why, but the night felt colder than any he'd ever known.