The wind howled over the Glass Tundra like it wanted Malik dead.
The frozen wasteland stretched forever—blinding white snow dunes broken only by jagged shards of transparent ice jutting from the ground like giant teeth. Every step crunched and echoed. Somewhere far off, the roars of frostbeasts rolled through the air, low and heavy, like thunder behind a curtain.
Malik's breath fogged in front of him, the vapor curling in the bitter cold. His black coat, patched with pieces of scavenged leather and fur, weighed heavy on his shoulders. He adjusted the strap of his spear across his back and muttered to himself.
"Gotta keep movin'… or the cold'll eat me faster than these other psychos."
In the Trials, death could come from a blade, a beast, or simply standing still too long.
He spotted movement ahead—a figure leaning against one of the taller ice spires, completely unfazed by the wind. The man's skin was deep brown, his eyes half-lidded, and his hair was tied back into thick locs decorated with mismatched beads. He had a carved bone pipe in his hand, and the smoke from it didn't scatter in the wind—it curled, thick and deliberate, like it was alive.
Malik slowed his steps. "You lost, man?"
The stranger smirked without looking up. "Nah. I'm exactly where I meant to be. You ever notice how a place this cold make you think 'bout warm stuff? Family. Fire. Fried fish?" He took a slow pull from his pipe. "Sometimes I just… bring the warmth myself."
The smoke drifted outward, and suddenly Malik wasn't in the tundra anymore. The snow under his boots became damp wooden planks. The air smelled of saltwater and frying shrimp. Somewhere nearby, a trumpet crooned a lazy jazz melody while people laughed in the distance.
Malik blinked hard. The cold returned. The snow crunched again.
"What the hell was that?"
"Just a lil' warm-up," the man said. "Name's Zyren Vance. Folks call me Smokebreak. And you?"
"Malik Carter."
Zyren grinned, finally standing straight. "Well, Malik Carter, you look like somebody who don't plan on dying out here. That's good. I only roll with survivors. Problem is—" He nodded past Malik's shoulder. "Somebody's been following you for the last half-mile."
Malik turned just in time to see three shapes breaking from behind a dune—trial contestants in mismatched armor, their eyes cold, weapons ready.
"You friends with them?" Zyren asked.
"Nope."
"Cool," Zyren said, taking another puff. "Then we can play."
The smoke exploded from his pipe, swirling around the attackers. Their strides slowed. Their eyes darted to things only they could see. One of them screamed at the air, swinging his axe wildly at phantom enemies.
Malik stepped in, his spear flashing, striking the first one down. The second tried to flank him, but Zyren's smoke shifted again—this time turning the ice beneath the man into the illusion of deep water. The man panicked, stumbling long enough for Malik to ram his spear through his shoulder.
The last attacker fled into the white haze.
"Not bad," Malik said, breathing hard.
"I do what I can," Zyren replied. "Besides… I think I like you. You ain't freaked out, you didn't swing on me, and you didn't waste the chance I gave you. That means we can travel together."
Malik raised an eyebrow. "You just decided that?"
"Yup. You look like you could use someone who can make a frozen hellhole feel like home." Zyren patted his pipe. "Plus… I got good smoke."
Malik smirked, shaking his head. "We'll see about that."
As they moved on, the wind shifted—and up ahead, Malik caught sight of a familiar figure. Nia "Icefang" Dray, her white fur cloak snapping in the wind, watched them from atop an ice ridge. Her lips curled into a knowing smile before she vanished into the snow.