Snow presses down on the world the moment Aldo steps through the gate.
It is not the gentle kind that drifts and decorates. This snow is old, compacted by seasons of wind, layered like the memory of winters stacked upon one another. The sky above the northern region of Mikhland hangs low and pale, a dull iron color that reflects no warmth. Breath turns visible instantly, every exhale a brief cloud before being torn away by the cold.
Aldo leads the 204th Company forward.
Boots crunch in unison. Armor creaks. Cloth stiffens. Even the magic woven into their gear feels quieter here, as if the land itself listens before allowing power to pass.
The village appears gradually, revealed between slopes and frost-heavy pines. Low houses crouch against the earth, built of dark timber and stone, roofs buried under thick snowpacks. Smoke coils lazily from narrow chimneys, the only sign of warmth in a world dominated by white and gray.
People watch from a distance.
They do not approach. They do not wave. Their eyes follow the company with the careful stillness of mountain animals—alert, measuring, patient.
Aldo notes it all without slowing.
[Cold discipline. Isolation. Defensive instincts.]
He brings the company to the village chief, a weathered man wrapped in layered fur and wool, his beard braided with small bone clasps. Their conversation is brief, practical, stripped of ceremony. Shelter is scarce. Trust is scarcer.
The agreement comes quickly.
Labor in exchange for lodging.
The chief's eyes flick—just once—to the insignia of Mikhland, then to the slave marks borne by some of Aldo's men. His mouth tightens before he nods.
When housing is arranged, Aldo notices the detail that matters.
They are split.
Not one hall. Not one compound. Separate houses. Separate hosts.
[Fear—or memory,] Aldo thinks as the company disperses under the watchful gaze of villagers. [Either way, it means caution.]
He does not challenge the decision. He never does when the ground beneath him is unfamiliar.
The house assigned to him belongs to the village chief's younger brother.
From the outside, it is unremarkable—thick timber walls, a door reinforced with iron bands dulled by age. Smoke leaks from the roof in thin threads.
Inside, warmth hits him like a held breath finally released.
Aldo shrugs into a thick fur coat provided by the household. The scent of animal hide and old wood clings to it, heavy but honest. He settles near the wall, resting his back against the timber, letting the heat soak into his spine.
Then he notices the sound.
Chop.
Crack.
Thud.
Rhythmic. Unhurried. Powerful.
Aldo turns his head toward the doorway.
Outside, framed by snow and pale sky, the old man works.
Shirtless.
Only leather pants cover his lower body, darkened by age and use. His skin is pale, crisscrossed with scars that speak of claws, blades, and winters survived rather than endured. Muscles knot beneath weathered flesh, dense and functional, the kind shaped by necessity rather than vanity.
He is tall—unnaturally so, even among mountain folk—and rune tattoos spiral across his arms and torso, dark lines etched deep, not decorative but declarative.
Each swing of the axe is precise.
Wood splits cleanly.
Aldo blinks once. Then again.
[Still very energetic,] he thinks, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.
The old man finishes the last log, stacks it neatly, and only then steps inside as if the cold has never touched him.
He sets a wooden cup in Aldo's hands.
Wildflower tea.
Steam rises, carrying a faint sweetness beneath the sharper scent of herbs Aldo doesn't recognize. He sips cautiously. Heat spreads through his chest, steady and grounding.
Through the small window, the Furaberg mountain dominates the horizon.
Its slopes are heavy with snow, pine forests clinging stubbornly to its sides. Somewhere within those trees, stories live—stories Aldo knows well.
The Red-Eyed Winter Wolf pack.
Predators shaped by cold and legend, their eyes said to glow like embers in snowfall. Beasts assigned to die by the authority of Mikhland.
He has also heard of the Winter Flower. Transparent petals. Ice bestowed upon the worthy or the foolish.
Aldo does not linger on either.
[Mission parameters do not include myths,] he reminds himself. [And beauty does not excuse danger.]
The old man speaks without turning his head.
"I wash where the cold bites hardest," he says, voice hoarse and low, like wind scraping stone. "Water straight from the mountain's veins. Wakes the bones. Keeps the spirit honest."
He finally looks at Aldo, eyes pale and sharp.
