I'm a fucking idiot.
That was the only thing I could think as I shifted uncomfortably on the saddle. The horse beneath me—a sturdy bay mare with more patience than I deserved—snorted and stamped a hoof into the snow, perhaps agreeing with my self-assessment.
Throughout all the planning, all the training, all the obsessive study of Torsten's journal... I'd overlooked one simple, critical fact: I had no idea how to ride a horse.
Growing up in New Vein's Depths meant transportation was either your own two feet or, if you were lucky, the overcrowded tram system. The closest I'd come to riding anything was clinging to the outside of a cargo hauler once when running from security drones.
"Problem?" Laina asked, pulling her mount alongside mine. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, not quite hiding her amusement.
"Just getting acquainted," I muttered, gripping the reins like they might save me from drowning.
She studied my rigid posture and white-knuckled grip. "Relax your thighs. You're strangling the poor beast."
I tried to loosen my legs, only to slide sideways in the saddle. Laina's hand shot out, steadying me before I could fall.
"Never ridden before?"
"Never had the opportunity." I straightened myself, refusing to meet her eyes. "Horses aren't exactly common where I'm from."
Laina nodded. "Keep your back straight, heels down, and follow my lead. You'll learn."
Behind us, the small gathering of Hearthhome villagers had assembled in the village square. Elders Tannin and Senna stood at their center, faces solemn as they prepared for some ritual to see us off. Torsten was there too, leaning heavily on crutches, his weathered face gray with pain. He shouldn't have been out of bed yet.
"Time for the Farewell," Laina said quietly.
She dismounted smoothly and handed her reins to Joran, who had been watching our exchange with thinly veiled impatience. I awkwardly swung my leg over and half-slid, half-fell from my horse, trying to make the movement look intentional.
We approached the gathered villagers. The early morning light painted everything in shades of blue and gold, our breath fogging in clouds before us. Elder Tannin raised his arms, and the murmuring crowd fell silent.
"Three travelers set forth today," he intoned, his voice carrying surprising strength. "Three to face the winter's heart, as the old prophecies foretold."
I kept my face neutral. No one had mentioned prophecies before.
Elder Senna stepped forward, holding a shallow bowl of clear liquid that steamed in the cold air. "The waters of Hearthhome have flowed unceasing for a thousand years," she said. "Even as the curse deepened, even as the snows grew heavy, our springs remained. Drink now of this blessing."
She offered the bowl first to Laina, who took a small sip and bowed her head. Joran went next, his throat working as he swallowed. When the bowl came to me, I hesitated only briefly before drinking. The water tasted of minerals and something else—a faint sweetness like honey.
"May your path be clear," Tannin said.
"May your hearts stay warm," Senna added.
"May you return with the dawn," the villagers responded in unison.
The ritual continued with Elder Tannin marking our foreheads with ash from the eternal hearth fire. Throughout it all, I found myself studying the faces around us—lined with hardship, yet somehow unbroken. These people had endured generations of unnatural winter, watching their world slowly freeze while clinging to whatever warmth remained.
When the blessings finished, Torsten hobbled forward. His eyes, pale blue against his weathered face, fixed on each of us in turn.
"You carry more than supplies," he said, voice rough. "You carry our hope."
He clasped Joran's arm first. The younger man's eyes glistened as he returned the grip.
"Remember what I taught you," Torsten told him quietly. "Trust your instincts."
Joran nodded, blinking rapidly. "I will not fail you."
Torsten moved to Laina next, taking her hands in his. "Your father would be proud," he said simply.
Finally, he faced me. I expected accusations or warnings, but instead, he pressed something into my palm—a small carved stone pendant on a leather cord.
"For luck," he said. "You'll need it."
I slipped it around my neck without comment. His sentimentality didn't move me—not after he'd tried to feed me to the wolves.
We mounted our horses again—mine with considerably more effort than the others—and the villagers called final farewells. As we rode away from Hearthhome, I felt the weight of their expectations pressing down heavier than the twin daggers strapped across my back.
"They believe in you," Joran said, bringing his horse alongside mine once we'd passed the last outbuildings.
"They're desperate," I replied. "There's a difference."
"Does it matter why they hope, if the result is the same?"
I didn't answer. Hope was dangerous—it made people take risks, trust strangers, follow prophecies. In New Vein, hope was what got people killed in gate clearings or left broke after failed Awakenings.
