In the frozen North, where Fjordhelm's winter swallows whole generations, Veros took a single step into the snow—unaware that this step would echo across kingdoms, awaken old shadows, and begin the journey that would tear the North open.
The forest was quiet. Between tall pines and firs, fine snow drifted down, soft as a breath that barely touched the air. Cold hung unmoving between the trunks, and the ground lay smooth beneath white frost.
Veros walked among the evergreens. Sixteen years old, lean but strong. Black, slightly wavy hair hung over his forehead; his green eyes looked lighter than usual in the pale light. pale skin, black gloves covering old scars, the familiar signs of someone who had known winter for a long time. His light, brown-shaded tunic was covered by a heavy coat of dark brown and black fur. His sturdy boots pressed quietly into the snow. On his back he carried a sword with a black hilt and silver details on the scabbard. The bundle of firewood rested on his shoulder.
His steps left even tracks in the snow. Flakes gathered on his coat and he brushed them off with one quick motion. Ahead of him the forest opened.
A small village lay in a hollow. Roofs, a well, low walls, all still, as if someone had held the air in place.
Veros stopped.
"Good," he muttered. "If I get this done fast, I won't freeze as long." His breath drifted briefly in front of him. "Or I'll just pretend I'm warm."
The path down was narrow. Beneath a thin sheet of ice was packed dirt. Each step cracked softly. Between two low houses, the light dimmed and the wind eased. Veros shifted the wood on his shoulder and stepped out of the shade into a small square.
To the right stood the merchant's hut. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney. Warmth slipped through the crack in the door.
He pushed it open with his shoulder.
A wave of heat met him, soft and steady. The stove glowed orange, its flames painting shapes across the walls. The air smelled of resin. Beside it lay two logs, and a narrow shelf of jars.
The merchant sat hunched on a stool. When Veros entered, he slowly lifted his head. Thin features, sunken cheeks, dark brown hair slicked back, all marked by winter. But his gray-blue eyes were alert. The thick wool tunic in earthy colors, the worn leather apron, the cracked hands: a familiar, weary sight.
"Wood?" he asked.
Veros let the bundle sink. "As much as you need."
The man stood, rubbed his hands together, and checked the wood. Firelight reflected in his eyes.
"You're young. Very young for someone wandering alone in the cold."
Veros pulled off his gloves, held his fingers toward the heat. "I go my own way. There's wood everywhere."
A low snort. "At your age most people still cling to someone."
"I'm not the clinging sort."
"Hm." A short nod. "And where do you go after this?"
"Wherever I end up."
The merchant placed three coins on the table. They rolled a bit, then stopped. Veros took them. Warm metal.
"That's fine."
He straightened his coat, let the warmth sink into him for a moment. Then he opened the door.
The cold grabbed him instantly.
The square was just as silent.
"Winter slows people down… but it doesn't make them mute, does it?" He listened.
"Usually you hear an axe. Footsteps. Something. But now? Nothing."
His breath dissolved in the frost. "Great. Exactly the kind of silence no one needs."
He continued onward. Dim light between houses, uneven tracks in the snow. Cold crept under his coat.
Farther ahead, a light was burning. Gentle but clear. A pressure built in his stomach before he knew why.
A wide timber building, no sign, no name. Only a window with a weak glow.
Veros stepped inside.
Warm, mild air brushed past him, life returning to his fingers. The room was crowded: men in light coats, women over cups, two hooded figures. No laughter. Only low conversations. A few measuring glances.
After the door closed, The warmth stayed faint, the tension didn't fade.
He moved carefully between the tables. Candles threw soft shadows. Herbs and meat hung from the beams.
The barkeep set down a jug. An older man with gray, wild hair, slightly tanned skin, heavy eyelids, but sharper eyes than expected. A green tunic, worn apron, sinewy forearms, every movement practiced.
"Cold?" he asked.
"Enough to ruin the day."
The barkeep filled a cup and slid it over. "This helps."
Veros drank. Heat eased his shoulders. "Thanks."
"Food later," the barkeep said. "You look tired."
"A bed would be better."
"Upstairs. Not big, but warm."
"Warm's enough."
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. "The price is simple."
"Good."
A chair scraped. Voices flickered for a moment.
Veros raised his cup, turned slightly when someone sat beside him.
A heavy man. Gray-white fur coat brushing his sleeve. Veros hadn't heard his steps.
"You there. With the sword."
Veros barely turned.
Tall. Broad. Dark clothes beneath fur. White-gray hair pushed back. Cold skin, thick beard. Dark brown eyes under a steel helmet. Every motion controlled.
"You don't often see someone your age with a blade that's lived more than he has," the man said. "Why carry it?"
Veros set the cup down. "You never know what you'll meet."
"Or who. Passing through?"
"Passing through."
A deep rumble. "Good for you. No one should stay here long."
"And why not?"
A creaking chair. He scanned the room. "Because villages like this know more than they say. And because the world outside isn't half as dangerous as the things people hold on to inside."
