Meanwhile, in an endless snowfield stretched beneath the night.
The frozen plain ran flat and pale to the horizon, broken only by the slow rise and fall of drifts sculpted by countless storms.
Above, the sky had deepened into a vast indigo, the last traces of daylight swallowed behind distant mountains, and the cold settled over the land like an immense, invisible weight.
Loose snow hissed across the hard-packed surface, dry as sand, streaming in long white ribbons that twisted, scattered, and formed anew with every restless gust.
Far away, jagged peaks stood in silent ranks, their shoulders draped in snow, their dark faces swallowed by shadow.
Nothing moved. Nothing lived. Only the wind, endless, patient, and relentless, scraped across a world of ice.
And in the heart of that frozen emptiness, a single fire burned.
It was a stubborn orange flame, crouched low against the wind, casting a tight circle of warmth that held the darkness at bay for only a few precious feet.
