He scrubs himself quickly, aggressively, fingers biting into skin with the coarse towel and pungent local soap meant for cold climates. The sharp scent clears his head even as his thoughts race. Water splashes, louder than before, echoing off stone in a way that suddenly feels too exposed.
He dresses fast. Fur coat on. Boots pulled tight. Leather straps secured with practiced efficiency.
No ceremony.
No lingering.
He turns away from the spring and heads back the way he came.
—
The forest closes in.
What had felt merely quiet before now feels muffled, as though the snow-laden branches are swallowing sound. The path he followed earlier is less distinct under dimming light and drifting mist. He moves quickly, then faster, boots slipping slightly on damp earth that gives way to snow again.
The wind rises.
Not gradually.
Suddenly.
Snow lashes sideways, stinging his face, visibility collapsing in moments. Aldo curses under his breath and angles himself by memory alone, counting steps, measuring slope.
April.
This should not be happening.
The storm thickens, howling through the trees with a ferocity more fitting of midwinter. Pine trunks loom and vanish in white chaos. Aldo's breath comes harder now, each inhale burning.
The ground drops unexpectedly.
He stumbles forward and catches himself at the mouth of a cave.
Dark, wide, cut into the mountain like a wound.
Another gust shoves him toward it.
Aldo does not hesitate. He dives inside just as the storm roars louder, snow flooding the entrance in a blinding sheet.
Inside, the wind dies abruptly.
Cold remains, but muted.
Aldo presses his back to the stone wall, breathing hard, senses flaring. His eyes adjust slowly to the dim interior—and then he freezes.
Figures.
Several of them.
Huddled deeper in the cave, silhouettes wrapped in rags and torn coats. The smell hits him next: sweat, iron, old wounds, unwashed bodies. Firelight flickers weakly from a small pit of embers.
They are not Mikhlandians.
They are Earthlings.
Pale skin. Tall frames. Hair light even under grime. Their bodies are marked by exhaustion—shoulders slumped, movements slow and guarded. Bandages, filthy and blood-stained, wrap limbs that should have been stronger.
Slave miners.
One man rises slowly and steps forward. He moves with the caution of someone used to pain.
His accent is thick, rolling, northern.
"Eh… what sort o' slave are ye, then?" the young man asks, voice rough like gravel under snow.
Aldo straightens slightly. "A slave-soldier."
The man blinks. Once. Then again.
"A… soldier?" he repeats, disbelief heavy in his tone.
"Yes," Aldo says evenly. "A slave assigned to military service. We conduct combat operations, ensure security, sometimes extermination tasks."
The cave stirs. Murmurs ripple through the group, low and tense.
Another man steps closer, taller still, his beard matted, eyes sharp despite the fatigue. His voice carries a Norwegian lilt.
"Which Palantine?" he asks. "They mark ye all by that."
"Palantine Heilop," Aldo replies. "Central Region…The Mediplana."
Their reaction is immediate.
Mouths fall open. One man lets out a short, incredulous laugh that dies halfway.
"Central?""Mediplana?" someone mutters. "You?"
A third miner pushes forward, snow still clinging to his shoulders from the storm outside.
"Why in the frozen hells is a slave-soldier from central Mikhland up north?" he demands. "Ain't this where they bury problems?"
Aldo shakes his head once. "I only know rumors from my fellow soldiers…," he says. "The Palanton indulges without restraint—drowning himself…and itself in excess, throwing endless parties, surrounding himself with escorts, and burning money faster than he could ever be taxed or accounted for."
His eyes flick briefly to their wounds.
"Debts pass downward through every layer of society, soldiers take side gigs to survive, and civilians are crushed beneath relentless levies."
The men exchange glances. Grim, knowing.
One of them swallows and asks quietly, "Ye here to watch us?"
Aldo meets his gaze. "No."
A beat.
"My company is here to exterminate a wolf pack. Specifically, the Red-Eyed Winter Wolf."
Relief and fear mix in the air, an uneasy blend. One miner steps forward again, voice dropping.
"We've not eaten since morning," he says. "Anything to spare?"