"And what would that be?"
Lines deepened on his face. "The belief that staying quiet keeps you safe."
The barkeep came closer. "Leave the boy alone. He hasn't done anything to you."
The stranger turned his head. "I speak how I want."
"Not in here."
A cold smile. "You love talking about rules in here… yet break them outside."
The barkeep froze. His hand tightened around the table edge. "We owe you nothing anymore."
"Can't you… or won't you?"
Veros noticed how the room grew even quieter.
The man leaned forward. "Breaking a deal breaks more than the deal."
"That's enough."
A relaxed lean back. "Of course."
He drank, set the cup down. "The boy's lucky it's only words today."
A chair scraped. The man stood.
He paused before Veros. "Boy." Veros looked up.
"If you're smart, you won't stay longer than necessary."
"I'll stay right here. Just tonight."
Frost crackled against the window. The stranger left. A gust swept in, then the door closed.
Farther back another figure rose. Large, gray-white fur cloak, hood low over the face. Soft steps.
The barkeep lifted his chin. Veros watched.
The hooded man stopped. The air tightened.
Then he lifted his head a little. "Boy… do you know what they say?"
"No."
"If Ranar doesn't trust you… then you'd better run."
Silence settled over the room.
He left. No one stopped him. The door closed slowly.
The barkeep exhaled. "You want food now?"
"Yeah. Why not."
He began cooking. Metal, knives, the hiss of fat. The smell of meat filled the air.
He set the plate down: pork, potatoes, steaming.
"Here."
Veros ate. "Good."
Voices returned.
"The key?"
The barkeep placed an iron key down. "Up left. Door sticks."
Veros paid.
"If you need anything, knock."
He climbed the creaking stairs. The hallway narrow, cooler.
Second door left. The key turned stiffly.
A small room: bed, frosted window.
Veros closed the door. The scent of dry wood lingered.
He sat on the bed's edge, hands on his knees. Candlelight flickered.
"At least it's warm."
"A roof over my head…"
"And tomorrow I keep going. As always." → A narrow path, footprints, a long shadow.
He brushed his fingers past the candle.
"A miracle I still find this surprising."
He leaned back.
"Maybe tonight stays quiet. Would be a first… but possible."
"Strange how one boat decides who stays and who goes." → A small boaat, two adults at the shore.
A crooked smile.
"Of course I was the one who fit. Pure luck."
"Father barely said a word. Mother… neither." → Two faces in backlight.
A short pause.
"Well, I wasn't allowed to talk either. Space was space." → The boat, the empty spot.
A thin laugh.
"Funny how quiet people get when they do something permanent." → Two silhouettes at the shore.
His eyes dropped toward the floor. "I still remember the sound of the water…" → Small waves against wood.
"I never answered." → His younger self, staring.
"Sometimes I think the boat should have been bigger. Or smaller." → The boat.
A shrug. "Depends what you believe."
"And then someone like him crosses my path." → The man from the tavern.
"A warrior, no doubt."
A faint snort. "With luck, that was our first and last conversation."
The candle flickered. Frost traced the glass.
Veros sat still.
"Yeah, great."
"One night of sleep, wake up, and everything looks just as awful as before."
He looked to the door.
"I could stay. Just tonight." → Empty crossroads in snow.
He leaned back farther.
"Maybe the world's kinder tomorrow." → Faint morning light.
His breathing steadied. The candle dropped lower, only a weak glow.
Outside, darkness. No sound.
When Veros looked up again, the room was gray. The candle dead. A pale strip of light on the table.
He stood, slipped into his boots, and went to the window. Frost clung to it. Behind it, thick fog.
A flat exhale. "Perfect. Exactly what I needed."
Then a scream tore through the silence. Short, sharp.
Veros lifted his head.
A second scream, farther away. A third – closer.
His body tightened, breath halted. → Spring. Fire. Flames on walls. People running. Bodies.
A jolt. He was back.
He ran to the door, kicked it open. The sound filled the hall. Down the stairs. Boots on wood.
Below: shifted benches, an overturned chair, a cup, a trail. He didn't stop.
He tore the front door open.
Snow slammed into him. Cold. Heavy. Fog swallowing visibility.
His steps cracked through the frost. He saw only the ground right ahead.
Wind cut through his clothes.
A hollow spot under his foot, he slipped, caught himself. Breath sharp.
He kept moving. Straight ahead.
"…Iron. It smells like iron."
He sped up. Steps shorter.
"Iron. More of it."
His chest burned. The smell grew stronger, bitter on his tongue.
He slowed. "No… iron everywhere."
His steps faltered. He forced himself forward.
Fog thinned. A gap. Wider. Then clear.
A heap of bodies. Limbs pressed together, clothes torn, skin dull. Dark streaks. Red in folds, in snow, on hands.
Veros stopped. His boots sank in.
"…Iron. Far too much."
His green eyes rested on the pile.