The wind howled like a starving beast.
Snow came down in sheets, sideways and sharp, blinding and biting. The world had vanished into a white nothing, save for the thin road barely visible beneath the growing drifts. Trees stood like black skeletons in the distance, their branches cracking under the weight of winter.
Through it all, a lone figure moved.
Wrapped in heavy furs and layered wool, the traveler trudged forward, each step sinking deep. His breath came in slow clouds that vanished before they meant anything. He said nothing. Made no sound but the crunch of snow and the groan of leather straps.
The storm showed no signs of stopping.
His cloak was rimmed with ice. Snow clung to his eyelashes. One hand stayed wrapped around the strap of a worn satchel slung across his shoulder, as if the weight of it mattered more than the weight of the storm.
Above, a crooked wooden sign swayed violently. The lettering had been worn to ghosts by years of weather and neglect. Only the rusted symbol of an old trade guild remained, flapping in the wind.
He passed beneath it without looking up.
Somewhere ahead—just beyond the white veil—dim lights flickered. A settlement, maybe. Or a trap. He didn't care.
He just needed somewhere quiet.
Somewhere that wasn't screaming.
A distant sound rose through the storm—not wind, not beast, not human. A slow tolling of a bell.
One… two… three.
He didn't stop walking.
The bell tolled again.
Four… five… six.
The sound was louder now—closer. It echoed not through the ears, but the chest, like something heavy being dragged through the storm.
And then—light.
Faint at first, like a mirage. Then brighter, steadier, piercing the swirling snow. A warm glow radiated through the trees, flickering like torchlight but too steady to be fire. It lit the storm from within, casting long shadows over the rising drifts.
He lifted his head.
A shape approached through the snowfall—broad, tall, and slow. Not threatening. Just… present.
The figure emerged fully from the storm. Nearly seven feet tall, covered in white fur that rippled with the wind, skin like smooth stone beneath what little showed. His breath steamed from a flat, gentle nose, and his pale blue eyes shimmered like frozen lakes.
He wore little—only a leather vest, fur bracers, and thick boots. The cold didn't seem to touch him.
He stopped a few feet away, blinking against the snow. Then, in a low and strangely melodic voice, he said:
"What are you doing out here? At this time of year?"
The traveler stood still, breath rising, face shadowed beneath his hood. He said nothing.
"You lost?" the large man tried again. "You alright? Can't feel your fingers, can you?"
Still, no answer.
The wind howled between them. Ice cracked somewhere deep in the forest.
The large man tilted his head, concern creasing his brow.
"You hear me? You understand? There are... things out here lately." He gestured to the tree line. "You shouldn't be here."
The traveler's eyes, barely visible under the frost-crusted hood, met his.
Still, nothing.
The big figure gave an awkward, breathy laugh, almost apologetic.
"Name's Thamus," he said, tapping his chest with a large hand. "I live down the ridge. Frostvale. Small place. Safe place."
The traveler's silence stretched on. Only the bell replied—seven… eight… nine.
Thamus shifted uncomfortably, but then gave a small nod.
"Alright. Look, I'm not gonna leave you out here. I don't care who you are, really. You're freezing, and we've had enough death this season." He stepped past the traveler and gestured for him to follow. "Come on. Not safe here."
A pause.
Then the traveler moved.
Slow, wordless, he fell in beside Thamus, steps crunching through the snow. No gratitude. No resistance. Just movement. Like wind pushing a dead branch.
They walked in silence, the only sounds the storm behind them and the slow bell tolling.
They walked for what felt like hours, the wind grinding against their backs like sand.
Once, Thamus glanced sideways at him, as if about to speak. But whatever thought he had passed unspoken. The traveler's gaze remained forward—emptied, glassed over, as if seeing something far beyond the snow.
The trees began to thin, and the storm's teeth dulled with every step. The glow of distant lanterns shimmered ahead, like constellations half-buried in snowdrifts.
The bell rang no more.
And if they had turned—just for a moment—they would have seen it.
Just off the side of the road, half-swallowed by the snow, a smear of deep violet wetness stained the white. It stretched along broken twigs and across a mound of disturbed earth.
Beside it lay a corpse, twisted and half-covered in snow.
The torso was torn wide open—ribs bent outward like broken fingers, organs missing, skin split by something neither claw nor blade. The face frozen in a scream. One arm was gone entirely.
Its blood was still steaming.
But no one looked back.
The traveler walked forward, silent.
And the forest watched.