The journey northwards is one of harsh realities and hardships. The roads and paths they travel through are rough and uneven, the weather fickle and biting. The winter months are not favorable for traveling, the constant cold and snow making their trek slow and arduous, but the men push on, their determination fueling them.

As they ride across the landscape, they pass through villages and towns. Many of the people they come across are wary of strangers and remain cautious, their eyes narrowed suspiciously as they watch the armed riders pass by. The trio takes advantage of the few inns and taverns they come across, spending the night in the heat of a hearth and a full stomach. The men swap stories and tales over a drink, their conversations often filled with laughter and sometimes an argument or two.

As the days pass, there are many occasions where the men have to stop and hunt to fill their stomachs. The woods are filled with animals, and the men take advantage of the plentiful game. They set snares and lay traps, hunting in shifts and taking down rabbits, birds, and the occasional deer.

A storm hits them a couple of weeks into their journey. It's brutal and relentless, the cold rain lashing at them and causing the snow beneath them to turn into thick, heavy mud, slowing them down even further. They huddle together under the scant protection of a small copse of trees, their teeth chattering and their clothes soaked through. The storm seems to go on forever, the freezing rain turning to a cold, bone-chilling sleet. But as they push on northward, the weather gradually becomes more severe. The snow turns to ice, coating the path and making traveling even more difficult. The men must tread carefully, their horses struggling to find purchase on the slippery terrain. The cold becomes even more punishing, seeping deep into their bones and making the journey even more miserable. The terrain becomes more rugged and mountainous, the cold wind howling around them, stinging their faces and making it hard to breathe.

But they are used to harsh winters, their bodies hardened and conditioned to the brutal weather. Samorix, Oleksandr, and Ivan all hail from cold and unforgiving landscapes, and they move with a natural ease even in these treacherous conditions. The Scotsman's red beard is coated with frost, his eyes hardened as he looks out into the frozen wilderness.

"It's been over twenty-five years since I've felt this chill, lad." He grumbles to Oleksandr. "I must say, I don't miss it." Oleksandr looks over at his companion, a wry smile on his face.

"This is nothing compared to the winters in Siberia." He responds, his deep voice carrying through the biting wind. "I used to hunt in weather colder than this. It's nothing."

"I lived in Constantinople as long as ye’ve been alive. I'm more Greek than Gael at this point." Oleksandr raises an eyebrow, slightly amused by the confession.

The men and their mounts trudge slowly onwards, their movement slow and arduous on the thick, slippery snow. They must keep an eye on their footing, making sure they don't lose their balance in the treacherous terrain. It starts snowing hard again, the wind picking up and blowing the snow into a thick white curtain, obscuring their vision and making travelling even harder.

"We must leave our horses soon, brothers. Get snowshoes at the village ahead. We must pass a valley before a mountain, it's no place for horses." Ivan murmurs, puffing his pipe.

Oleksandr looks down at his stallion, Deago, the puffs of his powerful breath in the cold air billowing like an iron forge. Deago is strong, but he can tell he's starting to struggle. He pets his neck, carefully covered with a blanket for warmth.

Eventually, the men come across a small rustic village. The houses are simple, with thatch roofs and wattle-and-daub walls. A small market square serves as the heart of the village, where locals gather to trade and sell their wares. Oleksandr and his men dismount and head into the village, looking to buy snowshoes and any other needed supplies. They spend a day and night in the village, tending to themselves and preparing for the upcoming hike through the ice. The other men sell their horses, but not Oleksandr. Early in the morning, he goes to buy Deago a large amount of feed, along with some apples and carrots. He spends a few hours tending to Deago, cleaning him and ensuring he's fed and well-rested. The big horse seems to sense what Oleksandr's thinking, about how their journey together will be coming to an end.

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After some time spent together, brushing and petting him, tending to his hooves, Oleksandr takes his reins and saddle off. With some whistles, he leads him out of the stable, towards the southern forest out of the village. Deago follows after Oleksandr, his big eyes looking at him with a mixture of trust and confusion. Ivan watches, understanding what is happening, although Samorix looks a bit confused.

"Where ye going, lad?" He calls out after Oleksandr.

"Saying goodbye."

