The war goddess sharpens the blade of her spear against a jagged shard of ice, repurposed as a whetstone. The edge is encased in ice, hard to pierce flesh, and freeze limbs — the pommel is worn from millennia of use, torn, and frayed. Something catches Halone's attention, shuffling footfalls, and ragged breaths. She grips the spear's haft tightly, focusing on its source.