"But you," he continues, gesturing vaguely with a thick finger, "you carry warmer blood. City blood. Stone-and-gate blood."
A pause.
"Follow the mountain's shoulder," the old man says, pointing toward Furaberg. "There is steam where ice should be quiet. The earth breathes there. You bathe without freezing your thoughts."
Aldo nods slowly, committing the direction to memory.
"Thank you," he says.
The old man grunts, which may or may not be acknowledgment.
Aldo hesitates, then asks, "Is this area on a geological plate?"
The old man stares at him.
Blankly.
Snow seems to fall louder in the silence.
Aldo clicks his tongue softly. "A volcano," he clarifies. "Is there one nearby?"
The old man snorts.
"Fire mountain?" he says. "No. This land is calmer than men think."
He taps his chest once.
"Manatite sleeps under us," he continues. "Stone that drinks magic. Where it runs thick, lava spirits curl like cats near a hearth."
His hands describe a vague, circling motion.
"Heat rises. Snow forgets how to land."
Aldo listens intently.
"When the sky howls," the old man adds, voice dropping, "the white falls as rain there. Ground stays bare. Trees keep their green like they're stubborn children."
Aldo exhales slowly.
[Natural magic convergence,] he thinks. [Stable, localized. Useful.]
The old man finishes his tea in one swallow and sets the cup down with a dull thud.
"We bathe outside," he says simply.
And with that, he steps back into the cold, as if the conversation has reached its natural end.
Time passes.
The house settles. Firewood pops. The wind presses its face against the walls.
Aldo leans back, eyes half-lidded.
[Skipping one bath would not reduce operational efficiency,] he reasons lazily. [Energy conservation suggests—]
His stomach tightens.
Hygiene. Control. Routine.
He exhales sharply and pushes himself upright.
[Annoying,] he thinks, but there is no real resistance left.
He steps outside.
Cold slams into him instantly, aggressive and unwelcoming. Snow crunches beneath his boots as he follows the direction the old man indicated, moving against the slope of Furaberg.
The village fades behind him.
The forest thickens.
Pines loom overhead, their branches sagging under snow. The air smells cleaner here, sharper. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the low groan of shifting ice—and beneath it, something else.
A breath.
Warm.
Steam curls ahead, ghostlike and inviting.
The ground changes beneath his feet, snow thinning, then vanishing entirely. Dark earth shows through, damp and alive. Moss clings to stone. Trees grow denser, greener, their needles untouched by frost.
A natural pool reveals itself between rocks, water shimmering faintly, heat rolling off it in waves.
Aldo stops at the edge.
He scans the surroundings once. Twice.
Only then does he begin to remove his coat.
[Even here,] he thinks as the warmth brushes his skin, [the land watches.]
He steps forward, steam swallowing him, the mountain looming silent and immense behind his back.
Steam coils upward into the night air, thin white threads dissolving into the darker sky above Furaberg's shoulder. The hot spring lies exposed, cradled by stone and stubborn green moss where snow refuses to settle. Aldo sits waist-deep in the water, arms resting on the slick rock behind him, fur coat and clothes folded carefully on dry grass a short distance away…far enough from steam, far enough from snow.
The warmth presses into his muscles, loosening joints stiffened by marching and command. His breath slows. The mountain does not move. The forest does not speak.
Silence settles.
[If the Earthling Former-slave Revolutionaries have magic,] Aldo thinks, eyes half-lidded, watching steam blur the outline of the pines, [and if summoning itself is magic… then why revolt at all?]
Water ripples faintly as he shifts.
[Why not reverse it? Why not pull Earthlings back instead of tearing Mikhland apart?]
The thought circles, slow and persistent. The heat dulls its edges, turns it from a sharp question into a floating curiosity. His eyelids grow heavy. The spring's breath becomes rhythmic, almost like a living thing.
His head tilts back.
The mountain looms.
Darkness presses gently.
And Aldo drifts.
—
His eyes snap open. The sky's bright…as it was moments ago.
No sound wakes him. No pain. No impact.
Just awareness.
His breath catches before he can stop it. Water laps quietly around his chest. The steam is the same. The trees are the same. The sky is unchanged.
Nothing is wrong.
That realization comes too quickly.
