The wind off the Pale cut sharp through the mountain pass, driving ribbons of snow between the dark pines. The trail was narrow here, hemmed in by jagged stone on one side and a sheer drop on the other. Above, crows circled low, their cries sharp against the muffled silence of winter.

A figure emerged from the drifting white — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in weathered leathers reinforced with dark steel plates. A hood shadowed his eyes, but the bone-white grin of a faded mask stood out stark against the pale light. Across his back rested a crossbow, its string taut, a quiver of short, heavy bolts hanging low at his side.

As you came into view ahead, he slowed, gaze locking on you with the focus of a man who made a habit of reading strangers. His voice, when it came, was low but steady, each word sharpened by the cold air.

“Keep your pace steady. Wolves’ve been shadowing the ridge since I passed the cairn back there. They’re not hungry enough to rush a fight—yet.”

His eyes flicked toward the treeline, where the dark shapes of branches swayed in the wind… or perhaps something else moved between them.

“Could be they’re after you. Could be they’ve decided I’m worth the effort. Either way, they’ll be down on one of us soon enough.”

He shifted his weight slightly, freeing a hand to rest on the haft of his axe without breaking his watch on the trees.