Warmth.
That's what I noticed first. Not the oppressive heat of a New Vein summer, but something gentle and enveloping. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting golden rectangles across polished hardwood floors. I stood in a living room larger than our entire apartment in the Depths, surrounded by furniture that looked both expensive and—impossibly—comfortable.
The scent of something baking filled the air. Cinnamon, maybe?
"Isaiah! Come help set the table!"
My heart stopped. That voice—Mom's voice—but strong, vibrant. No rasping cough, no strain from the core dust slowly killing her lungs.
I moved toward the sound, each step feeling weightless. The kitchen I entered was bright and spacious, gleaming with appliances I recognized from advertisements but had never seen in person.
And there she was.
Mom stood at a marble counter, her hands covered in flour as she shaped dough. But these weren't the cracked, bleeding hands I knew—these were smooth, healthy, strong. Her face, too, had transformed. The sallow skin and sunken eyes were gone, replaced by rosy cheeks and clear eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled at me.
"Don't just stand there staring," she laughed. "Grab those plates."
I obeyed automatically, taking five elegant ceramic plates from a cabinet. "Five?"
"Of course," she said, as if it were obvious. "You, me, Miri, your father, and—"
"Isaiah!"
A blur of motion slammed into my side as Miri wrapped her arms around my waist. My sister—but not as I'd left her. This Miri stood taller, her frame filled out rather than the bony child I'd fought to feed. Her hair, once dull and brittle, now fell in glossy waves past her shoulders.
"You promised to help with my science project after dinner," she said, looking up at me accusingly.
"I... did?"
She rolled her eyes. "You always forget everything. Dad says your brain is too busy thinking about important things to remember the small stuff."
Dad.
The word hung in the air like something physical. I set the plates on the counter with suddenly trembling hands.
"Where is he?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Mom and Miri exchanged a look I couldn't interpret.
"In his study, of course," Mom said. "Go tell him dinner's almost ready."
I moved through the house as if in a trance, passing framed photographs I couldn't quite focus on. A hallway led to a closed door of dark wood. I raised my hand to knock but hesitated, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Come in."
I pushed the door open.
A man sat behind a desk, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a terminal screen. He looked up, and I saw my own eyes staring back at me—the same amber shade that lightened when focused and darkened when angry. His black hair was cut short, with just a few strands of silver at the temples. He wore a simple white shirt, open at the collar.
"Dad," I said, the word strange on my tongue.
He stood, and I realized he was exactly my height. In my memories, he'd always been taller.
"Isaiah." He smiled, and something in my chest broke open.
I crossed the room in three strides and threw my arms around him. He returned the embrace, his hands solid against my back. But as I pressed against him, I felt a strange coldness emanating from his body—not the warmth I expected. It was subtle, like standing near a window during winter.
I ignored it. This was my father. This was my family, whole and healthy. This was everything I'd fought for.
"I've missed you," I said, my voice thick.
"I know." He pulled back, holding me at arm's length. "You've grown strong. Had to, I suppose."
I nodded.
"Come on," I said. "Mom says dinner's ready."
He didn't move. "Isaiah, you need to control it."
I frowned. "Control what?"
His eyes—my eyes—searched my face. "It's not too late for them." He glanced toward the door, and I knew he meant Mom and Miri. "For all of us."
"I don't understand."
"You have to wake up, son."
"I am awake."
He placed his hands on my shoulders. They were colder now, almost painful against my skin. "No. You're dreaming. And while that can be a comfort, it's also a danger." He leaned closer. "Wake up, Isaiah. Before it's too late."
"Dad, you're not making sense—"
"Wake up." He gave me a gentle push.
I stumbled backward, suddenly dizzy.
"Wake up," he whispered again, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.
The study began to dissolve around me. Dad's face remained clear, his eyes sad but determined.
"Dad, wait—"
"WAKE UP!"
Someone was shaking me. Hard. I opened my eyes to find Hask's face inches from mine, his breath reeking of whatever fermented piss he called alcohol.
"Finally," he growled, his voice like gravel in a meat grinder. "Thought you were dead."
I shoved his hands away and sat up, immediately regretting the movement as cold air rushed under my thin clothes. The shelter was freezing, the fire now just embers casting a dull red glow across the stone floor.
"F-fuck," I stammered, teeth chattering. My entire body shook with violent shivers. "Why's it s-so c-cold?"
"Because we're in a cursed winter wasteland, genius." Hask stood, his massive frame blocking what little light remained. "Wolves are gone."
I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to conserve body heat. "They j-just left?"
"Dawn came." Torsten's voice came from near the door. I turned to see him peering through a crack in the barricade. "Ice wolves hunt mainly at night. They've retreated for now."
"G-good news, then." I forced myself to stand, legs unsteady beneath me. The dream of my father lingered, that final push and whispered command echoing in my mind. Wake up.
Joran entered from outside, brushing snow from his shoulders. His face was grim. "Tracks everywhere. Big pack, at least twelve."
"Did they..." I started.
"The horses are gone," he confirmed, avoiding my eyes. "And the sleigh."
Hask kicked a piece of fallen timber, sending it clattering across the floor. "Fucking beasts. Should've stayed to guard them."
"And died with them?" Torsten asked quietly. "No point dwelling on it. We need to move."
I glanced around our small shelter, reality settling in. No horses meant walking. In this cold, with minimal supplies, our chances weren't good.
"Where to?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the shivering.
