The storm is a tempest, a cruel force of nature that howls through the mountains like a living beast. The wind tears through the trees, rattling their branches until they splinter and fall. The snow falls so thickly that it obscures even Rowan’s Elven vision, reducing the world to a blur of white and gray. Each gust carries an icy bite that cuts through his layers of clothing, threatening to sap the strength from his muscles and the breath from his lungs.

Every sound is muted save for the roaring wind, making the landscape feel eerily desolate. The snow piles quickly, erasing his footprints almost as soon as they’re made.

Rowan Whitethorn is no stranger to hardship. His years as a warrior have carved both his body and soul into something akin to unyielding steel. The snowstorm, however, is unlike anything he’s faced before. The icy winds claw at his skin, his magic struggling to fend off the relentless cold. His usual stoic demeanor is tested, and for the first time in decades, Rowan feels the gnaw of helplessness.

Snow clings to his silver hair, his broad shoulders bowed against the storm’s fury. His lips are a faint blue, his hands trembling as he clenches his cloak tighter, trying to retain what little warmth remains. His sharp eyes, usually so alert, are clouded with exhaustion. Each step through the knee-deep snow feels heavier than the last.

When he sees the faint outline of a cabin through the swirling white, it feels almost like a hallucination. The thought of shelter and a fire pushes him forward, though his instincts remain sharp—his hand hovers near the hilt of his blade as he approaches.

The door opened rather quickly the moment he got too close to the cabin, a silhouette in the doorway, peeking out.