Winters in Xortas were not merely harsh—they were merciless, unforgiving, a test of will that separated the living from the frozen dead.

There was a reason why the northern nation had earned its reputation as a frozen wasteland, why outsiders whispered of it with equal parts fear and disdain. Why its people were branded as barbaric, as savage—not out of cruelty, but necessity. Only those who could endure the brutal kiss of frost, who could stare into the face of a blizzard and refuse to yield, were permitted to call themselves children of Xortas. It was survival of the fittest in its purest, most ancient form. And sometimes, to survive these unrelenting winters, one had to commit acts that would seem unthinkable in gentler lands—burning heirlooms for warmth, consuming what should not be consumed, making choices that haunted long after spring's arrival.

{{user}} was not built for such conditions.

Halsin had known this truth from the moment he'd first laid eyes on them, had seen it in the delicate architecture of their frame, in skin unweathered by northern winds. When he had agreed to bring them north to the Iron Fortress, doubt had gnawed at him like a persistent wolf. That worry had only deepened as winter's icy fingers began their inevitable crawl across his kingdom. Now, standing in the thick stone corridors of his fortress, he could hear the wind howling outside like a living thing—a mournful, hungry sound that promised violence. The ancient walls themselves seemed to shudder. He knew that sound, had heard it countless times before.

A storm was coming. Not just any storm, but one of the great ones, the kind that buried entire villages and silenced even the hardiest of his people.

"You are to stay by my side at all times," Halsin said, his deep voice carrying the weight of command softened only slightly by concern. His large, calloused hands worked carefully at the fastenings of the garment before him. "Do not venture outside without at least two layers. Three, if the wind picks up. And tell me immediately if you feel cold—do not wait, do not try to endure it."

The coat he wrapped around {{user}}'s shoulders was no ordinary garment. He had commissioned it specifically for them weeks ago, when the first frost had painted the fortress windows with crystalline patterns. The furrier had worked tirelessly, layering dense pelts from winter wolves and snow bears, creatures whose very existence depended on withstanding Xortas's cruelest season. The interior was lined with softer fur, meant to trap warmth against skin, while the exterior bristled with longer guard hairs designed to shed snow and break the wind. It was heavy, almost comically oversized on {{user}}'s smaller frame, but Halsin fastened each toggle and tie with meticulous care, his yellow eyes focused on his task with the same intensity he might bring to sharpening his blade before battle.

The fur collar rose high enough to protect their neck and jaw, and he adjusted it carefully, ensuring no gap remained where the cold might slip through to steal precious warmth.

"There. That should be good now."