Dusk bled slowly across the horizon.
The snowfall had tapered into a fine mist of white, drifting lazily like the last breaths of winter sunlight. It no longer fell aggressively—now it hovered, as though the sky were exhaling softly over the land. The cold, however, had deepened. Even with the wind hushed and the snow light, the air held the marrow-stilling stillness of nightfall in winter.
The caravan creaked its final descent down a slowly sloping road.
Frost that had once crunched beneath wheels now merely whispered, thinned by traffic on the outskirts.
Kel slowly opened his eyes.
The transition from sleep to wakefulness was so controlled that it could not be called startling. His posture remained steady. Only his eyelashes lifted.
The dimness reflected first.
Then the sight beyond the wagon.
A line of dark shapes emerging from the snow-haze.
Fortified walls.
Guard towers.
Worn stone half-buried beneath frost.
Silent, waiting.
A city.
No, not a city in grandeur.
A border town—functional, stern, enduring.
As his thoughts aligned, the sound of reins being pulled broke his still internal quiet.
"We've reached," Ganz said from the front of the caravan. "Time to wake the frost from your bones."
Kel's gaze shifted left.
Reina sat with her eyes open, posture perfectly composed. Not a trace of sleep lingered across her features—only the faint shadow of it behind her calm. Their gazes met for half a second.
Neutral.
Acknowledging.
Silent.
Then she looked forward again.
Kel let his eyes drift to the right.
Landon blinked slowly, shoulders rolling as he stretched, looking like a man waking from a fight rather than from rest. His brow furrowed at first, then smoothed as awareness settled. He sucked in a cold breath.
"We here?" he muttered.
Kel did not answer.
The answer was already visible through the caravan flap.
Ahead, through the thinning snowfall, stood the northern border outpost known as Ashstone—a name spoken in trade routes and military reports, rarely in poetry.
A town built not for beauty.
But for endurance.
Ashstone Border Town
Ganz brought the caravan to a halt atop a rise just outside the first checkpoint.
The fading daylight revealed Ashstone in shades of iron and soot.
Its walls were dark-grey, forged from blackstone quarried from northern ravines and hardened by wind and war. Patches of snow clung to the masonry in uneven streaks, like scars the frost refused to let heal. Tall watchtowers pierced upward, lit by dim braziers that cast sullen orange glows onto the encroaching night.
Beyond the wall, the town stretched inward like rings around a heart—outer barracks, mercenary lodging, supply yards, and—further in—low wooden buildings where traders and weary travelers bartered words and warmth.
Shutters were drawn tightly against the cold.
Smoke rose in thin threads from rooftops.
The town looked not asleep.
But braced.
As if twilight was less a time of rest, and more a blade slowly descending.
Kel stepped down from the caravan first.
Snow crunched under his boots.
The cold greeted him like an expected adversary.
He stood still a moment.
Watching.
Listening.
Then Ganz called out from his seat, voice bearing the matter-of-fact tone of a man who had survived winters by respecting them.
"Welcome to Ashstone," he said. "Final settlement before the mountain line."
Landon hopped down beside Kel, shaking off lingering stiffness.
Reina descended last, movements precise and quiet.
Kel looked back at Ganz.
"Ashstone," he repeated.
The name settled like grit on his tongue.
An appropriate threshold.
Ganz pulled his coat tighter around himself. His breath fogged heavily in the dimming air.
"This is as far north as most merchants go," he said. "Army patrols pick up beyond this. Few pass through unless they've business in the snow range… or death-wishes."
His eyes lingered on Kel a moment longer than on the others.
"Which are you, Sir Heral?"
Kel's gaze did not waver.
"Neither," he replied softly.
Then, after a beat:
"A traveler with necessity."
Ganz let out a quiet grunt.
Approval.
Or resignation.
Maybe both.
"That's worse," he muttered. "Necessity kills quieter than death-wishers do."
He clicked his tongue against his teeth.
"Come. If you're to continue east or further, you'll need to stable through the night. Snow hardens past dark."
Landon frowned. "Harden?"
"Yes," Ganz replied, stepping down from the seat. "Snowfall slows. Temperature drops. Then every step feels like crushing glass. Through two layers of skin."