Aldo straightens, water sloshing softly. His gaze cuts left, then right. The treeline stands still. No red eyes. No movement. No shadows where shadows should not be.
[No wolves,] he notes automatically. [No rebels. No presence.]
His pulse does not slow.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, deliberate. His hand reaches instinctively toward where his weapon would be—then stops. He is bathing. Unarmed. Exposed.
The unease tightens.
He rises partially from the spring, water streaming down his skin, and checks the bank where his clothes lie. They are exactly where he left them, folded with care. The grass beneath is dry, untouched by snow or frost.
Everything is correct.
That makes it worse.
His heart accelerates. The fine hairs along his arms prickle beneath the cooling air. A pressure settles between his shoulders, not physical, but undeniable—the sensation of being observed without direction.
Aldo closes his eyes for half a second.
[Instinct says danger,] he thinks, jaw tightening. [Reason says nothing is here.]
He runs through procedure without moving. Perimeter scan. Sound. Wind direction. Thermal logic—where heat should distort vision. He sees nothing out of place.
He opens his eyes again and looks straight ahead.
Only steam and stone greet him.
The feeling does not fade.
Enough.
Aldo moves.
He scrubs himself quickly, aggressively, fingers biting into skin with the coarse towel and pungent local soap meant for cold climates. The sharp scent clears his head even as his thoughts race. Water splashes, louder than before, echoing off stone in a way that suddenly feels too exposed.
He dresses fast. Fur coat on. Boots pulled tight. Leather straps secured with practiced efficiency.
No ceremony.
No lingering.
He turns away from the spring and heads back the way he came.
—
The forest closes in.
What had felt merely quiet before now feels muffled, as though the snow-laden branches are swallowing sound. The path he followed earlier is less distinct under dimming light and drifting mist. He moves quickly, then faster, boots slipping slightly on damp earth that gives way to snow again.
The wind rises.
Not gradually.
Suddenly.
Snow lashes sideways, stinging his face, visibility collapsing in moments. Aldo curses under his breath and angles himself by memory alone, counting steps, measuring slope.
April.
This should not be happening.
The storm thickens, howling through the trees with a ferocity more fitting of midwinter. Pine trunks loom and vanish in white chaos. Aldo's breath comes harder now, each inhale burning.
The ground drops unexpectedly.
He stumbles forward and catches himself at the mouth of a cave.
Dark, wide, cut into the mountain like a wound.
Another gust shoves him toward it.
Aldo does not hesitate. He dives inside just as the storm roars louder, snow flooding the entrance in a blinding sheet.
Inside, the wind dies abruptly.
Cold remains, but muted.
Aldo presses his back to the stone wall, breathing hard, senses flaring. His eyes adjust slowly to the dim interior—and then he freezes.
Figures.
Several of them.
Huddled deeper in the cave, silhouettes wrapped in rags and torn coats. The smell hits him next: sweat, iron, old wounds, unwashed bodies. Firelight flickers weakly from a small pit of embers.
They are not Mikhlandians.
They are Earthlings.
Pale skin. Tall frames. Hair light even under grime. Their bodies are marked by exhaustion—shoulders slumped, movements slow and guarded. Bandages, filthy and blood-stained, wrap limbs that should have been stronger.
Slave miners.
One man rises slowly and steps forward. He moves with the caution of someone used to pain.
His accent is thick, rolling, northern.
"Eh… what sort o' slave are ye, then?" the young man asks, voice rough like gravel under snow.
Aldo straightens slightly. "A slave-soldier."
The man blinks. Once. Then again.
"A… soldier?" he repeats, disbelief heavy in his tone.
"Yes," Aldo says evenly. "A slave assigned to military service. We conduct combat operations, ensure security, sometimes extermination tasks."
The cave stirs. Murmurs ripple through the group, low and tense.
Another man steps closer, taller still, his beard matted, eyes sharp despite the fatigue. His voice carries a Norwegian lilt.
"Which Palantine?" he asks. "They mark ye all by that."
"Palantine Heilop," Aldo replies. "Central Region…The Mediplana."
Their reaction is immediate.
Mouths fall open. One man lets out a short, incredulous laugh that dies halfway.
"Central?""Mediplana?" someone mutters. "You?"
A third miner pushes forward, snow still clinging to his shoulders from the storm outside.
