The snow did not remain gentle for long.
What began as a quiet, almost poetic fall soon turned savage—a white torrent crashing from the heavens. The winds of the northern wilderness roared like unchained beasts, hurling countless shards of ice through the air. Each gust struck with the force of blades, tearing across the land without mercy.
The storm devoured sound. It slammed into the wooden walls of Blackwood Castle, wrenching from them a long, splintering groan. It screamed across the watchtowers, shrill and hollow, like restless spirits howling in the void.
Beyond ten steps, there was nothing—only a writhing, endless white abyss.
Blackwood Fortress stood alone, like a fragile boat cast adrift in a raging sea.
Atop the watchtower, Finney was freezing to death.
Even wrapped in his thickest furs, the cold pierced him effortlessly, as though his defenses were nothing. It crept into his bones like needles, gnawing at his marrow. Frost clung to his eyebrows, his beard, even his lashes. Every breath burned—icy, sharp, tearing through his throat and lungs like fire made of winter.
His body shook uncontrollably. His limbs were numb, heavy, unresponsive.
Only one thing kept him upright.
A promise.
Lord Colin's voice by the fire. Those steady, unyielding blue eyes.
This is the eye of Blackwood Fortress. It cannot close.
Finney forced his frozen eyelids open, blinking hard as ice cracked at their edges. He let go of sight—useless in this storm—and listened.
As a fox-blood, his hearing cut deeper than most. Even through the chaos, he searched for something… anything… that did not belong.
Then—
His ears twitched sharply.
Between the roaring gusts, he caught it.
Faint. Fragile.
A howl.
Not the fierce cry of hunters. Not a territorial warning. No rhythm, no strength—only a thin, breaking sound that died at its peak, like a voice torn apart mid-plea.
It was not a call.
It was a cry for help.
The realization struck him like lightning.
Finney moved.
He scrambled down the ladder, slipping, nearly falling, his frozen limbs barely obeying him. He hit the ground hard, snow bursting around him—but he did not stop. Staggering, half-running, half-falling, he pushed through the storm toward the largest shelter at the camp's heart.
"Lord Colin!" he shouted, his voice ragged, trembling. "Outside—wolves—there's a cry—it's a plea for help!"
The curtain was torn aside at once.
Colin stepped out.
He wore only light leather armor, his moon-pale hair whipped wildly by the wind. But his eyes—sharp, cold, unwavering—took everything in at a glance.
Finney's condition. The storm. The urgency.
No questions.
Colin moved instantly, catching the swaying scout before he collapsed, dragging him inside to warmth.
"Uncle Goff! Lina!" His voice cut through the storm like a war horn. "Weapons. Torches. Move!"
There was no hesitation.
Anyone crying for help in such a storm could only be one thing—
One of their own, with nowhere left to go.
Colin seized a heavy bearskin cloak, fastened it around his shoulders, and took the blade from the wall.
"Prepare hot water. Thick broth. Keep the fires high," he ordered Lina.
By the time he finished, Goff and Lina were already there—armed, cloaked, ready. Goff even carried a pot of hot water, steam curling into the freezing air.
"Go."
And they stepped into the storm.
The gates closed behind them.
Inside: warmth, fire, life.
Outside: a world that devoured all three.
The wind hit them like a wall.
It tore at their bodies, blinded their eyes. Torches flared—and died instantly, swallowed by the gale.
"Stay close!" Colin called, already pushing forward.
Sight was useless.
So he relied on instinct.
His wolf-blood sharpened his senses—ears filtering through the chaos, nose catching faint traces buried beneath snow and wind. Blood. Fear. The fading scent of life teetering on the brink.
Then—
"There!"
He turned sharply, forcing his way through the gale.
Goff and Lina followed, stepping precisely into his tracks, trusting him completely.
The distance was short.
It felt endless.
Colin stopped.
He dropped to his knees and dug through the snow with bare hands.
Cold fur.
A body.
"Here! Dig!"
They worked frantically, clawing through layers of packed snow.
Then—
They saw them.
Figures. Five… six.
Half-buried. Frozen. Motionless.
They looked like sculptures carved from ice.
Only the faintest trace of life remained.
"They're our kind!" Lina gasped.
But Colin's gaze narrowed.
These were not like them.
Larger frames. Denser builds. Thick, pale-grey fur suited to the deep north.
Northern werewolves.
"No time!" Colin snapped. "He's alive—move!"
They lifted the bodies—dead weight, stiff as stone—and struggled back through the storm.
Each step felt like war.
When they burst back into the fortress, the frozen forms laid beside the fire stunned everyone into silence.
Then—
"Snow!" Goff barked. "Don't heat them directly—move!"
The camp sprang to life.
Snow was packed into hands and rubbed hard against frozen limbs—painful, necessary, dragging sensation back from the edge of death. Broth was prepared. Fires roared higher.
Time crawled.
Then—
A twitch.
"He moved!"
Hope surged.
Colin lifted the strongest among them, forcing warm broth between his lips, guiding life back into him.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The man breathed.
Then groaned.
His eyes opened—wild, sharp, feral.
For a moment, he looked ready to kill.
Then he saw them.
Not enemies.
Not hunters.
His own kind.
The tension drained from him instantly.
Relief.
Exhaustion.
Survival.
His cracked lips moved.
"…North… Frostclaw Tribe…"
His gaze found Colin.
"…Hasker… thank you…"
Then darkness took him again.
But this time—
His breathing was steady.
Alive.
Silence filled the hall.
Colin set the bowl aside, his eyes lingering on the northern werewolf.
The storm had sealed Blackwood Fortress away from the world.
But in doing so—
It had delivered something unexpected.
Not just survivors.
Something more.