The road unspooled before them in long white stretches bordered by dark spruce and wind-bent oak. Behind them, Brindleford’s walls had already faded into the morning haze, the sound of the town replaced by the steady rhythm of hooves on snow. The world ahead was pale and wide and still.

  The first day passed in quiet concentration. Riding brought a new kind of endurance, one of balance and patience instead of marching feet and sore backs. The horses’ breath rose in white plumes, and leather creaked with each stride. Max rode at the front, still awkward in the saddle despite his best efforts. His legs ached in ways walking never caused, and more than once Ironstep tossed his head in mild protest at a clumsy cue.

  “Keep your weight low and let him move under you,” Alina said from behind, her voice calm and sure. “He’ll find his rhythm if you stop fighting it.” Max exhaled a cloud of white and adjusted his seat. “Feels like I’m learning to walk all over again.” “In a way, you are,” she said with a faint smile. “But you’ll get it. Just give him trust and balance. The rest comes with time.”

  By the end of the second hour, she called for their first rest. “Let’s walk them a while,” she said. “Fifteen minutes every two hours. It keeps their legs fresh and stops the saddles from rubbing raw.” The others dismounted without question. Max followed suit, grateful to stretch his legs. He patted Ironstep’s neck and murmured a quiet apology that earned him a snort and a flick of the horse’s ear.

  Alina checked Mistfall’s hooves, prying loose a wedge of packed snow and holding it up for them to see. “This is what ruins a horse in winter. Check them often, or they’ll slip or strain something.” She moved easily from one to the next, showing them how to scrape the hooves clean, loosen the girths, and dry the sweat before blanketing. “A horse can’t tell you when it hurts,” she said. “You have to learn to notice it.”

  Elira gave her a small grin. “You talk like you’ve been doing this your whole life.” “Most of it,” Alina said simply. “My father kept a team for plowing and hauling. I did the work while my brothers pretended to.” That earned a small laugh from Borin. “Good thing you did, lass. The rest of us would have these poor beasts frozen stiff by now.”

  By their first camp, they were already adapting well. They found shelter behind a stand of spruce, the trees heavy with snow that muted the wind. Calder and Borin worked together to start a fire, the cleric lighting it with a soft prayer that brought up a steady blue flame. They kept it hooded, feeding it only enough to warm their hands and thaw the ice from the tack.

  Borin used the small mounting block Garran had given him, climbing onto Brimstone with practiced ease. Once astride, he treated the pony like a companion, muttering in low tones and patting his neck as they rode. By the end of the second day, Brimstone responded to Borin’s rumbling voice alone, ears flicking back and forth in patient rhythm. Elira took naturally to the quiet of the road. She practiced dismounting and using Whisper as cover, slipping into the snow-shadow of the mare’s flank without sound. By the third day, she could move from saddle to ground and draw her dagger before the others even noticed. Calder rode with a loose rein, his staff resting across his lap. Every so often he would murmur to himself about the angle of the sun or the shifting wind, as though calculating something unseen.

  The weather changed with each sunrise. Mornings brought fine flurries that drifted through the trees. By noon, the wind sharpened and drove sleet into their faces. Afternoons grew gray and quiet again. The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the creak of saddle leather and the crunch of hooves in the snow. They made camp wherever the land allowed, behind ridges, under trees, or in old stone walls left from forgotten boundaries. Borin’s divine spark lit each fire, and Calder’s warding kept the wind from stealing the heat. Their voices stayed low, their laughter brief but warm.

  “Not much for conversation these days,” Elira said one night as she sipped from her cup, the steam curling between them. “Almost feels like the world stopped somewhere behind us.” “It’s peaceful,” Alina said softly. “Almost too peaceful.” “Peace never lasts long,” Max said. “Not for people like us.”

  The fire cracked once, scattering sparks into the snow. The sound of the river was faint somewhere beyond the trees.

  By dawn of the fourth day, the ache in their legs had faded, replaced by a new strength. The horses moved together as one line, heads bobbing gently with the motion. Their breath came steady, white against the pale air. As the sun began to sink that afternoon, the land ahead changed. The woods thinned, the trees giving way to stone. The Valmere River curved away beneath them, half-frozen, and the sound of running water echoed faintly through the cold.

  Then they saw it.