"Why in the frozen hells is a slave-soldier from central Mikhland up north?" he demands. "Ain't this where they bury problems?"
Aldo shakes his head once. "I only know rumors from my fellow soldiers…," he says. "The Palanton indulges without restraint—drowning himself…and itself in excess, throwing endless parties, surrounding himself with escorts, and burning money faster than he could ever be taxed or accounted for."
His eyes flick briefly to their wounds.
"Debts pass downward through every layer of society, soldiers take side gigs to survive, and civilians are crushed beneath relentless levies."
The men exchange glances. Grim, knowing.
One of them swallows and asks quietly, "Ye here to watch us?"
Aldo meets his gaze. "No."
A beat.
"My company is here to exterminate a wolf pack. Specifically, the Red-Eyed Winter Wolf."
Relief and fear mix in the air, an uneasy blend. One miner steps forward again, voice dropping.
"We've not eaten since morning," he says. "Anything to spare?"
Aldo hesitates only long enough to judge their state. Then he kneels, opens his leather briefcase just enough, and removes compact rations. He hands them over without ceremony.
As they eat, one miner leans closer, voice low, conspiratorial, Swedish vowels stretched by fatigue.
"They might be sendin' ye lot to sniff for rebellion," he murmurs. "North's restless. Always is."
Aldo's eyes widen despite himself.
[The Lieutenant…] his thoughts race. [He hinted at this.]
Two separate warnings. Same implication.
His muscles tense. Decision crystallizes instantly.
He stands.
"I…I need to return," he says.
Before they can respond, he turns and runs back into the storm.
Behind him, voices shout—confused, urgent—but the wind devours their words.
Snow blinds him as he plunges into the white chaos, heart hammering, mind already racing ahead to formations, contingencies, preparation.
He vanishes between the pines, crouching low, using trunks as cover, feeling his way by instinct and training alone.
Somewhere ahead, faint lights mark the village.
Aldo moves toward them, breath sharp, fur coat snapping in the wind…and the mountain watches in silence.
The blizzard tightens without warning.
Wind that was merely biting turns violent, slamming into Aldo's back and shoulders with blunt force. Snow thickens in the air until distance collapses, until the world shrinks to a few arm-lengths of white chaos. Visibility dies first. Sound follows, swallowed by the roar. Cold seeps through fur, through cloth, through skin, pressing straight into bone. Aldo hunches instinctively, shoulders rising, chin tucking down. His arms cross over his chest, hands gripping opposite sleeves as if holding himself together. Each breath is shallow now, forced through clenched teeth to keep the air from burning his lungs too fast. He moves by touch. Boots drag through uneven snow. One foot slips; the other plants hard. He stumbles forward, catches himself against rough bark. A tree stump—wide, old, half-rotted—juts from the ground like a broken tooth. He circles it once, fingers sliding along the frozen surface, testing. The wind howls past, clawing at him. Aldo lowers himself, presses close, and begins digging. Snow packs against his gloves, against his forearms. He scoops, shoves, compresses. His movements are efficient, repetitive, stripped of flourish. The stump becomes shelter by degrees, by force of will and time. He buries the entrance deep, carving a tight hollow beneath the roots, shaping a space just large enough for his body.
He pauses only to breathe.
Then he digs again. A narrow hole opens to the outside—ventilation. Another follows, then another, offset, angled. He pushes snow outward, then packs it down, hardening the walls. His fingers go numb. He switches grip, changes rhythm. The storm does not ease. Hours pass without shape. Inside the stump, the world compresses. Aldo's shoulders scrape bark. His knees draw tight to his chest. He digs upward next, carving small observation slits, careful not to let light spill too wide. When he finally stops, his chest rises and falls in tight, controlled bursts. Snow sifts down from the ceiling, dusting his hair, his collar.
He waits.
Through one of the longer slits, movement appears. White shapes against white ground—wrong only because they move.
Wolves.
Not one. Several.
