The doors shut behind them, leaving a silence that seemed deeper than before.

Eryndor's gaze swept over the remaining group, calculating. He was silent for a long moment, taking his time as he studied them, Orin shifted uncomfortably under his stare, his shoulders tense. Elara, ever composed, held her ground but kept her hands tucked into her cloak, as if resisting the urge to cross her arms. She didn't look away, but she didn't challenge him either.

But when Eryndor's eyes finally settled on Brynn, his expression didn't change—but something about the air did. Brynn, leaning casually against a wooden beam, met his gaze with practiced ease, but Thalos could see the shift in her posture, the way her fingers twitched slightly at her sides. He didn't think it was fear, Brynn didn't get scared.

She knew he was onto her. Eryndor didn't speak right away. He let the moment stretch, let her feel the scrutiny of a man who had tracked prey across the ice his entire life and had no trouble seeing through games.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Was it your idea?" The question was sharp, edged with the weight of certainty. Not an accusation—a challenge.

The hall was quiet enough to hear the crackling of the fire. Brynn, to her credit, did not flinch. But her jaw did clench

She could have lied, could have spun a story, played innocent like she had so many times before. But Brynn wasn't stupid—there was no lying to Eryndor.

She held his gaze, something flickering in her expression.

And then—she said nothing. She simply lifted her chin slightly, eyes steady, and stayed silent.

Eryndor studied her for another beat, He had his answer.

Without another word, he turned back to Thalos.

"Come."

Thalos hesitated, glancing at his friends, but Eryndor was already moving toward the door. He had no choice but to follow.

As he stepped away, he caught Brynn's expression—a ghost of a smirk, but not a triumphant one.

She had taken the hit for them, and they both knew it.

The doors to the hall swung shut behind them, the warmth of the fire fading as Thalos followed his father into the cold. The cold was sharper outside the hall, but it was not the cold that made Thalos' breath feel tight in his chest.

Eryndor walked ahead, his strides even, deliberate. He didn't rush, didn't speak, didn't even glance at Thalos. He simply moved through Frosthelm like a force of nature, the world around him shrinking with each step.

"The streets, normally bustling even in the cold, felt quieter. Thalos had never noticed it before—not like this. It wasn't just the people. It was everything."

A pair of Frostfoxes, curled atop a woodpile near a merchant's stall, normally playful and unbothered by the comings and goings of the town, suddenly stiffened as Eryndor passed. Their ears flattened, their silver fur bristling, and in an instant, they vanished into the shadows.

Ahead, a line of Snowstriders pulling carts filled with lumber came to an eerie halt. The great, antlered beasts did not spook easily, trained to endure blizzards, rough terrain, and the shouts of working men. But now, they simply... stopped. Their glowing antlers turned in unison, their black eyes tracking Eryndor as he moved through the street. The handlers muttered under their breath, tugging gently at their reins, trying to get them moving again. But they did not move. Not until Eryndor had passed.

Thalos felt small walking beside him. Maybe it was his father's imposing figure, the way he carried himself—like a man who did not need to demand respect, because it was given the moment he arrived. Maybe it was the Frostwolf pelts, the thick furs draped over his shoulders, shimmering as if they still held the frost of the creatures they once belonged to.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the Vyrestone sword at his hip, its metal gleaming faintly, catching the soft blue glow of the antlers they passed, its presence radiating something older, something unseen.

Whatever it was, the world shrank around him. They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of their boots on the ice-packed road. Thalos kept his eyes forward, resisting the urge to glance up at his father, resisting the gnawing discomfort in his chest.

The people they passed spoke in hushed tones, their voices subdued as they watched from the corners of their eyes. Some greeted Eryndor with nods of respect. Others simply stepped aside, not daring to block his path.

It wasn't until they reached the familiar threshold of home, the small wisp of smoke curling from the chimney, that Eryndor finally stopped.

He pushed open the door without a word and stepped inside.

Thalos swallowed, his breath curling in the air. His hands had curled into fists at his sides, though he wasn't sure when it happened. The door shut behind Eryndor, leaving Thalos standing in the cold.

For a moment, he considered not following.

Then, with a deep breath, he stepped inside.

The moment Thalos crossed the threshold into his home, the world expanded again. The suffocating weight that had pressed on his chest through Frosthelm's streets was gone.

But the moment Thalos looked up to see his father, it was like watching him shed an unseen weight.

Eryndor reached up and unfastened his heavy Frostwolf pelt cloak, shrugging it from his shoulders and hanging it near the door. The shimmering white fur, which had seemed almost otherworldly beneath Frosthelm's sky, now hung lifelessly in the dim glow of the fire. The flickering light caught on the Vyrestone short sword at his hip, the ancient metal still glimmering faintly, but even its glow seemed less intimidating here.

And Eryndor himself looked different. Outside, he had been unshakable, a legend wrapped in furs and steel, a man that made the world shrink just by existing within it. But here, in the quiet warmth of his home, he was just a man.

Still broad, still formidable, still the same imposing hunter Frosthelm revered—but no longer something untouchable.