  A wall of cliffs rose from the riverbank, vast and pale as bone. The cliff faces were veiled in ice, the surfaces glinting dull silver under the fading light. Wind moaned through narrow cuts in the stone, turning the sound into a hollow whistle that carried for miles. Pines clung stubbornly to ledges and crevices, their branches heavy with frost.

  Calder slowed beside Max, eyes tracing the shapes of the cliffs. “This must be the Hollows,” he said quietly. Max nodded, studying the sheer expanse. “Looks about right.”

  The sun was already sinking, bleeding the last color from the world. The light off the ice was dim and uneven, turning the ground treacherous. Snow lay thick across broken stone, hiding crevices and holes. “Not much daylight left,” Elira said. “Searching now would be asking for a broken neck.” “She’s right,” Alina agreed. “Stumbling around in low light would be foolish. We passed a farmstead not far back. It’s safer to circle around, find shelter, and start again at first light.”

  No one argued. The wind was rising, carrying a fine dust of snow across the cliffs. The light was nearly gone. Max gave Ironstep’s reins a small tug. “Back we go, then. Let’s not test our luck tonight.”

  They turned from the cliffs as dusk settled over the valley, their silhouettes swallowed by the white and gray of the coming night.

  The wind thickened as they turned south, carrying the scent of woodsmoke beneath the cold. The road wound down through shallow hills toward a cluster of lights flickering faintly behind a screen of trees. By the time they reached the farms gate, the last of the twilight had drained from the sky, leaving only the pale gleam of snow and the faint orange glow spilling from the farmhouse window.

  A man stepped out onto the porch, heavy coat pulled tight against the cold, a lantern in his hand. His eyes narrowed as they swept over them, five unknown riders cloaked and armed, their mounts snorting plumes of steam. His grip on the lantern tightened.

  Max raised a hand in greeting and stopped a short distance from the fence. “Evening. We’re travelers, looking for a place to stay the night. We can pay or work for our keep.”

  The man studied them for a moment before calling out, “You’re a long way from any road worth traveling after dark.” “We've come from Brindleford,” Max said. “Four days behind us now.” At that, the man’s eyes softened a little. “You came through that snow? Gods. You’ve earned a fire at least.” He nodded toward the barn. “Come on in. Ride in and stable the horses there. We’ll sort the rest after you’re warm.”

  They dismounted and led the horses through the gate. The yard was half-buried under snow, with neat stacks of firewood along one wall and a wagon half-covered by a tarp. The barn door creaked open, releasing the scent of hay and livestock. Inside, it was warmer, filled with the quiet shifting of animals. They brushed down the horses, fed them from the farmer’s hay bins, and unbuckled the tack. Alina worked quickly and gently, her hands sure even in the dim light.

  When they stepped back out, the farmer was waiting by the porch, lantern held high. “Name’s Taron,” he said. "Inside is my wife, Eira, and my mother. Got two young ones sleeping upstairs. We've got stew left if you’re hungry.” Borin inclined his head. “You have our thanks. We’ll not trouble your family.” Taron waved the concern away. “You already have, showing up in this cold,” he said with a small grin. “But I suppose I’d rather have small trouble than leave anyone out in weather like this.” He turned and walked toward the farmhouse, and the party followed.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Inside, it smelled of woodsmoke, stew, and bread. The hearth crackled in the center of the main room, light flickering across the worn floorboards. A woman, who they assumed to be Eira glanced up from stirring the pot and gave them a long look, weighing strangers against the storm outside. Then she nodded once and gestured toward the table. “Sit. Warm yourselves. We can talk business after supper.” They nodded gratefully, and sat.

  The warmth in the house was enough to make their fingers ache as feeling returned. Alina sat nearest the fire, her eyes half-lidded with fatigue. The two children peeked down from the loft stairs, eyes wide at the sight of weapons and armor. Calder offered them a quiet wave, and they darted back up, giggling.

  When the meal was done, the talk turned to chores. “You can earn your keep by helping with what daylight’s left,” Taron said. “The hinge on the barn door’s loose, and I’ve still got a pile of wood that needs splitting before it freezes solid.” “Consider it done,” Max said, already standing.