Red eyes cut through the storm like embers buried in ash. Their bodies are large, unnaturally uniform in color, fur blending seamlessly with the snow except where muscle shifts beneath it. They circle slowly, methodical, drawn to dark shapes half-buried nearby. Winter goats. Native, thick-coated, legs locked stiff with ice. The wolves pull at them, tear free chunks of frozen flesh without haste. Their breath steams faintly, drifting sideways in the wind. Aldo does not move. His jaw tightens. His fingers curl once, then still. The musket lies across his lap. He draws it up carefully, inch by inch, keeping it from scraping bark. Snow clings to the metal. He shakes it once, controlled, then opens the mechanism just enough to clear the chamber. The barrel slides forward through the observation hole. He angles it, aligns the front sight through swirling snow. One wolf lifts its head—a large male, broader than the rest, muzzle stained darker where blood has frozen. Aldo exhales slowly.
The shot cracks through the storm.
Recoil slams into his shoulder, contained but sharp. The bullet strikes the male squarely. The wolf collapses, legs folding beneath it, momentum spent in a single violent motion. Snow puffs up around the body.
Instantly, Aldo moves.
He withdraws the musket, seals the firing slit with packed snow, then crawls deeper beneath the stump. His body compresses further, elbows tight, chin down. He shoves snow into the entrance with both hands, reducing it to a narrow seam. He freezes. The wolves react. Snow shifts. Paws crunch closer. Low huffs of breath push cold air through the ventilation holes, stabbing into the cramped space. The stump creaks faintly as weight presses against it.
Aldo does not breathe.
His chest locks. His throat tightens. He counts time by the pressure building behind his eyes, by the tremor creeping into his hands as they clamp around the musket's stock. The wolves move around the base of the stump. One sniffs hard, breath forced, searching. Snow trickles from above as claws scrape bark.
Aldo shifts one knee a fraction of an inch and immediately stills again, muscles screaming at the restraint. Cold pours through the holes. It crawls along his spine, seeps under his coat, strips warmth away layer by layer. His fingers stiffen. He adjusts his grip once, slow enough to avoid sound.
Minutes stretch thin.
The wolves do not rush. They pace. They stop. They circle back. Snow compresses under their weight. A breath huffs directly against one of the vents, forcing icy air straight into his face. Aldo's teeth chatter once—sharp, involuntary—and he presses his lips together until they still.
He reaches up and seals a reserve compartment, packing snow tighter, reducing airflow. The space grows more suffocating. His breaths shorten further, shallow and fast despite his control. He drills new holes into the ceiling, carefully, twisting his fingers until they ache, letting just enough air slip in. Snow dust falls into his hair, melts, refreezes.
The wolves wait.
Time becomes pressure.
Aldo's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, loud in the enclosed space. Sweat beads along his back despite the cold. His hands shake, not violently, but constantly now—a fine tremor that refuses to stop. The musket is clutched so tightly his knuckles pale. Silence drags on.
Then—movement shifts.
The breathing recedes. Pawsteps drift outward, slow, deceptive, stopping and starting. Aldo does not trust it. He stays still, muscles locked, spine curved unnaturally to fit the space.
The storm begins to ease.
Wind drops first. The roar dulls into a distant hiss. Snowfall lightens, flakes drifting down instead of slashing sideways. Sound returns in fragments.
It takes a long time before Aldo risks movement.
He loosens his grip on the musket slightly, flexes his fingers once. Pins and needles stab through them. He swallows, throat dry, and shifts his weight enough to peer through the reserve compartment.
Nothing close.
White stretches outward, smoother now, untouched except for distant tracks already filling in. The wolves are gone.
He waits longer.
When he finally exhales fully, the sound is too loud in his ears. He pauses again, then begins to crawl out.
His limbs resist him. Joints protest as he straightens slowly, carefully. He pushes snow aside, emerging from the stump in stages, scanning left, right, then behind. The world feels vast after confinement. He steps back, boots sinking slightly into softened snow, and leans against the stump to steady himself. His shoulders drop a fraction as tension releases.
Something cold presses into his back.
He stiffens instantly.
Aldo reaches behind him and pulls the object free.
A ration bar.
Encased in frost, frozen solid, its surface rimed white where cold air from the wolves' breath had reached it underground. He turns it once in his gloved hand, then slips it into his coat without expression.
His gaze shifts to where the wolves had fed.
The large male lies where it fell, body half-dusted with new snow, red eyes dulled and still. No movement. No sound.
