Hawkelin City, Northern Continent.
October 23, 2517
—
The final generation of the global climate shielding satellites was never designed to fail. Yet, two weeks before the final catastrophic event, every governing body on Earth received the same urgent, system-wide alert: containment was failing. The planet was about to lose its thermal envelope.
The warning period was not used for orderly evacuation. It was two weeks of terminal social collapse. Governments fractured, martial law failed instantly, and billions of people, realizing the world's lifeline was severed, abandoned all order.
Then, on October 23rd, at 14:01:03, the physical phenomenon began.
The worldwide sky turned a shade of bruised purple, and all the air molecules on Earth were seized by a catastrophic cold that bypassed insulation and structure. This was the failure of energy containment: a planetary-sized drain that actively stole ambient heat.
The immediate death toll was staggering. The cold phenomenon was so swift and complete that 43 percent of the world's 11.2 billion inhabitants perished instantly. They froze where they stood—in traffic, in bunkers, on evacuation routes. Molten reactor cores instantly became brittle, inert solids. The lights of every city on Earth went out in one synchronous flicker.
The freezing was absolute. Thawing was of no use; cells were destroyed by flash contraction. Entire continents became spacious, silent cemeteries.
This initial devastation was followed by the Long Cold's secondary wave. Over the next six months, another 22 percent of the population succumbed to starvation, resource wars, failed shelters, and secondary weather events.
Ultimately, 65 percent of humanity was lost.
The remainder—the millions of survivors who had fled underground, insulated ancient bases, or successfully prepared for the collapse—found themselves scattered and isolated. They were now the last guardians of a planet where the very concept of warmth was a hostile, lethal negotiation.
They named it the Whiteharrow.
The Great Ice.
Seventeen years later, the cold front holds its grip. The vast, frozen world is a battleground, and for the survivors, the fight is not against the past, but against the sheer, overwhelming emptiness of the globe.
Northern Outskirts of Hawkelin City.
08:14 AM - January 14, 2534
—
The station ahead glows faintly in the soft orange shimmer, teasing the survivors with the promise of warmth, stability, and fragile safety. Solan adjusts his hard-light slate, his light brown skin pallid with cold beneath the smudged lens of his thick glasses. The six-foot-four scientist, hunched in his bulky, dirt-streaked parka, mutters numbers and stutters in fear and awe.
"We are c-clear," Solan says, his voice hopeful. "The animal signatures are still moving away from us, toward the coast. We m-made it past the dens."
Mariel nods, her calm returning. Her warm, brown skin is drawn tight from exposure, and her dark hair is pulled into a thick, functional braid. Thora, a towering mass of heavy, metallic armor scored with dozens of scratches, nods back, the pale scars along her throat visible.
Then, the absolute silence that has followed them breaks.
It is the familiar, terrifying sound: a deep, resonating thump-thump-thump. This time, it is closer. It is louder. And it comes from three directions at once.
Three massive, white shapes peel out of the ruins. Ice Tigers.
"S-s-s-three c-coordinated life signs! Th-their hunting posture—t-textbook! W-we have to break the g-geometry!" Solan sputters, his stuttering words catching on the dry air.
"Oh my god, three? That's not a trio, that's a freakin' trilogy!" Jessa yells, her neon pink hair, thick and greasy with road dirt, flies as she waves her arms. Her pale skin contrasts sharply with the shocking color. "I call dibs on the head!"
Kade spins around, hands thrown up, his long, dark, oil-matted braids falling over his shoulder. He shares Jessa's pale complexion and theatricality. "I did not dress for snack time!"
The group locks up. Mariel instantly pulls Tovin—a tiny bundle of bright orange gear with messy dark curls—from the sled, clutching him tight.
"Solan! Stop analyzing! Evin," Rhea snaps, her pale features set in a mask of controlled competence, her black hair tucked neatly into her helmet. Her utilitarian dark suit is the cleanest among them. "You and Tovin, get behind the sled now!" Evin, sturdy and dark-haired, shoves the sled toward the tigers.
The lead tiger holds position. Thora emits a low, wordless grunt, her massive, scuffed shoulders squaring, placing her bulk immediately between the tigers and Mariel.
The tension is unbearable. Just as the flanking tigers begin to close the circle, a sound that should not exist cuts the air.
High above on the ridge, the arctic wind howls a desperate, constant song. Kaius Vale moves low, tracking, his entire consciousness dedicated to the hunt. His dark, lean body, compact at five feet eight inches, is covered in scuffed, dark leather armor that moves with him like a second skin. His face, lean and intense with dark eyes, remains impassive.
He sees the coordinated terror below. He estimates the nine humans, noting the clumsy flailing of the tall scientist.
He pulls the specialized pulse pistol. He must break the coordinated hunt.
A sudden, sharp high-pitched whine—the sound of a pulse capacitor charging—cuts the air, thin and unnatural against the wind's roar.
One of the flanking tigers snaps its head toward the high whine. Kaius fires the pheromone round wide, sending the flank tiger bolting into the western ruins.
Simultaneously, a ceramic sphere detonates beneath the lead predator. The animal disappears with a muffled whump and a terrifying shriek into the hidden cavity.
The geometry is broken. Two down.
The last tiger, massive and furious, is circling back.
Kaius drops into a sprint, his combat knife drawn, plunging down the slope toward the lingering chaos and the single remaining predator.