The trail narrowed as we approached the edge of the Whispering Forest. Massive pines loomed ahead, their branches heavy with snow and ice. The air grew noticeably colder as we neared the treeline, our breath creating thicker clouds.
"Stay close," Laina called from the lead. "The forest belongs to the frost lynx and ice wolves. We're just visitors."
I shifted in my saddle, trying to find a position that didn't make my thighs burn. After an hour of riding, I'd graduated from complete incompetence to basic survival. The mare seemed to understand my limitations and had mercifully decided to follow Laina's horse without much guidance from me.
The forest swallowed us gradually. First came scattered pines, then thicker stands of trees, until finally we were surrounded by an ancient woodland transformed by eternal winter. Ice crystals hung from branches like glass ornaments, catching the light and scattering it in prismatic bursts. The snow beneath the trees was pristine, unmarked by footprints.
"Beautiful," Joran murmured, his earlier emotion replaced by reverent awe.
It was beautiful, in a deadly way. Like the glint of a knife blade or the shimmer of core energy before containment failure. Beauty that warned rather than welcomed.
I pulled my fur-lined hood closer around my face, grateful for the layers of clothing the villagers had provided.
"The daggers," Laina said suddenly. "How do they feel?"
I reached back, touching the hilts protruding above my shoulders. "Cold. But not uncomfortable."
The Domain Trial hadn't given me any special weapons or abilities—just sealed what powers I might have had. If these daggers responded to me, it was either coincidence or some property of the Trial I didn't yet understand.
We rode for several hours, the forest growing denser around us. Occasionally, Joran would raise his hand, signaling for silence, and we'd pause while he studied tracks in the snow or listened to distant sounds. Each time, after a moment, he'd nod and we'd continue.
"Ice wolf pack," he explained during one such stop. "Moving east, away from us. Hunting."
"How many?" I asked.
"Eight, maybe nine. A small pack." He pointed to marks in the snow I could barely distinguish from natural shadows. "They're not hungry enough to risk humans yet."
"Yet?"
"Hunger changes the calculation. For all creatures."
By mid-afternoon, the constant movement had settled into my muscles. I no longer felt in danger of immediate dismount, though comfort remained a distant dream. The rhythmic sway of the horse had become almost hypnotic, lulling me into a state of heightened awareness where small details stood out sharply—the creak of leather, the soft huffs of the horses' breath, the distant crack of ice-laden branches.
"There," Laina said suddenly, pointing ahead. "The Silver River."
Through the trees, I caught glimpses of movement—not the stillness of frozen water, but the actual flow of a living river. As we drew closer, the sound reached us—the musical gurgle of water running beneath a partial crust of ice.
"It never freezes completely," Joran explained, noting my surprise. "Fed by heat deep beneath the mountain."
We emerged from the treeline onto the riverbank. The water moved swiftly between snow-covered shores, steam rising from its surface where it broke through the ice. The contrast was startling—life and movement in a world otherwise locked in stasis.
"We'll camp here tonight," Laina decided, dismounting. "The running water will mask our sound from predators, and we can refill our waterskins."
I slid from my horse with legs that felt boneless, stumbling slightly as my feet hit the ground. Every muscle from waist to knee protested the day's activity. Joran caught my arm, steadying me.
"It gets easier," he said, then moved away to tend the horses.
We worked efficiently, each taking on tasks without discussion. Laina gathered firewood while Joran unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down. I unpacked our supplies and began clearing snow for the tents.
The work warmed me, driving back the persistent cold that had settled in my fingers and toes. By the time we had a fire crackling and the tents erected, twilight had begun to fall. The forest darkened around us, the spaces between trees filling with purple shadows.
"Ice wolves won't approach the fire," Laina said as she arranged our cooking pot over the flames. "They're intelligent enough to fear it."
"And the lynx?" I asked.
"They fear nothing," Joran replied. "But they prefer to hunt easier targets."
We ate a simple meal of dried meat softened in hot water with wild onions and herbs. The food was bland but filling, and the warmth spread through my chest as I ate.
After dinner, while Laina and Joran discussed the next day's route, I moved to the river's edge. The water had carved a small inlet here, creating a relatively still pool where the ice had melted completely. Kneeling, I leaned over to refill my waterskin.
My reflection caught me by surprise. In the dark water, illuminated only by moonlight and the distant glow of our campfire, a stranger looked back at me.
My face was thinner, cheekbones more pronounced. But what truly startled me was something else entirely.
"What the fu—"