Aldo approaches cautiously, musket raised. He nudges the carcass with his boot. It does not respond.
He grips one leg and begins to drag.
The weight pulls at his shoulders, strains his arms. Snow resists every step. His breath fogs heavily now, chest still tight, rhythm uneven. He does not stop. He adjusts his grip, leans forward, and continues.
The village lights appear faintly through thinning snowfall.
Behind him, the mountain stands silent, the forest swallowing tracks as quickly as they are made.
Night settles over the village without ceremony. Snow reflects firelight in muted halos, turning the open square into a shallow bowl of amber and white. Smoke rises low and thin from hearths built into the earth, carefully fed to keep flames modest. The mountain looms close here, pressing down on sound, on movement, on the sense of distance.
Aldo stands near the center of the square, the carcass of the Red-Eyed Winter Wolf laid out on a sled of lashed branches beside him. Its fur is already stiff with cold, white and thick, the red of its eyes dulled to something almost brown in the lantern glow. Near his boots, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the ration bar—still rimed with frost, still solid as stone. The 204th Company gathers in a loose semicircle. Armor creaks softly as men settle their weight. Breath fogs the air. Some faces are intent, others skeptical, a few openly impressed. The low murmur of voices rises and falls, controlled but restless.
Aldo lifts one hand. Not high. Not sharp. Just enough.
The sound dies.
He recounts the encounter plainly. No embellishment. Where he took shelter. How long the wolves lingered. The effect of their breath. The shot. The wait. The retreat. His voice stays level throughout, cutting cleanly through the cold.
As he speaks, reactions ripple outward. One soldier lets out a low whistle before catching himself. Another nods, jaw set. A pair near the back exchange looks, calculating angles, distances. A villager steps closer. Then another. They are wrapped in layered furs, their boots heavy and well-worn. Their faces are pale, lined early by wind and cold. Curiosity shows openly; caution less so. Word has already spread fast, for such a small place.
A slave-soldier from the Central Region, alive after facing Red-Eyed Winter Wolves.
The old man approaches last.
He moves without hurry, tall even now, shoulders broad beneath a simple fur mantle. His skin is pale as birch bark, rune tattoos winding along his arms and collarbone, dark blue-black against age-spotted flesh. His eyes flick once to the wolf, then to the ration bar, then up to Aldo.
He nods.
"Mm. Ye breathed their cold an' still walked," he says, voice rough, vowels long and worn smooth by mountain air. "Not many do."
He crouches with a grunt, presses two fingers briefly to the wolf's flank, then withdraws them, frost clinging to his skin.
"Cold Breath," he continues, more to the villagers than to Aldo. "Not magic, not quite. A thing o' blood an' bone. It steals heat same as hunger steals strength."
He straightens and looks at Aldo again.
"Ye lived. Ye watched. Ye learned. An' ye took one."
Another nod. Approval, restrained but genuine.
He gestures toward the carcass.
"Fur's thick this season. A big male like this—" he spreads his hands, measuring, "—enough fer two o' our men, Tall lads… Six foot an' more for the winter-long."
A murmur runs through the villagers. One woman whispers a number under her breath. Another counts silently on her fingers.
"An' Meat'll last," the old man continues. "Three days, maybe a week if we're careful with thin cuts and broth, not roast it."
He turns his head slightly, considering.
"I'll buy it," he says. "Pay more if ye cut it proper. Hide clean… Meat portioned… Bones ground—good feed fer the roots come thaw."
Aldo inclines his head once. Agreement, wordless.
Before he can respond, a voice breaks in from the company.
"Sir—"
It's a private, young, eyes bright despite the cold. He gestures toward the skeleton with an awkward eagerness.
"If… if the bones aren't needed, I'd like to keep them. For study."
The old man's brow lifts. He studies the private for a moment, then lets out a quiet, gravelly chuckle.
"Bone-learner, eh?" he says. "Blood an' sinew first, books after."
He waves a hand.
"I changed my mind. I'll take hide an' meat only."
The private flushes, nodding quickly.
The old man produces a knife from within his mantle. It is narrow, curved oddly, the edge dark with age and use.
"Come," he says. "I'll show ye how we do it."