Aldo hesitates only long enough to judge their state. Then he kneels, opens his leather briefcase just enough, and removes compact rations. He hands them over without ceremony.
As they eat, one miner leans closer, voice low, conspiratorial, Swedish vowels stretched by fatigue.
"They might be sendin' ye lot to sniff for rebellion," he murmurs. "North's restless. Always is."
Aldo's eyes widen despite himself.
[The Lieutenant…] his thoughts race. [He hinted at this.]
Two separate warnings. Same implication.
His muscles tense. Decision crystallizes instantly.
He stands.
"I…I need to return," he says.
Before they can respond, he turns and runs back into the storm.
Behind him, voices shout—confused, urgent—but the wind devours their words.
Snow blinds him as he plunges into the white chaos, heart hammering, mind already racing ahead to formations, contingencies, preparation.
He vanishes between the pines, crouching low, using trunks as cover, feeling his way by instinct and training alone.
Somewhere ahead, faint lights mark the village.
Aldo moves toward them, breath sharp, fur coat snapping in the wind…and the mountain watches in silence.
The blizzard tightens without warning.
Wind that was merely biting turns violent, slamming into Aldo's back and shoulders with blunt force. Snow thickens in the air until distance collapses, until the world shrinks to a few arm-lengths of white chaos. Visibility dies first. Sound follows, swallowed by the roar. Cold seeps through fur, through cloth, through skin, pressing straight into bone. Aldo hunches instinctively, shoulders rising, chin tucking down. His arms cross over his chest, hands gripping opposite sleeves as if holding himself together. Each breath is shallow now, forced through clenched teeth to keep the air from burning his lungs too fast. He moves by touch. Boots drag through uneven snow. One foot slips; the other plants hard. He stumbles forward, catches himself against rough bark. A tree stump—wide, old, half-rotted—juts from the ground like a broken tooth. He circles it once, fingers sliding along the frozen surface, testing. The wind howls past, clawing at him. Aldo lowers himself, presses close, and begins digging. Snow packs against his gloves, against his forearms. He scoops, shoves, compresses. His movements are efficient, repetitive, stripped of flourish. The stump becomes shelter by degrees, by force of will and time. He buries the entrance deep, carving a tight hollow beneath the roots, shaping a space just large enough for his body.
He pauses only to breathe.
Then he digs again. A narrow hole opens to the outside—ventilation. Another follows, then another, offset, angled. He pushes snow outward, then packs it down, hardening the walls. His fingers go numb. He switches grip, changes rhythm. The storm does not ease. Hours pass without shape. Inside the stump, the world compresses. Aldo's shoulders scrape bark. His knees draw tight to his chest. He digs upward next, carving small observation slits, careful not to let light spill too wide. When he finally stops, his chest rises and falls in tight, controlled bursts. Snow sifts down from the ceiling, dusting his hair, his collar.
He waits.
Through one of the longer slits, movement appears. White shapes against white ground—wrong only because they move.
Wolves.
Not one. Several.
Red eyes cut through the storm like embers buried in ash. Their bodies are large, unnaturally uniform in color, fur blending seamlessly with the snow except where muscle shifts beneath it. They circle slowly, methodical, drawn to dark shapes half-buried nearby. Winter goats. Native, thick-coated, legs locked stiff with ice. The wolves pull at them, tear free chunks of frozen flesh without haste. Their breath steams faintly, drifting sideways in the wind. Aldo does not move. His jaw tightens. His fingers curl once, then still. The musket lies across his lap. He draws it up carefully, inch by inch, keeping it from scraping bark. Snow clings to the metal. He shakes it once, controlled, then opens the mechanism just enough to clear the chamber. The barrel slides forward through the observation hole. He angles it, aligns the front sight through swirling snow. One wolf lifts its head—a large male, broader than the rest, muzzle stained darker where blood has frozen. Aldo exhales slowly.
The shot cracks through the storm.
Recoil slams into his shoulder, contained but sharp. The bullet strikes the male squarely. The wolf collapses, legs folding beneath it, momentum spent in a single violent motion. Snow puffs up around the body.
Instantly, Aldo moves.