Snow presses down on the world the moment Aldo steps through the gate.
It is not the gentle kind that drifts and decorates. This snow is old, compacted by seasons of wind, layered like the memory of winters stacked upon one another. The sky above the northern region of Mikhland hangs low and pale, a dull iron color that reflects no warmth. Breath turns visible instantly, every exhale a brief cloud before being torn away by the cold.
Aldo leads the 204th Company forward.
Boots crunch in unison. Armor creaks. Cloth stiffens. Even the magic woven into their gear feels quieter here, as if the land itself listens before allowing power to pass.
The village appears gradually, revealed between slopes and frost-heavy pines. Low houses crouch against the earth, built of dark timber and stone, roofs buried under thick snowpacks. Smoke coils lazily from narrow chimneys, the only sign of warmth in a world dominated by white and gray.
People watch from a distance.
They do not approach. They do not wave. Their eyes follow the company with the careful stillness of mountain animals—alert, measuring, patient.
Aldo notes it all without slowing.
[Cold discipline. Isolation. Defensive instincts.]
He brings the company to the village chief, a weathered man wrapped in layered fur and wool, his beard braided with small bone clasps. Their conversation is brief, practical, stripped of ceremony. Shelter is scarce. Trust is scarcer.
The agreement comes quickly.
Labor in exchange for lodging.
The chief's eyes flick—just once—to the insignia of Mikhland, then to the slave marks borne by some of Aldo's men. His mouth tightens before he nods.
When housing is arranged, Aldo notices the detail that matters.
They are split.
Not one hall. Not one compound. Separate houses. Separate hosts.
[Fear—or memory,] Aldo thinks as the company disperses under the watchful gaze of villagers. [Either way, it means caution.]
He does not challenge the decision. He never does when the ground beneath him is unfamiliar.
The house assigned to him belongs to the village chief's younger brother.
From the outside, it is unremarkable—thick timber walls, a door reinforced with iron bands dulled by age. Smoke leaks from the roof in thin threads.
Inside, warmth hits him like a held breath finally released.
Aldo shrugs into a thick fur coat provided by the household. The scent of animal hide and old wood clings to it, heavy but honest. He settles near the wall, resting his back against the timber, letting the heat soak into his spine.
Then he notices the sound.
Chop.
Crack.
Thud.
Rhythmic. Unhurried. Powerful.
Aldo turns his head toward the doorway.
Outside, framed by snow and pale sky, the old man works.
Shirtless.
Only leather pants cover his lower body, darkened by age and use. His skin is pale, crisscrossed with scars that speak of claws, blades, and winters survived rather than endured. Muscles knot beneath weathered flesh, dense and functional, the kind shaped by necessity rather than vanity.
He is tall—unnaturally so, even among mountain folk—and rune tattoos spiral across his arms and torso, dark lines etched deep, not decorative but declarative.
Each swing of the axe is precise.
Wood splits cleanly.
Aldo blinks once. Then again.
[Still very energetic,] he thinks, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.
The old man finishes the last log, stacks it neatly, and only then steps inside as if the cold has never touched him.
He sets a wooden cup in Aldo's hands.
Wildflower tea.
Steam rises, carrying a faint sweetness beneath the sharper scent of herbs Aldo doesn't recognize. He sips cautiously. Heat spreads through his chest, steady and grounding.
Through the small window, the Furaberg mountain dominates the horizon.
Its slopes are heavy with snow, pine forests clinging stubbornly to its sides. Somewhere within those trees, stories live—stories Aldo knows well.
The Red-Eyed Winter Wolf pack.
Predators shaped by cold and legend, their eyes said to glow like embers in snowfall. Beasts assigned to die by the authority of Mikhland.
He has also heard of the Winter Flower. Transparent petals. Ice bestowed upon the worthy or the foolish.
Aldo does not linger on either.
[Mission parameters do not include myths,] he reminds himself. [And beauty does not excuse danger.]
The old man speaks without turning his head.
"I wash where the cold bites hardest," he says, voice hoarse and low, like wind scraping stone. "Water straight from the mountain's veins. Wakes the bones. Keeps the spirit honest."
He finally looks at Aldo, eyes pale and sharp.
"But you," he continues, gesturing vaguely with a thick finger, "you carry warmer blood. City blood. Stone-and-gate blood."
A pause.
"Follow the mountain's shoulder," the old man says, pointing toward Furaberg. "There is steam where ice should be quiet. The earth breathes there. You bathe without freezing your thoughts."
Aldo nods slowly, committing the direction to memory.
"Thank you," he says.
The old man grunts, which may or may not be acknowledgment.
Aldo hesitates, then asks, "Is this area on a geological plate?"
The old man stares at him.
Blankly.
Snow seems to fall louder in the silence.