He crossed the room in a few strides and lowered himself into the chair at the table, leaning forward slightly, one elbow resting on the wood. The sigh that left him was long, drawn-out, like he had been carrying something all day and could finally set it down.

Across the room, Thalos's mother was cooking over the hearth, her sleeves rolled up as she turned thick cuts of frosthound meat over the iron pan, the scent rich and seasoned. She didn't turn at their arrival.

She didn't need to. She already knew.

Eryndor ran a calloused hand through his graying hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. 'You were at it again today

It wasn't anger. It wasn't disappointment. It was resignation.

Thalos hesitated near the doorway, his fingers twitching at his sides. His father's voice wasn't loud, wasn't sharp—but it carried weight all the same. The shift in his demeanor was always jarring. Outside, he was a force, but here, he was simply a man exhausted by his son's antics.

Across the room, his mother finally glanced over, her hazel eyes sharp but not unkind.

"Did you get caught this time, or did you decide to confess on your own?"

Thalos opened his mouth, but before he could answer, his father let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

"Oh, he got caught."

Thalos braced himself. His father was not cruel. He was not unkind. But he expected better. And that was the hardest part of all His mother turned back to the pan, carefully sliding thick slices of frosthound meat onto a wooden plate. The scent filled the room, rich and hearty, curling into the warmth of the fire. Without looking up, she motioned to the table.

"Sit, Thalos." It wasn't a command, but it wasn't a request either.

Thalos hesitated for only a moment before lowering himself onto the bench opposite his father, His mother set a plate in front of him, then another before Eryndor, before finally sitting down herself.

They ate in silence at first, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the quiet clink of utensils against wood. It was a familiar silence, the kind that settled between them often.

His father wasn't an interrogator. He didn't demand explanations the way some parents did. Instead, he waited—because he knew Thalos would speak when he was ready.

His mother was the first to break the quiet.

"You know," she said, slicing through her meat with steady hands, "I saw the elders in the market earlier. They seemed amused about something."

Thalos nearly choked on his bite. Eryndor lifted a brow but didn't look up from his plate. "Amused?" His voice was neutral, but Thalos could hear the edge beneath it.

His mother hummed. "Oh yes. They seemed quite entertained by something—or someone." She took another bite, chewing slowly, as if giving Thalos a chance to dig himself out of the hole before it was too late.

Thalos shifted, suddenly very focused on his plate. "It... wasn't that bad."

Eryndor finally set down his fork. "Then tell me, what was it?" Still, there was no anger.

Thalos exhaled, pushing his food around his plate before finally muttering, "We may have been caught trying to break into the blacksmith's storage shed."

His mother didn't so much as blink. "Ah. That explains the amusement."

Eryndor ran a hand down his face. "Brynn?"

Thalos nodded. "Brynn."

His father leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "Of course it was Brynn."

His mother hid a smile behind her cup, and for a brief moment, the weight in Thalos's chest eased.

Then Eryndor sighed deeply and muttered under his breath, "And then there's Marta."

His mother let out a quiet, knowing laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, she was furious. I could hear her from across Frosthelm"

Eryndor let out a dry chuckle. "Marta is always furious." He picked up his fork again, cutting into his food before adding, "I actually agree with her, for once. But gods above, that woman could give a rock a headache."

Thalos barked out a surprised laugh, nearly choking on his next bite.

His mother smirked, tapping a finger against her cup. "She kept going on and on about 'recklessness' and 'standards' and how we're all one step away from utter ruin." She rolled her eyes. "At this point, I think she enjoys the sound of her own voice more than anything else."

Eryndor looked over at Thalos.. "If she had her way, every child in Frosthelm would be shackled to their parents until they were forty."

Thalos chuckled, but his mother just shook her head. "She does mean well. Somewhere. Buried under all that misery."

Everyone at the table chuckled softly. Thalos took another bite of his food, as the conversation drifted into the usual rhythm of home. His mother asked about the merchants in the square, commenting on how the tanner's new stock of furs looked thinner than usual, while his father muttered about hunters struggling to find enough game near the outskirts of Frosthelm.

The topic of his trouble-making faded into the background, just another part of the day—not ignored, but not dwelled upon either. This was how it always was.

Eryndor wasn't soft-spoken or gentle like some fathers. He didn't ruffle his son's hair, didn't offer empty reassurances, didn't coddle or praise needlessly. But he was present. And he was listening.

When Thalos spoke, even if it was something as small as a passing comment about the weather or a half-hearted grumble about Brynn, his father listened—a slight tilt of his head, a slow chew as he processed the words, a quiet grunt of acknowledgement.

To the world, Eryndor was an unshakable force, a hunter wrapped in legends, a leader who demanded respect without asking for it. But here, in this simple home, with the fire crackling and the scent of frosthound meat filling the air, he was just Thalos's father.

And no matter how cold-hearted he seemed to everyone else, no matter how much he demanded from Thalos, no matter how heavy his expectations felt, Thalos knew one truth above all else.

His father loved him. Even if he never said it.

END OF CHAPTER 1 – The Cold Beckons