They weren't alone. On the third night, as they huddled in the lee of a frozen mechanical titan—a rusted war-machine from a forgotten age—a shadow fell over their campfire.
It wasn't Silas's men. It was a creature that seemed woven from the blizzard itself. It stood eight feet tall, covered in translucent white fur, with four eyes that glowed like embers.
"A Frost-Walker," Lyra whispered, her hand moving to her glass dagger. "The legends say they are the spirits of the first slaves who built the world."
Kaelen stood slowly, his palms open. He sensed the Aetheria around the creature. It wasn't aggressive; it was curious. "It's not a spirit, Lyra. It's a bio-engineered guardian. It's sensing my Trace."