Aldo clicks his tongue softly. "A volcano," he clarifies. "Is there one nearby?"
The old man snorts.
"Fire mountain?" he says. "No. This land is calmer than men think."
He taps his chest once.
"Manatite sleeps under us," he continues. "Stone that drinks magic. Where it runs thick, lava spirits curl like cats near a hearth."
His hands describe a vague, circling motion.
"Heat rises. Snow forgets how to land."
Aldo listens intently.
"When the sky howls," the old man adds, voice dropping, "the white falls as rain there. Ground stays bare. Trees keep their green like they're stubborn children."
Aldo exhales slowly.
[Natural magic convergence,] he thinks. [Stable, localized. Useful.]
The old man finishes his tea in one swallow and sets the cup down with a dull thud.
"We bathe outside," he says simply.
And with that, he steps back into the cold, as if the conversation has reached its natural end.
Time passes.
The house settles. Firewood pops. The wind presses its face against the walls.
Aldo leans back, eyes half-lidded.
[Skipping one bath would not reduce operational efficiency,] he reasons lazily. [Energy conservation suggests—]
His stomach tightens.
Hygiene. Control. Routine.
He exhales sharply and pushes himself upright.
[Annoying,] he thinks, but there is no real resistance left.
He steps outside.
Cold slams into him instantly, aggressive and unwelcoming. Snow crunches beneath his boots as he follows the direction the old man indicated, moving against the slope of Furaberg.
The village fades behind him.
The forest thickens.
Pines loom overhead, their branches sagging under snow. The air smells cleaner here, sharper. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the low groan of shifting ice—and beneath it, something else.
A breath.
Warm.
Steam curls ahead, ghostlike and inviting.
The ground changes beneath his feet, snow thinning, then vanishing entirely. Dark earth shows through, damp and alive. Moss clings to stone. Trees grow denser, greener, their needles untouched by frost.
A natural pool reveals itself between rocks, water shimmering faintly, heat rolling off it in waves.
Aldo stops at the edge.
He scans the surroundings once. Twice.
Only then does he begin to remove his coat.
[Even here,] he thinks as the warmth brushes his skin, [the land watches.]
He steps forward, steam swallowing him, the mountain looming silent and immense behind his back.
Steam coils upward into the night air, thin white threads dissolving into the darker sky above Furaberg's shoulder. The hot spring lies exposed, cradled by stone and stubborn green moss where snow refuses to settle. Aldo sits waist-deep in the water, arms resting on the slick rock behind him, fur coat and clothes folded carefully on dry grass a short distance away…far enough from steam, far enough from snow.
The warmth presses into his muscles, loosening joints stiffened by marching and command. His breath slows. The mountain does not move. The forest does not speak.
Silence settles.
[If the Earthling Former-slave Revolutionaries have magic,] Aldo thinks, eyes half-lidded, watching steam blur the outline of the pines, [and if summoning itself is magic… then why revolt at all?]
Water ripples faintly as he shifts.
[Why not reverse it? Why not pull Earthlings back instead of tearing Mikhland apart?]
The thought circles, slow and persistent. The heat dulls its edges, turns it from a sharp question into a floating curiosity. His eyelids grow heavy. The spring's breath becomes rhythmic, almost like a living thing.
His head tilts back.
The mountain looms.
Darkness presses gently.
And Aldo drifts.
—
His eyes snap open. The sky's bright…as it was moments ago.
No sound wakes him. No pain. No impact.
Just awareness.
His breath catches before he can stop it. Water laps quietly around his chest. The steam is the same. The trees are the same. The sky is unchanged.
Nothing is wrong.
That realization comes too quickly.
Aldo straightens, water sloshing softly. His gaze cuts left, then right. The treeline stands still. No red eyes. No movement. No shadows where shadows should not be.
[No wolves,] he notes automatically. [No rebels. No presence.]
His pulse does not slow.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, deliberate. His hand reaches instinctively toward where his weapon would be—then stops. He is bathing. Unarmed. Exposed.
The unease tightens.
He rises partially from the spring, water streaming down his skin, and checks the bank where his clothes lie. They are exactly where he left them, folded with care. The grass beneath is dry, untouched by snow or frost.
Everything is correct.
That makes it worse.
His heart accelerates. The fine hairs along his arms prickle beneath the cooling air. A pressure settles between his shoulders, not physical, but undeniable—the sensation of being observed without direction.
Aldo closes his eyes for half a second.
[Instinct says danger,] he thinks, jaw tightening. [Reason says nothing is here.]
He runs through procedure without moving. Perimeter scan. Sound. Wind direction. Thermal logic—where heat should distort vision. He sees nothing out of place.
He opens his eyes again and looks straight ahead.
Only steam and stone greet him.
The feeling does not fade.
Enough.
Aldo moves.