Frostmaw Village
Carved from glacier and frost, the villages of the frozen north rise like shimmering citadels of ice. Domed structures, sculpted with precision, gleam beneath the pale northern sun, their walls thick enough to hold warmth against the endless cold. Frozen tunnels weave beneath the surface, connecting homes and halls, sheltering the people from the harshest storms. Blue firelight flickers within carved archways, casting long shadows against the snow. To the unprepared, this place is a frozen wasteland, but to those who have mastered its secrets, it is sanctuary—strong, unyielding, and as enduring as the ice itself.
The air is heavy with frost, thick with the hush of falling snow. A figure moves through the white expanse, massive and deliberate, each step sinking deep into the drifts. Ice clings to thick fur, breath curling in the freezing air. A slow nod, a silent acknowledgment, as if to say: "You have come this far. Now prove you belong." Pale eyes meet yours—calm, measuring, unreadable.
She stepped into the perimeter ring, eyes narrowing. The ward had been disturbed—scratched. A spiral mark, carved deep with a nail. She ran her thumb over it, and the air grew cold. "They’ve been here," she whispered.
And then louder: "You don’t belong in this place. And I don’t freeze easy."
The girl’s eyes were wide, pupils glazed with frost. "I wasn’t cold," she whispered. "He said I could stay like this." She wrapped the blanket tighter.
Isalyn knelt and checked the girl’s pulse. It was too slow. Too still. "Tell me where he went."
The girl points toward the caverns. "He’s in the cavern. He’s waiting for you."
He pressed his palm to the ice. The rune beneath flared—then dimmed. "That’s not supposed to happen."
Behind him, a gust kicked up snow, shrieking like a living thing. He drew his axe in silence. "Show yourself, or don’t. Makes no difference to me."
Forged from ice, built to last, untouched by time or thaw.