"There's a settlement," Joran said. "I spotted smoke from the ridge. Two kilometers, maybe less."
"Two kilo-what?" Hask squinted at him.
"About an hour's walk," Joran clarified. "If the weather holds."
I translated the unfamiliar measurement automatically—an old system from before the Gates. Interesting that Frostfall used it. Another piece of evidence that this place operated on different rules than the real world.
"And if the weather doesn't hold?" I asked.
"Then we die."
"Cheerful as always," I muttered, rubbing my hands together for warmth. "Let's get moving, then."
Gathering our meager supplies took only minutes. Torsten distributed what little food remained—strips of dried meat that tasted like leather but provided some energy. Joran checked his weapons one last time, while Hask simply paced, eager to be away from the place where we'd nearly died.
I stood by the doorway, watching them prepare. These men were my enemies by circumstance—slavers who saw me as property. Yet right now, our survival was interdependent. I needed to understand them better if I was going to use them to reach the Temple of Echoes.
"Ready," Torsten announced, shouldering a small pack. He looked at me. "Stay close. No running off."
"Not planning on taking a scenic detour."
Joran dismantled our barricade, and bitter cold rushed in as the door swung open. Outside, the world was blindingly white under a pale blue sky. The sun offered light but little warmth, its rays reflecting off the snow in a way that hurt my eyes.
"Here." Torsten handed me a strip of dark cloth. "Tie this around your eyes. Leave a narrow slit to see through. Snow blindness will get you."
I did as instructed, fashioning a makeshift eye covering that reduced the glare to manageable levels. Through the narrow opening, I surveyed our surroundings.
The small stone shelter stood alone on a gentle slope, the only structure visible for miles. Behind us rose the jagged peaks of what must be the mountain range Torsten had mentioned. Ahead, the ground sloped downward toward a distant smudge of darker shapes—trees, perhaps, or buildings.
"That's our destination," Joran confirmed, pointing toward the smudge. "Stick to my tracks. The snow's treacherous—deep drifts can swallow a man whole."
Hask grunted. "Let's go already. My balls are freezing off."
"Truly, we're blessed by your eloquence," I said.
He cuffed the back of my head, not hard enough to hurt but enough to remind me of my status. "Watch your mouth, slave."
We set off in single file: Joran leading, then Torsten, myself, and Hask bringing up the rear. The snow crunched beneath our feet, sometimes supporting our weight, other times giving way suddenly to send us knee-deep into powder. The cold bit through my inadequate clothing, sending fresh waves of shivering through my body.
After twenty minutes of walking, my feet had lost all feeling. My face burned from the cold, and each breath seemed to freeze my lungs. But I pushed forward, placing one foot in front of the other.
"You holding up?" Torsten asked without turning, somehow sensing my struggle.
"Just enjoying the refreshing mountain air," I replied through chattering teeth.
He glanced back, his weathered face impassive. "Your sarcasm won't keep you warm."
"Neither will your concern, yet here we are."
A sound escaped him—almost a laugh, but rougher, as if rusty from disuse. "You remind me of someone."
"Your conscience?"
This time he did laugh, a short bark that crystallized in the frigid air. "My brother. Joran's father. Always had an answer for everything."
I considered this information carefully. "Until he didn't."
Torsten's shoulders stiffened slightly. "Until he didn't," he agreed quietly.
We walked in silence after that, the only sounds our labored breathing and the crunch of snow. The settlement grew slowly larger in our vision, resolving into a cluster of buildings surrounded by a crude wooden palisade.
"Whisper Hollow," Joran called back. "Small trading post. Not friendly to strangers, but they'll sell supplies if we have something to trade."
"And what exactly do we have to trade?" I asked.
Hask's hand landed heavily on my shoulder. "We got you, don't we?"
My blood ran cold, and not from the temperature. I'd known they planned to sell me eventually, but I'd hoped to have more time to escape.
"I'm worth more than whatever supplies you need," I said, keeping my voice level.
"That's for us to decide," Hask replied, but Torsten raised a hand.
"Enough. We're not selling anyone today. We need to reach Hearthhome, and that means keeping our group intact."
I studied the back of his head, trying to decipher his motivations. Was he protecting me out of some misplaced sense of decency? Or was I simply more valuable at a larger market?
Either way, I'd take the reprieve.
"Look," Joran said suddenly, pointing to our right.
Following his gesture, I spotted dark shapes moving across the snow—wolves, but smaller than the ones that had besieged us during the night. They loped parallel to our path, maintaining a careful distance.
"Scouts," Torsten muttered. "The pack is still tracking us."
"In daylight?" I asked. "You said they hunt at night."
"They usually do." His face was grim. "These ones are hungry. Or something else is driving them."
I thought of the strange, almost human howls from the night before. The way they had seemed to call the cold itself to aid them.
"How far to the settlement?" I asked.
"Half an hour, maybe less," Joran answered. "We should make it before they decide to attack."
"Should," I repeated. Not the most reassuring word.
Hask unsheathed his massive hunting knife. "Let them come. I owe them for our horses."
"Put that away," Torsten ordered. "We run, we don't fight. Not in the open."
The wolves continued to pace us, occasionally disappearing behind snowdrifts only to reappear closer than before. My heart hammered in my chest as I counted them—five, then seven, then ten.
"There's more coming," I warned, spotting new shapes emerging from the treeline ahead.
"Run," Torsten commanded. "Now!"