The sun rose, but its warmth never touched Frosthelm. The first pale light stretched over the jagged peaks, its feeble glow swallowed by thick gray clouds that loomed above. It was the Snowstrider antlers, not the sun, that woke the city. Their soft blue glow pulsing steadily along the rooftops, scattered like stars woven into ice. They filled the air with a low hum, quiet and constant, a song that had guided Frosthelm through a hundred winters.

The homes of Frosthelm were not built for beauty. Low, squat structures huddled against the cold, their wooden walls weathered by time, reinforced after every storm, patched with whatever could be salvaged. The oldest among them had been reboarded dozens of times, their surfaces uneven where new timber had been nailed over the old, the scars of past winters still visible beneath fresh repairs.

Most homes stood no taller than a single story, their roofs sloped steeply to keep the weight of snow from caving them in. Some on the farthest ends of Frosthelm, had vanished beneath the drifts entirely, their doorways little more than tunnels dug into the ice, their chimneys the only sign of life beneath the frost. —And despite the cold, Frosthelm was not a place without joy.

In the open spaces between homes, children carved paths through the snow, their laughter ringing through the crisp morning air. Some were already locked in battle, pelting each other with hastily packed snowballs, shrieking as they darted between the safety of carts and stacked firewood. Others crouched together, carefully shaping snow into rounded walls, fortresses rising from frost-covered ground.

The Frostfoxes were never far from the games. Agile and quick, they darted between the children's feet, their silver-white fur shimmering in the morning glow. One leapt high to snatch a stray snowball mid-air, shaking the frost from its whiskers before darting away, its tail flicking mischievously. Another wrestled a boy to the ground, nipping playfully at his hood as he shrieked with laughter. Some families trained the foxes to hunt or carry small parcels through the snow, but for the children, they were simply part of the game.

Near the market square, the first Snowstrider races of the day were beginning. The long-legged creatures, sleek and fast, Large elk like creatures, with massive antlers that were glowing with a subtle blue. Their thick fur making them seem thicker than they actually were stamped impatiently as riders adjusted their grips on the reins. The crowd, wrapped in thick furs, lined the path, their voices rising in cheers. It wasn't a race of wealth or status—anyone daring enough to ride could compete, and anyone foolish enough to challenge an experienced racer would likely end up buried in a snowdrift before the finish.

Further down the street, a group of teenagers gathered on a frozen patch of river, their boots sliding effortlessly over the slick surface. They pushed and tackled one another, their mock wrestling turning into a chaotic tangle of limbs, ice, and laughter.

The market was always the first to wake, traders shaking the frost from their stalls, unfurling thick hides over their wares to keep out the wind. Bundles of tanned leather, dried meats, and sharpened tools were laid out, voices already haggling in low, measured tones. A woman hunched over a block of thick wood, her carving knife gliding along the grain, shaping the curve of a new bow. Beside her, a boy no older than twelve turned a length of bone over in his hands, carefully etching delicate runes into its surface.

Beyond the market, the hunters were already moving.

Some returned from the wilds, their faces lined with exhaustion, their sleds heavy with fresh kills—stags, frosthares, the occasional tusked snow-boar. Others were just setting out, adjusting their cloaks, sharpening blades, tightening bowstrings, whispering final words to those who stayed behind. Their eyes were sharp, watching the tree line beyond the valley, watching, always watching. Frosthelm never let its guard down. It had survived too much to be careless.

It had endured the Great Divide, when half its people vanished beyond the mountains, seeking warmth and never returning.

It had fought through the Blizzard of Blood and Ice, when the wind howled like a starving beast and the dead had to be pulled from the drifts before they were buried forever.

And it had stood against the Frostwolf War—the night the wolves came, hundreds strong, their eyes burning in the dark. No one alive now remembers these events, but what is remembered is that the north can not kill man

Beneath the looming shadow of the Great Hall, where history was carved into stone and tradition was etched into blood, the training grounds awaited.

The snow here was not fresh. It was hardened by countless footsteps, scarred by the weight of steel, This was where boys became hunters. Where girls became warriors. Where the weak learned their place—and the strong claimed their own.

The sparring grounds were alive with motion—blades clashed, boots scraped over ice, shouts rang through the cold. Some fought with dull iron swords, testing footwork and speed. Others gripped long hunting spears, learning how to brace against the weight of a charging beast.

One figure stood apart from the rest, watching with a gaze like stone.

Eryndor Oakhart.

He was the cold made flesh. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unshaken by time. His Frostwolf cloak barely shifted in the wind— even the cold dared not touch him. Steel-gray eyes, sharp as a hunter's blade, cut through the training grounds. None could match him. He had tracked beasts through blizzards, felled creatures twice his size, and walked away from storms that swallowed lesser men whole. And yet, for all his strength, his expression remained unreadable. He did not offer praise. He did not need to.

One of the older boys lunged forward, his stance firm, his movements precise—but too predictable. A single step, a shift of weight, and Eyrndor had him pinned, his blade resting just above his collar. The fight had lasted seconds.

The boy swallowed, nodding his defeat.

Eryndor stepped back, his voice even, without boast. "Predictability kills."

The lesson was over. Another would begin.

As the wind swept across the training ground, Eryndor turned his gaze toward the towering silhouette of the Great Hall. There, beyond its thick walls, awaited those who had yet to take up the hunter's path. They did not yet hold blades, but their battles had already begun.

Nestled at the heart of Frosthelm, It loomed over the city like a silent guardian, its thick wooden beams lined with ancient carvings, it's great fires burning through the coldest nights.

This was where Frosthelm's history lived—not just in words and stories, but in the eyes of those who gathered within its walls. Here, futures were shaped. Paths were chosen. Inside, the younger children sat cross-legged on thick pelts, reciting the stories of their ancestors, carving old runes onto tanned hides. The older ones—those nearing their seventeenth year—were expected to learn more than just words.

Seventeen was the age of proving.

Some followed their families—learning the forge, tending the farms, trading in the market. Others chose the path of the hunter, training their hands to wield a bow and their eyes to track through the endless white. And when the day came that they left the valley to hunt, the city would hold its breath, waiting to see if they would return.

Outside, the city stirred. The clash of dull iron echoed through the air, the distant howls of Frostfoxes carried between narrow streets, the Snowstrider antlers hummed their steady song, pulsing softly against the breaking dawn. But in one home, beneath the steady glow of an antler's light, the world remained still. A boy lay motionless beneath thick blankets, caught between waking and dreams.

His name was Thalos.
And today, like every day, he would wake to a world of ice and stone.