The morning after the storm broke colder than the last.
Frostvale was wrapped in thin mist, snow still clinging to the rooftops, and icicles forming along the eaves. Smoke rose from chimneys, curling into the dull silver sky. The traveler stepped out of the lodge in silence, his boots crunching into the hardened snow.
The wind bit at his face. He pulled the hood tighter.
The village was slowly coming to life—quiet voices, creaking wood, the rhythm of winter routine. And yet it all felt distant, like something happening through glass.
He walked without direction, letting his feet carry him.
Not far behind him, light footfalls followed in the snow.
He didn't turn, but he knew.
The children.
Hazel's kits—two small fox-eared bundles wrapped in patchy cloaks—and the quiet wolf cub who watched more than he spoke. They trailed behind like cautious shadows, occasionally whispering to each other, daring one another to speak to the strange man.
The traveler didn't acknowledge them. He didn't need to. Their presence was small and harmless.
He passed a butcher's stall, the meat frozen stiff and wrapped in paper. A dwarf woman with heavy braids nodded at him in passing. He didn't return it.
Frostvale felt old. Worn. Settled into the snow like it had always been there.
Then he saw them.
At the edge of the village, just before the snow-thickened forest, a group was gathering—five figures preparing for departure.
One was a towering wolf beastman, gray fur rippling beneath a weather-stained coat. A jagged scar traced down his throat. A crescent-bladed sickle rested across his back like a warning.
Beside him, a rabbit beastwoman checked vials strapped to her belt. A staff tapped the ground at her side. Her pale fur twitched as she muttered calculations to herself.
A feline woman crouched nearby, inspecting her crossbow and arrowheads. Her golden eyes flicked up and scanned the woods beyond.
Then a giant emerged—a black-furred gorilla beastman, all scars and muscle, tightening his gauntlets with a low rumble of breath. Each movement was slow, precise.
And finally—Thamus.
He stood calmly in the center, his frame tall and draped in layered white fur. No sword. No bow. No blade.
Just the bell.
It floated behind him, suspended by nothing, silent for now. Its surface was tarnished bronze, cracked faintly at one side. It did not sway with the wind. It hovered as if the air itself bore its weight.
The group exchanged few words. None raised their voice. They began to walk toward the trees, boots sinking deep into the snowdrifts.
The traveler stopped and watched.
As they passed into the treeline, the bell tolled once.
Dong.
A low, aching sound that vibrated in the bones rather than the air.
The children froze behind him. One of them whispered, almost too quiet to hear:
"The bell's awake..."
Then silence again.
The forest swallowed the five figures, and the snow began to fall—soft and soundless.
The bell's toll faded into the white, leaving only the cold wind and the quiet crunch of his boots as the traveler turned back toward the heart of Frostvale.
Behind him, the children still followed—less cautious now, more curious than ever. The wolf cub padded through the snow, ears perked. The fox kits tiptoed close, whispering and watching. Their laughter had quieted into awe.
As they entered the village square, faint music drifted through the crisp morning air.
A crowd had gathered near the old stone platform by the well. Dwarves and beastfolk stood shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around steaming cups, drawn to the warmth of the sound. A bard stood at the center—tall, feline, dressed in patchwork leather. A long-tailed lute rested in her arms, fingers dancing lightly over the strings.
Her voice was steady, soft, but carried through the hush.
"When fire climbed and kingdoms broke,
A stranger rose through ash and smoke.
With tired eyes and silver hair,
He bore the weight none else would dare..."
The traveler slowed.
The children stepped beside him, drawn in by the music. One of the fox kits leaned against his leg without noticing, staring at the bard with wide eyes.
"He walked alone through storm and flame,
No title sung, no house, no name.
With sword in hand and silence deep,
He gave the world its restless sleep."
The wolf cub whispered, not to anyone in particular,
"I thought humans were loud."
The traveler gave no response. His face remained still. Blank, but not at peace.
"The war is gone, the sky is clear—
Yet no one knows why he's not here.
Some say he walks, still cursed, still gray—
A shade that never found his way..."
Soft clapping followed the last note. A few murmurs of appreciation. Then silence.
The traveler turned quietly and walked away. The children watched him go. The fox kit who had leaned against him blinked and looked down, realizing what she'd done.
The bard adjusted the strap of her lute and glanced toward the departing man—but said nothing.
The snow kept falling.
And in the quiet that returned, only a question remained.