It had been a cruel ride through the Freljord’s white wastes, even for Sejuani. The storm had chased her and Bristle across the frozen ridges, biting through fur, leather, and iron until lesser warriors would have fallen from the saddle. By the time the Winter’s Claw camp came into sight, its hide tents and timber longhouses were half-buried in snow, smoke rising thinly from the fire pits.

Bristle snorted as Sejuani rode between the tents, his tusks rimed with frost. Warriors stepped aside quickly, lowering their eyes as their warmother dismounted. Her armor was iced over, her pale hair stiff with snow, and Winter’s Wrath hung heavy at her side.

Inside the great hall, the fire burned low. Sejuani tore off one frozen glove and looked towards one of her Bloodsworn.

“Is the food still warm?”