  He and Borin followed Taron outside to the yard, where they worked by lantern light. The air bit deep and sharp, every breath turning white. Max swung the axe while Borin gathered the split logs and stacked them neatly. When they moved to the barn, Borin steadied the door while Max replaced the rusted hinge with one of the spares Taron handed over. They worked quickly, their breath fogging in the cold. It was honest labor, simple and grounding after so many days of travel.

  Inside, Elira sat at the kitchen table repairing a torn strap of tack with deft stitches. Calder helped the old grandmother in the corner cellar, prying loose a stuck hatch and scraping the frost from the edges. When he was done, he inspected the flue above the hearth and adjusted a vent that had jammed shut. The old woman patted his arm in silent thanks. Alina moved to the barn with the horses and other animals. She moved among them like she belonged there, brushing each one down, checking their shoes, and shaking fresh straw into the stalls. Mistfall nudged her shoulder affectionately. She smiled faintly and rubbed the mare’s nose, her breath ghosting in the cold. The work came naturally to her, a lifetime of experience guiding her movements without a thought.

  When the work was finished, they each returned to the warmth of the house. They gathered again at the long wooden table. They sat and talked quietly for a few moments. Then Eira asked softly, “Where do you all come from? You don’t seem like traders.” Max glanced at Alina, who was staring into the fire. “Different places,” he said. “We are adventurers based out of Brindleford.” Eira nodded, "That explains the weapons and gear you brought in." Alina spoke up, her voice quiet. “I grew up not too far from here, actually. Crestwood Farm, down near Brookhollow. My family worked the land. Wheat, barley, a few head of cattle. We had a pair of horses named Ember and Flint. I used to race them around the south field when the grain was just high enough to brush their bellies.” Taron smiled faintly. “Sounds like good land.” “It was,” Alina said, her voice distant. “In the summers, you could see all the way to the forest edge. My father built the barn himself. Said it would outlast him. It did.”

  Her words caught then, and her hands went still. The warmth, the smell of stew, the sound of children in the rafters. It was all too close to a life she no longer had. The grief came sudden and hard, tears welling faster than she could stop them. A quiet sob escaped before she could turn away. Eira set her spoon down and moved to her side without a word. She sat beside Alina and pulled her close, letting her cry into her shoulder. The others said nothing. The only sound was the fire and the soft murmur of comfort as Eira stroked her hair.

  When the tears had passed and Alina managed a weak smile, Eira handed her a cloth and squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve been through something hard,” she said quietly. “You don’t need to tell me that. But you don’t carry it alone tonight, you hear?” Alina nodded, wiping her eyes. “Thank you.”

  The silence that followed was gentle rather than heavy. Before long, Taron began to talk, his voice warm again. He told small stories about harsh winters and the danger of the river cliffs, about the year frost killed half his crops before spring thawed, and about a stubborn goat that chased him across the yard for a week straight. The children crept back down the stairs to listen, sleepy-eyed and smiling.

  When he finished, Alina shared a few of her own. She spoke softly of summers on the Crestwood Farm, of fishing in the stream behind the barn, of her mother baking bread in a brick oven that never seemed to cool. She told them about how her brothers once tried to ride a bull calf and ended up in the hay trough, covered in bruises and laughter. Her voice was steady again by the end, wistful but no longer breaking.

  They did not speak of cults or battle that night. Only of weather, farmwork, and small things that felt normal.

  When the fire burned low, Taron stood and gestured toward the loft. “You’ll sleep up there. Warmest place in the house. We’ll talk more in the morning.” They unrolled their bedrolls and blankets on the loft floor above the kitchen, where the heat from the hearth rose through the boards. The house creaked softly in the wind. Below, Taron banked the fire and whispered to his wife. Somewhere outside, a horse stamped once in its stall, and the world went still again.

  For the first time in days, they slept warm.

  Morning came with a soft grey light seeping in between the farmhouse board, carrying the kind of cold that settled into the bones and lingered. Frost feathered the inside of the windows, and the faint smell of porridge drifted up through the loft. Max stirred first, listening to the muted sound of wind across the eaves. It was the sort of quiet that made every creak of the house feel close and alive.

  By the time they descended, the family was already awake. Eira stood by the hearth, stirring oats and honey in a pot. The two children sat at the table, whispering to one another between spoonfuls. Taron was near the door, shrugging into his coat and boots. He looked up as the party came down. “Morning to you,” he said. “The storm broke in the night. Roads will hold for a while if you’re planning to travel.”

