The snow, once soft and almost poetic, had long since revealed its true nature.
By the time Haske and his companions arrived, it was no longer snowfall—it was annihilation. A roaring white torrent poured endlessly from the heavens, driven by feral northern winds that howled like beasts unchained. Countless ice shards, sharp as blades, scoured the land. The storm battered the crude walls of Blackwood Fortress until the wood groaned like something alive in pain.
Yet somehow, they survived.
Or rather—were forced to.
After three bowls of scalding bear fat soup, Haske's frozen body finally began to respond again. Warmth spread sluggishly through his limbs, dragging life back into muscles that had nearly stiffened into death. One by one, his five companions were also pulled back from the brink, thanks to the relentless efforts of the people of Blackwood Fortress.
For a fleeting moment, the small stone house filled with fragile relief. Laughter, hoarse and disbelieving, echoed faintly. For those who had already lost everything once before, saving others felt like reaching back through time to save themselves.
But that fragile warmth did not last.
When Haske forced himself upright and asked Colin for a private conversation, the air shifted. The unspoken truth settled over everyone—this was not the end.
It was only the beginning.
Inside Colin's modest shack, only the two of them remained.
A small fire crackled between them, its glow pushing back the cold but not the tension. Haske stared at the silver-haired werewolf before him—someone younger, smaller… yet carrying a presence that made even seasoned warriors hesitate.
In his eyes swirled a storm of emotions: contempt, gratitude, awe… and beneath it all, despair.
"My home lies in the Frostwind Mountains," Haske began, his voice rough but steady. "We are the Frostclaw Tribe. We hunted the ice plains for generations. We lived in peace."
Colin said nothing. He had heard beginnings like this before.
They never ended well.
"Half a month ago, the 'Duke of Ice Peak' marched south with thirty thousand soldiers. He claimed to be purging heretics… expanding territory." Haske's hands clenched, knuckles cracking softly. "He burned everything."
There was no tremor in his voice. No rage. No grief.
Only truth.
"We fought. But we had nothing—no armor, no warhorses… none of those cursed crossbows that can pierce even a giant bear's hide." He exhaled slowly. "So we lost."
Silence filled the space between them.
"I was among the last to break through. Thirty of us protected the old, the weak, the children… we fled south." His lips curled into a bitter smile. "We thought the wilderness would save us."
Another pause.
"But winter came first."
His voice dropped.
"The blizzard… is worse than any army."
Colin's gaze did not waver.
"We tried to join other tribes. They drove us away." Haske continued, each word heavier than the last. "So we kept moving."
Then, after a long breath:
"Lord Colin… the six of us are only scouts."
Colin's fingers stilled against the scabbard at his side.
"Behind us… at the northern edge of Blackwood Forest… there is a group."
"How large?" Colin asked quietly.
Haske raised three fingers.
"More than three hundred."
The number seemed to extinguish the warmth of the fire itself.
"Our Frostclaw tribe had only eighty," he said. "But this… this is something else."
He searched for the right words.
"It's not a tribe. It's… a gathering of the broken. A vortex pulling in every survivor from the north."
Colin listened, expression unreadable.
"A fox-woman priestess named Su leads them," Haske went on. "Her tribe was the first to fall. She never gave up—she gathered everyone she could find."
"Deer-folk who run like the wind… their forests burned. Boar-men, fierce and strong… their chief died charging the enemy." His voice lowered further. "Even a dwarf… a blacksmith. His mountain mine was taken. He escaped alone."
At that, Colin's eyes narrowed slightly.
A dwarf blacksmith.
Rare. Valuable.
Dangerous to ignore.
"How many remain?" he asked.
Haske hesitated.
Then spoke, as if the number itself weighed upon his soul.
"More than three hundred… as of half a month ago."
His voice cracked for the first time.
"They have no food left. None." His hands trembled. "No shelter. No proper clothing. They dig into snowdrifts, huddle together just to survive the night. Every day… children and elders fall asleep… and don't wake up."
The fire crackled.
"They sent us ahead," Haske whispered. "Six of us. The strongest. We promised to return in three days… whether we found hope or not."
He bowed his head.
"It's already the fourth."
His shoulders shook—not from cold this time, but from something far heavier.
Colin said nothing.
Three hundred people.
Not reinforcements.
Not opportunity.
A disaster.
By nightfall, the news had spread.
It moved through Blackwood Fortress like a silent disease, infecting every thought, every glance.
Inside the central stone house, the air was suffocating.
This was their first true council.
And it was about survival.
Only four sat by the fire: Colin, Goff, Lina, and Linna.
The others were absent. The Frostclaw survivors were kept separately—watched, contained.
No one spoke.
Only the fire crackled.
Only the wind screamed outside.
Lina stepped forward at last.
Her face was pale—so pale it seemed almost translucent under the firelight. Without a word, she laid out wooden boards etched with markings.
"Our supplies," she said quietly.
She pointed to the first board.
"This is what the twelve of us need to survive the winter. Every bit of it."
Her finger moved to the next board—densely marked.
"Our strategic reserve."
Her voice trembled.
"It can sustain us for eighty-five additional days… or help us recover from injury."
She lifted her gaze.
Fear filled her eyes.
"Three hundred mouths…" she whispered. "More than three hundred, including us."
Her voice broke.
"Our reserves wouldn't last five days."
Silence.
"If we share the food… we all die."
Her words landed like a blade.
Linna said nothing, her brows drawn tight.
In the corner, Goff sharpened his dagger.
Swish… swish… swish…
The sound grated against the silence.
He did not look up.
But the meaning was clear.
In a starving world… mercy kills.
All eyes turned to Colin.
Save them?
Or let them die?
Hope… or survival?
Gain… or extinction?
His fingers stopped tapping.
The knife lay across his lap, cold and real.
He closed his eyes.
Numbers ran through his mind. Risks. Outcomes. Probabilities.
But beneath it all—
Something more primal stirred.
Protect the pack.
No matter the cost.
At last, Colin opened his eyes.
In the flickering firelight, they were no longer uncertain.
Only cold.
Colder than the storm beyond the walls.