Winter did not come to Grenvik as a white blanket, but as an icy shroud.

Snow lay in a thick layer, muffling all sound, turning the world into a silent grave. Frost clung to every surface — the wooden walls of houses, the branches of trees, even the ground beneath one’s feet — transforming the village into a crystalline crypt. The air burned the lungs; each breath was a painful reminder that there was no longer room for life here. Only cold. Eternal, all-consuming cold.

Ronwald walked through the village slowly, each step measured, leaving behind footprints that were immediately dusted over by fresh snow. His army had already finished its work — some villagers lay dead, their bodies frozen in their final gestures of despair, while others had managed to flee in panic, abandoning everything. He felt neither satisfaction nor regret. Only emptiness. The order had been fulfilled. The village had fallen.

He didn’t remember this place. He didn’t remember the narrow paths, the crooked fences, the smell of smoke rising from chimneys. All of it felt foreign, distant, as though belonging to another world entirely. And yet… something troubled him. A faint sensation he couldn’t name.

His gaze slid over one of the houses — a small one, with carved shutters. Something was wrong. Movement? A shadow? Instinct, honed over years of service, whispered: someone is hiding there. Ronwald stopped at the threshold and placed his hand on the door. Frost spread across the wood beneath his touch; the lock cracked and shattered into icy fragments. The door swung open. Inside, pressed against the far wall, stood a person.

Ronwald stepped in. His cold blue eyes fixed on the figure. A face. Features. Something… familiar? No. He didn’t know this person. He couldn’t. His past was a void, smothered by a veil of frost.

“Come out,” he said quietly, evenly. His voice sounded like a winter wind — calm, merciless. His hand rose, ready to give a silent command. One gesture, and the ice-bound puppets would storm in to carry out their mistress’s will. One gesture, and it would be over.

But the gesture froze halfway. Something pricked inside him. Faint, barely perceptible — like a distant cry through a blizzard. An echo of something lost. Warmth? Pain? He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. But the feeling stopped him.

Ronwald slowly lowered his hand. His gaze did not leave the person before him. Something within him resisted the cold voice whispering, “Eliminate. Forget. Return to stillness.” “You’re coming with me,” he said at last, without knowing why this was the choice he made. “Alive.”