Oleksandr stands there in the forest, petting Deago’s nose, patting his neck. "You did well, boy. Ten years, and you've rode with me through hellfire and ash. You've done more for me than I could ask." Deago knickers and flicks his head, sniffing Oleksandr's face. He watches him and listens, an intelligence and bond in his eyes. "Go, old friend. You know the path. Run free, find yourself a gentle mare to wander the plains with, in peace."

Deargo whinnies softly, his big dark eyes almost seeming to understand Oleksandr's words. He snuffles against Oleksandr's shoulder, his nose warm and velvety soft. Oleksandr pats and strokes Deago's neck, his hand moving over the smooth, muscular lines of the horse's body. He hesitates for a moment, not ready to leave his companion. But he knows he has to let him go. He lets out a shuddering breath.

"Go, Deago." Oleksandr pats him a bit harder. Deago lifts his head and takes a few steps back, but Oleksandr can feel the horse's reluctance to leave his friend. Deago hesitates, looking at him for another moment, before finally turning around and trotting away slowly. Oleksandr watches, his heart heavy, as the stallion disappears into the forest, the dark shape of the warhorse soon disappearing among the trees.

Oleksandr stands there for a moment, leaning against a tree.

"You alright, Sasha?" Samorix murmurs, appearing through the treeline.

Oleksandr nods his head, walking towards him. "Aye..." Samorix pats his shoulder comfortingly, sensing his pain even though Oleksandr won't show it. The men say nothing else, sensing the warrior's need for privacy and time. The men gather their gear and supplies, readying themselves for the long journey ahead. They have snowshoes, shovels, and the basic supplies necessary to endure the cold and harsh conditions of the North. The men head out into the wilderness, the snow crunching beneath their feet as they trudge forward. The terrain rapidly becomes more rugged and hilly, the trio slowly ascends towards the valleys.

Oleksandr muses as they walk, his eyes downcast. "I've been with that creature since the beginning. He carried me through my pain, fought my wars for me, kept me company during dark nights. He's been through more than most men, but he's damn brave, loyal, always waiting for me. I stole him, one of the first nights I spent in Constantinople. Never left my side. I love him like a boy loves his dog."

Samorix listens intently, his eyes filled with respect and understanding. "I know how ye feel, lad," he replies. "Sometimes, our animal friends are more steadfast and loyal than any man." He claps Oleksandr on the shoulder, his expression a mixture of compassion and respect. "Ye did the right thing, letting him go free."

He nods. “I know.”

"I had a dog once. Big, stinkin’ mutt he was—Bonnie, I called him. Aye, turns out Bonnie was a lad, but I only figured that out when he started growin’ up proper. By then, the name stuck, and I didn’t care. That daft dog followed me everywhere, through all my wee shenanigans and mischief when I was a young scamp. Ah, I loved that beast, I truly did." Samorix says, his voice wistful. The men listen intently, intrigued by the Scotsman's story. Oleksandr, who's been listening quietly, offers a small smile. He's heard Samorix speak of his past occasionally, and always found it interesting to learn more about the strange man's life.

"What happened to him?"

"When I left my kin to carve out a life for meself in Constantinople, I had to leave Bonnie behind. He was getting on in years, poor old lad, and I couldn't bring him with me. But by God, did he protest. Followed me everywhere. Broke my heart, it did." Samorix chuckles, his voice gruff with nostalgia. "Aye," he says, gazing off into the distance. "That ol’ mutt followed me all the way to the docks. He tried to swim after the damn ship, almost drowned himself. I'm not ashamed to admit, it made me cry. But, like you, I had to let him go. I knew I couldn't bring him, the poor animal would have suffered the ship's journey. I watched him on that dock, running around in circles, barkin’ and howlin’ for me like his wee heart was breaking. Damn near broke mine to bits..." The Scotsman pauses, his eyes distant and watery. He shakes his head, trying to rein in his emotions, and he smiles softly. "But me sisters, bless ‘em, took care of him. He lived a good, long life, he did. I got word later, a letter from one of my sisters, saying that ol’ Bonnie spent the rest of his days on the farm. He’d run around the fields, happy as could be, herding sheep and living like a king among the beasts. Died of old age, surrounded by horses and dogs." He laughs softly, shaking his head. "Fitting end for the stubborn bastard."

Oleksandr smiles softly under his scarf, looking out ahead on the snowy path.