Thalos stirred beneath the heavy furs, caught in the quiet stillness of morning. The cold was already there, waiting. It whispered against the walls of the stone houses, stretched its fingers through the narrow streets, and turned every sound brittle with its touch

Above the door, an antler pulsed faintly in its stone cradle, casting shifting streaks of blue across the ceiling. The hum was always there, steady, almost comforting. His breath curled in pale wisps above him. Outside, the city was waking. He could hear it in the muffled crunch of boots against packed snow, the distant creak of a cart wheel dragging through the frost. For a long moment, he did not move.

The warmth beneath the furs was the only barrier between him and the cold waiting beyond. But the day had begun, and it would not wait. He exhaled and shoved back the blankets, wincing as the cold wrapped around him. His feet met the stone floor with a sharp sting, sending shivers up his legs. He moved quickly, pulling on the layers that had been mended too many times to count. The wool of his tunic was rough against his skin, the cloak carrying the faint scent of pine and smoke—A familiar scent.

As he tugged the leather ties of his cloak into place, he caught his reflection in the shard of polished metal hanging by the door. His sharp gray eyes, the color of storm-lit ice, stared back at him beneath dark, unkempt hair that never seemed to lie flat, no matter how often he tried. His face was still lean with youth, though the angles had begun to sharpen as he neared his fifteenth year. He wasn't broad like Orin or tall like Garrick, but he was quick, and in Frosthelm, quickness mattered more than size.

He slung his satchel over one shoulder, fingers brushing the worn leather strap. His gaze drifted to the window—the closest thing Frosthelm had to one.

Glass was a luxury of the old world, something that had no place here. Instead, stretched hide covered most openings, thick enough to block the wind but thin enough to let in a dim glow. Others, like this one, were made from the translucent threads of Frostwidow Spiders, woven into delicate sheets of ice-silk. The material shimmered faintly, catching the morning light as it filtered through in pale streaks, cold and thin, barely more than a whisper of the sun.

Beyond it, Frosthelm stirred. The first traders were already in the market. A few early hunters passed by, bows slung across their backs. A group of Children ran past his view, shrieking as they pelted each other with hastily packed snowballs. Thalos exhaled. Another lesson. Another story of what had come before—of the age before the cold ruled the land, before the elves sealed themselves behind their rivers, before the dwarves buried themselves beneath the mountains. Mistress Elwen would tell it the way she always did, her sharp eyes daring anyone to look away.

A voice called from beyond the curtain separating him from the main room.

"Thalos."

His mother. There was no urgency in her tone, only routine. He pushed through the hanging furs and into the warmth of the common room, where the scent of smoke mingled with salted meat and herbs. The carved Snowstrider antlers lining the walls pulsed gently, The light wasn't harsh—it never was—just a quiet glow that Settled over his mother's hands as she worked.

Liriel stood at the table, slicing dried venison into strips, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. A few strands of dark hair slipped from her braid, streaked with silver that glinted in the morning light. She glanced up as he stepped in, her hazel eyes quick to assess him, as if searching for signs of another sleepless night.

Without a word, she reached for a carefully carved cloth pouch. She wrapped the meat inside before adding a small round of Hunter's Loaf—dense, packed with dried fish, root mash, and just enough fat to hold it together. It wasn't pleasant, but it would keep him moving. She folded the cloth neatly, pressing it into his hands.

"For later," she said, brushing the crumbs from her fingers. Then, with a sharp look, she added, "And don't make me regret letting you out of my sight again."

Thalos smirked, stuffing the bundle into his satchel. "I know, I know, I promise."

She gave him a dry look. "I've been your mother too long to fall for that."

He ducked out before she could list every time he had broken his promise

The cold swallowed him the moment he stepped outside, crisp and immediate. It carried the scent of snow and pine, of burning wood and steel. In the distance, the mountains loomed, their jagged peaks stretching into the sky, and beyond them, the forest waited— His father had warned him again last night. Wolves. But not the usual hunting packs. Something more. The men had spoken in low voices by the fire, their words tight with unease. He tried to shake the thought, but as he pulled his cloak tighter around him and stepped into the waking streets, he couldn't help but glance toward the treeline. The streets of Frosthelm were already awake, moving with the cold rather than against it.

