1861

The wind howled through the Aurulan Mountains, a relentless force that seemed to seep into the very bones of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in its grasp. The snow fell in thick, heavy sheets, blotting out the sky and the sun, turning the world into a white, frozen void. Somewhere in that void, an Scorpian mountaineer sat huddled against the jagged rocks, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the layers of clothing and the thick coat draped around him.

His breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale turning to mist in the frigid air. The blizzard had come without warning, a sudden fury that had descended upon the patrol as they made their way through the mountain pass. In the chaos, they had been separated, scattered across the treacherous terrain. Now, he was alone, isolated, with only the cold and the ominous silence to keep him company.

His rifle lay across his lap, a comforting weight, though he knew it would be of little use against the true enemy out here. It wasn't the Vostians he feared, not really. It was the cold, the way it crept into his mind, dulling his senses, sapping his strength, making him question whether he was even still alive. It was the cold that whispered to him in the wind, promising that he would never leave this place, that he would be forgotten, just another nameless soldier claimed by the mountain.

The rations in his pack were pitifully few, a strip of dried meat, a handful of hardtack, and a flask with the last dregs of water. He rationed them carefully, knowing they wouldn't last long, but unable to stop the gnawing hunger that clawed at his stomach. He forced himself to take small bites, to make the food last, but each bite only seemed to remind him of how little he had left. The cold made every movement a struggle, his fingers numb and clumsy as he fumbled with the hardtack. It was as if the mountain itself was trying to wear him down, to break him piece by piece until there was nothing left but a frozen husk.

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He knew he should keep moving, that staying in one place for too long was a death sentence. But the thought of venturing out into the blizzard, of facing the endless expanse of snow and rock with no clear direction, filled him with a deep, paralyzing dread. The cold had stolen his courage, leaving only the fear, the fear that he would stumble upon a Vostian patrol, the fear that he would lose his way, the fear that he would simply lie down in the snow and never get back up.

He pulled his coat tighter around himself, trying to stave off the chill that was already burrowing its way into his chest. His mind wandered, drifting between memories of home and the harsh reality of his situation. He thought of the warmth of the hearth, the laughter of his family, the feel of the sun on his skin. But those memories felt distant, like echoes from another life, one that had nothing to do with the cold, desolate world he now inhabited.

The snow continued to fall, burying the landscape in a thick, suffocating blanket. It covered everything, erased all signs of life, all traces of the path he had taken. It was as if the mountain was trying to swallow him whole, to erase him from existence. And in that moment, he realized how small he was, how insignificant in the face of the vast, uncaring wilderness.

He tightened his grip on the rifle, feeling the cold metal against his skin. It was the only thing he had left, the only thing that anchored him to this world. But even that was slipping away, as the cold continued its relentless assault, sapping his strength, numbing his mind.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, telling himself he needed to rest. But the cold was there too, waiting, whispering to him, telling him that it would all be over soon, that there was no point in fighting it anymore. And as the snow continued to fall, the wind howling like a pack of wolves, he began to wonder, maybe the cold was right.