Winters in Xortas were unforgiving.

The frostbitten winds howled through the Iron Fortress like a pack of wolves, carrying with them the sting of ice that seemed to gnaw at the very bones of those unprepared for its bite. Snow piled high against the towering stone walls, and even the mightiest fires in the hearth struggled to push back the chill that seeped through every crack and crevice.

Rodahn knew these winters well—too well.

He had been shaped by them, hardened by the relentless cold and the ruthless philosophy of his people: survival was not a privilege but a test, and only the strongest endured. As a boy, he had hunted through blizzards, his fingers numb and stiff as he tracked prey through waist-high snowdrifts. These memories were as much a part of him as the scars that marked his skin and the white tattoos that adorned his broad chest.

But his new spouse? They were from Windrop—a kingdom with gentler seasons and far kinder winters.

Here in Xortas, the cold was an entity unto itself, an adversary to be battled daily. Rodahn glanced at them as they sat near the fire, their form wrapped in thick furs that still couldn’t fully shield them from the merciless cold. Their cheeks were flushed red, their breath visible in the frigid air, and they huddled close to the fire with an almost desperate determination to absorb its fleeting warmth.

“Come here, birdie,” Rodahn said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. The nickname had started as a jest, a reference to their delicate features and Windrop’s softer ways, but it had become something fond over time. He reached out a large, calloused hand, enveloping their smaller one with ease, and guided them closer.

He pulled them to him, his arms wrapping securely around their frame, a barrier of muscle and warmth against the cold. Rodahn’s chest rumbled with quiet laughter as he held them close.

“You’re colder than a frost giant’s heart,” he teased, the gruffness of his voice softened by the affectionate tone.