Thick columns of smoke curled from chimneys, Nearby, a row of Traders had set up their stalls beneath stretched furs, their voices low as they bartered dried meats, tanned hides, and sharpened tools. A merchant rubbed a small antler shard between his palms as he spoke, its glow flickering slightly under his touch. 'Bad omen when the light jumps,' he muttered, mostly to himself. A woman hunched over a wooden bench, carving a new bow. Her knife scraped steadily along the grain, curls of shavings drifting into the wind.

A pair of tamed Frostfoxes darted through the space between carts. One skidded to a stop near Thalos's feet, its pale blue eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence before it flicked its ears and bounded off again. He had always found the creatures fascinating—skittish and cunning, yet fiercely loyal to those who had earned their trust. Ahead, a team of Snowstriders moved steadily through the square, their long legs navigating the icy ground with ease. They carried piled logs and stone on reinforced sleds, their faintly glowing antlers casting a soft blue light beneath the shadows of the buildings. Thalos let his eyes follow the shifting glow as they passed, listening to the quiet hum that trailed behind them—a sound so constant in Frosthelm, he often forgot it was there. With each step, their wide, padded hooves pressed into the snow without sinking.

One of the drivers walking beside them murmured a low command, tapping the lead Snowstrider's side, and the beast responded immediately, shifting its weight and pulling the heavy load with measured steps. They were docile creatures, built for endurance, but they weren't mindless. Thalos had seen them refuse to move for handlers who mistreated them, their deep-set black eyes watching with eerie patience.

He passed a group of hunters near the forge, their leather armor dusted with fresh frost. One of them adjusted the bow slung across his back while another crouched beside a pile of sharpened spears, inspecting the edges. Their voices were hushed, but Thalos caught snippets—talk of wolves again, of tracks spotted too close to the eastern ridges. The same warnings his father gave him last night.

He was still thinking about it when a familiar voice rang out behind him.

"You're walking like an old man!"

Thalos turned just as Garrick jogged up beside him, his usual grin plastered across his face. His dark blond hair was a tangled mess, wind-tossed and half-frozen at the edges, and his green eyes glinted with mischief beneath the morning light. He was taller than Thalos by a hand's width, though his frame still held the wiry leanness of a boy who hadn't yet grown into his full strength.

"You're up early," Thalos said, watching as Garrick fell into step beside him.

"I didn't have a choice," Garrick groaned. "My father had me stacking hides before dawn. You'd think he was selling them to a king the way he inspects every scrap." He exhaled sharply, rubbing his gloved hands together before shoving them into his coat. "I swear, I can still smell the tannin."

Thalos smirked. "Maybe that's just how you always smell."

Garrick shoved him lightly. "Keep talking like that, and I'll tell Brynn you want to go on another adventure."

Thalos chuckled but said nothing, letting the easy rhythm of their footsteps carry them forward. The Great Hall loomed ahead, its massive stone structure rising above the smaller buildings. Its thick wooden doors were already ajar, warm light spilling onto the snow-covered steps as people moved in and out.

Just before they reached the entrance, two more figures appeared from the side street leading in from the western quarter—Brynn and Orin, deep in conversation.

Brynn, as usual, was speaking with her hands, gesturing wildly as Orin walked beside her, his expression unreadable beneath the heavy hood of his coat. His thick, dark cloak made him look smaller than he was.

Brynn spotted them first and grinned. "Took you long enough."

"We would've been faster, but Thalos had to admire every fox and deer in the city," Garrick said.

Thalos rolled his eyes. "It's called paying attention, Garrick. Maybe you should try it."

Before Garrick could fire back, Elara stepped out from the shadow of the Hall's doorway, her dark braids tucked beneath her cloak, her sharp eyes already scanning the group.

"Are we going in? Or is everyone just going to stand here like idiots?" she asked dryly, An unimpressed look on her face.

Brynn smirked. "Can't we do both?"

Thalos chuckled as they followed her inside, the warmth of the Hall swallowing them whole.

The lesson was about to begin.