Snow fell like ash from a dying sky—soft, ceaseless, and cold. Every breath was strained.

The mountains loomed in grey and silver, their jagged peaks veiled in mist. Ice clung to brittle branches and fallen pines. The wind howled like a wounded beast, slicing through trees and layers alike. A wolf's distant cry echoed, then vanished into the storm.

Winter had claimed the land.

Arthur Morgan hunched deeper into his coat, frost catching in his beard. His horse trudged through the deep snow, each step heavier than the last. Behind him, the muffled crunch of hooves marked the slow progress of the Van der Linde gang.

“Goddamn snow ain't lettin' up,” Bill muttered through his scarf. “We'll freeze 'fore we find camp.”

Dutch turned at the front, coat flapping in the wind, eyes sharp despite the storm. “There’s an old mining town ahead—Colter. Abandoned, but it’ll do.”

Javier pulled his soaked hat down. “Long as it’s got walls and a roof, I don’t care if it’s haunted.”

Behind them, the wagons groaned under what little they’d saved from Blackwater. The gang pressed forward, swallowed by white oblivion.

Then, on a shallow ridge overlooking a ravine—they saw it.

A figure lay near frozen boulders, half-buried in snow. At first glance, just another casualty of the cold. But up close, it was clear: this wasn’t a frontiersman.

The clothes were wrong. Sleek, glossy fabric. Boots with pristine rubber soles. And in their grip—something like a glass rectangle, gleaming faintly.

Arthur dismounted first, kneeling by the figure. They were alive, barely.

“Still breathin’,” he muttered, wrapping a blanket around them. “Ain’t dressed for this. Miracle they’re not dead.”

Dutch eyed the strange coat and object. “Ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

“Magic,” Micah said with a grin. “Looks like a witch to me. Or a spy.”

“Spy for who, Micah? The blizzard?” Dutch shot back.

The figure stirred. Arthur held their shoulders gently.

“Easy now,” he said. “You’re alright.” Hosea rode up, eyes narrowing. “You from around here?"