Aldo steps closer with a few selected men. The elder kneels again, movements practiced, efficient. The blade slips beneath fur and skin with minimal resistance, separating layers cleanly. He speaks as he works, tone instructional, not theatrical.
"Slow cuts… Let the cold help ye…."
"Yes, Tear the hide…hands should guide you…"
"Ye waste warmth."
Hands follow his guidance. Fur peels back in heavy sheets. Meat is sectioned carefully, stacked on clean cloth.
When it is done, the old man stands and reaches into a pouch at his belt. He counts deliberately, then presses the coins into Aldo's palm.
One silver with several hundred copper, the clink muted by glove and cold. The ratio is understood by all present. One silver coins equals a thousand copper coins.
He nods once more and turns away, already calling for help to carry the meat.
The square exhales.
With the villagers gone, the company reforms into smaller knots. Discussion resumes, lower now, more focused. Routes are traced in the snow with boot tips. Wind direction is debated. The wolves' behavior is dissected piece by piece. There is no bravado, only analysis.
A plan takes shape—not rushed, but decisive. An ambush, layered and controlled. The goal is speed. Finish the commission cleanly so the boys come home soon.
A small figure darts into the firelight.
A village girl, tall for her age, typical for her people, pale skin, hair braided tight against the cold. Rune tattoos spiral faintly along her forearms, newly inked. She clutches several wrapped ration sticks, eyes wide with curiosity.
She stops in front of Aldo.
"What're these?" she asks, accent thick, words clipped and old-fashioned.
Aldo looks down at the sticks, then back to her.
"Food ?" he replies.
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"But… ye dinna cook it?"
A soft ripple of amusement moves through the nearby soldiers.
Aldo clicks his tongue lightly.
"Nah…"
"Fire makes smoke…" he says. "and smoke makes light. Both travel far in snow."
He gestures toward the dark forest beyond the village.
"Enemies will see it. So we eat like this. Especially if the fight lasts for days…"
The girl turns the ration sticks over in her hands, reverent, as if holding a relic.
"Food… without flame…hmm…" she murmurs, then breaks into a grin and runs off, calling to a friend, holding the sticks up like proof of a miracle.
One of the soldiers chuckles.
"That is so clever, sir," he says. "Didn't think of that."
Aldo shrugs slightly.
"We, the Earthlings have used these for a long time," he replies. "Long voyages. Expeditions. The Romans."
The soldier frowns, lines creasing his brow as he shakes his head slightly.
"History books don't say that."
Aldo's mouth tightens, not in anger, just enough to show he's heard this kind of answer before. He exhales through his nose, then looks back at the group.
"They don't say what explorers ate," he replies. "They tell you where they went, who they fought, and what flag they carried. Food doesn't make it into the margins. Unless someone cares enough to look for it, there's no reason for it to be written down."
There's a brief pause. Then another man nods, thoughtful rather than defiant.
"My brother used to serve in the military…" he says. "Came back different. Kept using rations even when he didn't have to. Even canned ones."
Aldo glances toward him, recognition flickering in his eyes.
"Canned goods," he says. "I brought that up to the smith yesterday."
A few heads turn now, attention sharpening as the pieces connect.
"But the Smith refused," Aldo continues, his voice level and patient. "Said it was madness. Said metal had no place holding food, that it would poison the body or rot from the inside out."
For a heartbeat, the tension hangs, then someone snorts, and a ripple of laughter moves through the group, breaking the edge of the moment without quite dismissing it.
The mood is light now. Curious. Grounded.
Then Bojing steps forward.
He hesitates, then speaks.
"Chumb." he says, "we should strike tonight."
Aldo looks at him calmly.
"The commission starts tomorrow, just relax."
Bojing blinks.
Around him, heads turn. Confusion spreads.
"Then why're we here early?" someone asks. "It's still your leave day !"
Aldo answers without raising his voice.
"To feel the ground," he says. "To breathe the air. To see how sound moves. To plan without pressure."
Bojing's eyes light.
"Then we should definitely attack tonight."
Aldo studies him for a moment, then turns to the company.
"Who wants to follow Bojing?"
Hands rise. One after another. Fast. Confident.
Eighty-four.
Aldo exhales…a quiet, controlled sound.
"Then get ready," he says. "We sortie in thirty minutes."
He turns away.
"Don't dawdle."
…