  “We are,” Max said. “But before we go, we wanted to ask if you’d keep our horses here for a day or two while we go out to search the cliffs.” Taron hesitated a moment. “The Hollows?” Calder nodded. “That’s right. We have a quest to investigate the area, and it’s safer for the horses to stay here.” Taron’s brows drew together. “You’ll be gone long?” “Two days at most,” Max said. “Three if it takes longer than expected.”

  Eira looked from them to the window where snow still drifted lightly. “They’ll be safe enough. The barn’s warm, and there’s hay to spare. Just leave grain for their feed.” “We brought our own,” Max replied. “We’ll portion it out before we leave.” Eira nodded approvingly. “Good. They’ll be in good hands here, don't you worry.”

  They spent the next hour in the barn, moving methodically from stall to stall. Brimstone snorted softly as Borin packed extra hay into his trough. “Behave yourself, you stubborn beast,” he muttered with a small grin. The pony flicked an ear as if unimpressed. Ironstep leaned against Max’s hand when he rubbed his neck. “We’ll be back soon,” Max murmured. “Hold steady.” Alina checked each bridle and girth, ensuring nothing was twisted or left damp. Her instructions were calm and precise, but the family already knew she was no stranger to animals after the stories she had shared the night before. Eira and Taron watched her work with the quiet confidence that came with experience, offering only the occasional nod.

  When they finished, Taron leaned against the barn door. “I’ll see they’re looked after,” he said. “If the weather turns again, I’ll keep them in. No sense risking frostbite.” Max offered his hand. “Thank you. We’ll pay when we return.” Taron shook it firmly. “You’ve already done your part. Consider the rest hospitality.” Eira appeared at the barn door with a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “Food for the road,” she said. “Bread, cheese, and a little smoked meat. It isn’t much, but it’ll keep.” Alina accepted it with quiet gratitude. “Thank you,” she said. “Truly.” Eira gave her a soft smile. “You remind me of my sister when she was young. Stubborn and kind in equal measure. The road could use more of that.”

  The party gathered near the fence, adjusting packs and tightening straps. Calder stowed extra chalk and cord in his satchel. Elira drew her cloak tighter against the cold. Borin checked his hammer’s binding and adjusted the strap of his shield. Max made sure Silverbrand was secure at his hip before turning toward the open fields.

  The sky was pale and still, the air sharp and clean. Snow lay crusted over the ground, crunching softly beneath their boots as they started north once more. Alina took the lead, her steps sure and deliberate. “Watch the drifts near the ridge,” she said. “The wind piles snow deep between the stones. Step wrong and you’ll sink to your knees.” The others nodded, already familiar with travel in snow but appreciative of her reminder. They trusted her sense for the land, and she moved as if guided by instinct rather than sight. The cold wind pressed at their cloaks, tugging strands of hair loose, but they pressed on without complaint. As they marched, the fields gave way to sparse stands of spruce and birch. The ground grew uneven, hard stone rising beneath the snow. From ahead came the faint sound of wind whispering through unseen hollows.

  Calder glanced up toward the cliffs, now visible through the thinning trees. “You can hear it already,” he said. “Like pipes in the wind.” “Let’s hope that’s all it is,” Elira said, tightening her hood. Borin grunted. “If ghosts start singing, I’ll let you deal with them.”

  By midday, the clouds thinned enough for pale sunlight to glint on the horizon. The cliffs rose high and jagged before them, ice clinging to every ledge, the stone glimmering faintly like glass. The wind funneled through narrow cracks and gaps, low and hollow, the sound deepening as they drew closer.

  Max stopped at the ridge and looked down. Far below, the frozen river wound its way through the valley, a silver thread in the pale light. “The Hollows. What's the symbol we're looking for again?” he asked Calder quietly. Calder unfolded a scrap of parchment from his coat. “Three vertical lines crossed by a single curve,” he read aloud. “That’s what Halbrecht said to look for. Somewhere on the cliff face.” Alina scanned the ridge ahead. “Then we start here.”

  They spread out along the ledge, boots crunching softly on the crusted snow. The wind cut between the rocks in long, low sighs. Somewhere ahead, hidden beneath ice and shadow, waited the entrance to the cult’s stronghold.