Landon winced.
Reina's eyes cooled further.
Kel nodded once—acknowledgment without surprise.
He's right.
The night snow here punishes movement. One step further now means ten lost tomorrow.
He turned his gaze to the walls of Ashstone.
I cannot waste body strength before the climb.
Dismount | The Driver's Words
The three began unloading their minimal luggage.
Ganz brushed frost from the horses, muttering soft reassurance to the beasts. They had worked hard today.
He looked back at Kel just before leading the caravan toward the checkpoint.
"If you're continuing north, the inn you want," he said, "is The Brass Dagger. North quarter. Doesn't ask questions. But doesn't tolerate weakness either."
Kel's eyes narrowed faintly.
Ganz continued.
"And if your poetry earns coin," he added with a pointed smirk, "use it. Winter taxes the throat more than the purse."
Landon coughed dryly.
Reina inclined her head.
Kel lifted a hand in faint gesture.
"Your advice," he said, "is accepted."
Ganz's smirk softened into something like a deeply buried smile.
"Then may the frost spare your steps, traveler."
He flicked the reins, leading the caravan forward.
As the wheels groaned back into motion, his voice carried one last time:
"May your verses outlast the cold."
Kel did not watch him go.
Instead, his eyes fixed on the entrance to Ashstone, where two guards—wrapped in fur-lined iron cuirasses—stood flanking the archway. Their breath misted. Their grip on spears tightened upon seeing the trio.
The cursed heir did not exist here.
Only Heral. A quiet traveler with two companions.
Entering Ashstone
They stepped forward.
Reina walked with precise self-possession.
Landon strode with practiced resilience.
Kel moved as someone accustomed to winter roads in more than one lifetime.
As they crossed beneath the town gate, a low wind flowed like breath from stone to sky.
Torchlight flickered across Kel's jaw.
Shadows carved hard lines on his features.
Another road.
Another screen-loading segment.
Only this one did not come with game music.
Only the sound of metal against stone.
Cloth against skin.
And snow.
Always snow.
Inside the Walls
Ashstone by dusk was a palette of grey, soot, and amber flicker.
Men in heavy coats passed with purpose—patrol rotations ending, trades closing, tavern lamps lighting. The presence of the trio earned glances but not immediate challenge.
Kel felt weight settle as the town's barrier closed behind them.
Reina's eyes flicked to the northwest watchtower.
"The guards are running a tighter shift than usual," she observed.
Landon glanced around. "Feels like they're expecting something."
Kel nodded slightly.
His breath left him slow, condensed.
"Winter rarely travels alone in places like this," he murmured.
Reina understood without asking.
The conditions are ripe for movement—from men or monsters.
Kel's head turned east, where the mountain line loomed faint, an ink stain against the blanched sky.
Somewhere beyond those peaks lay the path he intended.
To Scarder Lake.
To his cure.
Or to deeper ruin.
This night will be needed.
Tomorrow, we move.
Before the next snowfall decides to bury what remains of me.
To The Inn
He spoke without turning to the others.
"Brass Dagger," he said. "North quarter."
Reina fell in step beside him.
Landon adjusted his pack, catching up with a muttered, "Let's hope they have fire."
Kel began walking.
Their footsteps pressed fresh snow onto the streets.
An elderly tradesman watched them pass.
A weathered hunter narrowed his eyes.
A patrolman slowed.
But none stopped them.
Yet.
The wind whispered along their backs as though it recognized something in Kel's gait.
Not familiarity.
Expectation.
As they neared the north-quarter tavern district, the first tavern sign came into view—weathered, iron-forged letters hanging under lamplight.
⇢ "The Brass Dagger"
Its windows glowed dim orange.
Its door was half open.
A scatter of muffled voices drifted through.
Kel let his pace slow.
One last glance at the street.
At ash-grey sky.
At white settling softly on black stone roofs.
A night's rest.
A short pause.
Then back into the cold that takes without asking.
He exhaled.
Frost bled briefly from the corner of his lips.
"Let's go inside," he said.
And the door welcomed them in.
Even the cold hesitated to follow.